Bobby Rocks

Bobby's eyes were little typewriters typing everything sloppily so that his brain couldn't understand. He had perfect vision and a perfect brain but his rods and cones were bad (devious bad) and they were conspiring against Bobby's greater good. Of course Bobby didn't know. He just thought that he was confused most of the time. He was correct: he was confused most of the time. However, a lot of the time he wasn't confused because he didn't even know that he was confused. That's how confused he sometimes was.

But some parts of his brain weren't affected by this problem. Like when he picked up his big blonde acoustic. His fingers knew what to do and they did. His brain bathed in the little flying goblins of healing sound. The folds of his brain turned into big fat hallways where impressions could press into ions and pixilate and flat out raise a ruckus. It was a healing balm. Like a blam of Gilead or a palmful of menthol gelatin. He knew one thing for sure: Keep Rockin'!