For years, Bob Ross was embraced and loved by the world at large. His television series was possibly
one of the most important staples of PBS programming throughout the 1980s and early 90s. He was really really really cool.

However!

Some people, in their capricious egocentric drivenedness have (re?-)christened themselves after the late Mr. Ross in an unabashed attempt
to skyrocket to his levels of stardom.

What the hell??

Oh yes, Neo-Rossies, Oh yes; homage you may say. Simple allusion you may say. But ne'er shall I be hoodwinked by your likes, false Bob Rosses! Ne'er!

I shall take you down! Thank you, Google Image Search; where you were once used to aid this confusion, you shall now be used to thwart the evils that plague us!

1.)

Oh, yes sir, you flaunt those dancing hands. Let them scuffle about just like that. You'll need their mad skills for your PAINT FORGERIES.

YOU, SIR, ARE NOT MY BOB ROSS!

2.)

Ahaha! Dainty swirly hair, eh? Shirt made of carpet swatches? You fool no one.

YOU, SIR, ARE NOT MY BOB ROSS!

3.)


Take your coronet and get back to tennis, Bobby!

YOU, SIR, ARE NOT MY BOB ROSS!

4.)

Andy Richter? Aged and time-travelled from an alternate future, no doubt; one where after a brief Reno stint involving Garnier hair products and seeded grapes, your career took a sharp dive into the drecks of society. You found solace in seeking other peoples' identities, and if it wasn't for that jacket from Princeton, you'd never have gotten the chance to lead the life you really wanted: That of Bob Ross. Oh why, Andy; Fox cans good shows, but...

YOU HAVE LET US DOWN, TALENTED ANDY!

5.)

Haha, you have to run!

YOU, SIR, ARE NOT MY BOB ROSS!

6.)

Man, like...if you knew what was in this picture before I cropped it. Wow.

EW, BOB ROSS! EW!

7.)

How can people even confuse you for Bob Ross?

YOU ARE A LADY!

8.)

Bet that was a happy little fish before you PULLED IT FROM THE TOP OF THAT TREE!

YOU, SIR, ARE NOT MY BOB ROSS!

Oh, and there will be more.

*i am in no way affiliated with Bob Ross Inc., and subsidiary or whathaveyou that's like...like that. These people are affilated with them, mainly because they are them, and as such, people tend to be affiliated with things when they in fact are those things they are affiliated with. These people, these people i have listed here (and those to come, unless you really start to hate me or something [please don't]) are really cool people. I am sorry i haven't asked your permission to use your photos here. If you have a problem in any way, my contact information is below; I will see what I can do. Bob Ross was really cool. Be cool like Bob Ross! Thank you.

O Aerobie, be you--at long last!--Mighty King of Frisbees, I shall be contented!

You see, I lost my brother's a long time ago. It was used well until its untimely assisted suicide
(into the creek-y abyss after a throw that took it briefly through a tall patch of weeds; perhaps it
still resides in Hansen Park's murky baseball- and 24-fl.oz-Super-America-cup-laden stream, and for those that may find it,
may you hold it very dear to your heart) wherein my dad and I searched for it a while, and then sadly left for the
the fifth street hill back up to our house.

So years pass or somesuch, and aside from the occasional Way-to-lose-my-Aerobie comment from Andy (I am sorry), the thing was kinda forgotten
about. But! A week ago, I was looking through the various sporting supply stuff we had in the basement. A note about this: y'see, we've never
been particularily athletic. My brother and I have been involved in various long-term-endurance kindsa things thoroughout our
youth, but any organization of our prowess therein was for the most part, pretty goddamn capricious, right? So the result is
(much like many of the things around our house) an accumulus (not a word) of tennis balls and pogosticks and kites and frisbees and
small skiing boots and sleds and kickboards and left-handed baseball gloves that as a sum of things is interesting in its broad spectrum and weak polymathy, but
falls short of showing any real ardor for anything therein. Anyways! So I'm looking through this stuff. And there is a bag that's full of
a bunch of tennis balls and cheap give-away frisbees and things, and I look through it, and at the bottom--the very very bottom of this bag, jammed under the stubborn bastard geometry of sport supplies stuffed into bags, there's this
weird..Aerobie thing.

"Good God," I say. "What the hell?. Have I found it? Am I mad? Has it crawled back from beyond the grave to avenge our shameful Aero-buse?" I pull.

But no, no ring. No ring at all, it is not a ring. It is a triange.?.

But like its familiar kin, it's neon orange/pink--maybe one color at first, and then with the onslaught of age the other. It has the same rubber edge, albeit chapped and slightly shittyish via dereliction. But I
look at the printing on it and understand, you see, because this--this here printing, this printing on the side of this here triangle thing explains things so much. This here printing, by this cracked rubber corner here,
and stretching across this side--emblazoned, O Printing!, in orange over blue plastic!--tells me of our triangle's identity.

"AEROBIE ORBITER, the Astonishing Returning Triangle."

Holy fucking fucking shit! This triangle returns! This triangle returns!

"Throw overhand with spin. 30 degree right lean. Aim for ground 100 ft. ahead."

A few days later, MaryLynn and Tyler are over, and we bring a frisbee and this astonishing triangle to the park. Well, the
triangle was cool. But really hard to control; at 10 years old, the cracked parts make its flight (though magnificent in spectacle)
really really erratic and hard to control. In the interest of social interaction or something (they were probably bored with my astonishing triangle)
we play frisbee instead. Goddamn cracked rubber.

Well, at Target they had new ones. Both ring and triangle.

"These things are really cool," I said to those around me. And I was correct! But they responded with the silence of ice. Or at least like...a "Cool." or something. And then the silence of ice! But they were readily available, these Aerobies. That they were.

So next time I was over there, we (Dad and I) get one of each. He isn't too keen on the throwing and running aspect of them, but still thinks that they're cool. But that's okay, because there'll be people around to play with the frisbee with, and the triangle boomerang
totally returns to you, so I could use that in the absence of everybody. The weather was sloppy that day (yesterday) so we did nothing with them, but today! it was beautiful outside. So I go to the park with the new Aerobie and throw it, and after a bit of frusteration
in regards to its non-left-handed-ness, I got up the nerve throw right-handedly.

It works! Kinda. It comes right back if you:

1. Throw it correctly. Really, really correctly, that 30 degree thing is really serious. Don't mess with that.
2. Play your chances with the wind.
   

If these things really tamper with your throw, you'll either have it shoot over your head, or 200 feet away, or like, land in a tree or something. But for the most part, it'll come close to you, like some frisbeeloser threw a frisbee kinda at you. (Please, I harbor no animousity towards these frisbeelosers, for I am one 80% of the time; do not hate them.)

So 2 1/2 hours to make a single successful throw and catch, upon which I recieve applause from this guy who'd been watching me off-and-on, and I exclaim my huzzah and thanks and run triumphantly back to the house.

That was the end. That thing is cool.

As a side note, Tyler and I made half of the package of chocolate jello. We didn't get around to eating it, and it turned hard and black. Still have a half-package left; e-mail about it if you'd like. E-mail me anyway. :)

...i need someone to throw a frisbee with.