Bob Reynolds and Lindy Lee crackfic:
Summary: A different Robert(Bo Burnham)'s skit rewritten to have Robert Reynolds and Lindy Lee star in it
Warnings/Tags: This may be insensitive. Profanity. Comic Bob (leaning more on the schizophrenic side than possible BP/BPD/DID or other variant) kind of replacing Bo. From Bob's Perspective.
A/N: This is what writer's block does to a person.
Bob stood before of the crowd, adrenaline pumping from the performance, the lights, the crowd--everything. He knew what the next skit was, and he had to put his complete concentration into the timing of it all. It reminded him of the intro from his previous show, three years prior.
He rubbed a hand over his gray long-sleeve as a prerecorded, slightly deepened voice boomed around him, demanding the audience's attention:
And now, what making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich feels like when you're high on marijuana.
He took a few steps forward, head down as the music swelled in, reaching into an invisible bar of peanut butter.
At the beat drop, his head whipped up, and he began moving about the stage like a maniac, going from a sort of crab walk to grabbing ingredients and utensils. His movements were precise and energetic, and the cheering and laughter from the crowd only fueled him even more.
The machines in front of him on the ground blew air dramatically in his face, his hair looking ethereal as he mimed his attempt to combine the two slices of bread slowly, as if some powerful force were at play and the act itself was so grand it should not be rushed. He lifted his legs one by one, replanting his footing in sync with the music. Once the music swelled again, he smushed his hands together and mimed a bite as the stage darkened.
The audience clapped and cheered, likely thinking that the bit was over, but the light came back and Bob retreated to his original spot once more as the announcer spoke again:
And now, what making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich feels like when you're shit-faced.
Bob stepped forward, same as before, but the music swelled to lead into a slowed-down, "crunchier" version of audio instead of the epic instrumental, his sluggish walk and unfocused eyes matching it. Laughter could be heard as he took a hand full of jelly and used a rolling pin to roll the bread slices. Bob goofily danced like he had only a percentage of control over his body and mimed pouring an entire jar of peanut butter onto the bread, which he slowly began eating out of with his bare hands.
Suddenly, the music cut out, and the stage became more illuminated as the sound of squeaky shoes, keys, and a door closing rang out.
"Hey, baby. I'm home," a female voice called out as Bob quickly turned his back against Lindy, hunched over the jar of peanut butter.
"Honey, you okay? What's wrong?" her voice called out. Bob mumbled something inaudible, still slouched.
"Are you drunk? Have you been-- You've been drinking, haven't you? You've been fuck--... You're fucking wasted, aren't-- I can't hear you, Bob, speak into the microphone."
Bob walked up to it as the audience laughed a bit, swallowing before saying in a clearly drunk voice, "I'm not."
"What's behind your back? What're you holding behind your back?" Lindy asked, frustrated. "Just.."
"Itching," Bob replied (Just- just don't be-), "itchy back (what is- just show-)."
"What're you hiding behind your back? Just show me," Lindy demanded, exasperated. Bob clumsily brought his hand out, holding up nothing.
"It's a jar of peanut butter," he said sluggishly, "sue me."
"That's mayonnaise," Lindy sighed out, making the audience chuckle once more, "That is a jar of mayonnaise, that is not peanut butter. Why are you holding a jar of mayonnaise?"
"Why are you holding a jar of mayonnaise?" Bob deflected, eyes almost completely closed at this point.
"I- I'm not holding a jar of mayonnaise," Lindy said pointedly.
"Touché, bitch," Bob replied, earning some more laughs from the crowd. Lindy sighed once more.
"You know what? I am fucking done with this shit, okay? I had to get up at 5:00 a.m., I had to be at work by 6:00," she ranted as Bob clumsily stumbled a bit near the microphone. "I had an exhausting day, I just wanna come home, unwind, relax, and I come home to a mess that I have to clean up."
"I'll clean it up," Bob slurred, holding onto the microphone stand for support with one hand.
"No, no! I will have to clean it up, because you'll make it worse if you try to, okay?"
"You know what? I'm fucking done with this," said Lindy as Bob addressed the audience (Are you? She's done.), "you are so immature (This is what I deal with Monday through...), I cannot leave you alone without getting shit-faced (...Monday)." She paused, frustration somehow still building up.
"Who are you talking to right now?" Lindy asked, exasperated. Bob pursed his lips slightly, pointing to the crowd so quickly he almost loses balance. "You just gestured to the sink," she spat out, "what does that mean?"
"There's an audience full of people," Bob slightly mumbled into the mic, chuckles still leaving some folks.
"Okay, you know what?" Lindy said. "This fic is getting a little too weird and meta. Okay? We're done with it."
Lindy sighed exasperatedly, like she did everyday, living with Bob.
"Bob, what are you doing?" she breathed out, crossing her arms as she stood in the doorway watching her husband filming various shots of a sandwich that had peanut butter but lacked jelly, made with the ends of a loaf of bread and sitting on a paper plate. A royalty-free sounding song played in the background as Bob ignored her and continued his recording.
