It all started when I purchase a Bob the Builder VHS tape at the local frenzied shop. I know what you’re thinking- what’s a grown man doing purchasing a Bob the Builder VHS? Well, first of all it’s none of your fuckin’ business how I spend my hard earned money, and second: it was for a public research housing project.
By the very moment I had put the VHS tape on I was already concerned. This, being one of my favorite programs, I really wanted to know why it was called…Bob the Bilderberg. The bilderbergs? As in, the multitrillion dollar bankers who control the world government? Why on earth would that be in this cartoon? And then I learned a cold, hard, hideous truth that I wish I hadn’t known before putting on this great program.
Something so shocking that it changed the way I view cartoons and construction for the rest of my life and forever. Something so concerningly concerning that the very idea of the concern is that something was going on. Something bad. Something terrible. Some up-to-know goodnicks in Washington were planning something, and I wanted to know what.
It started with Bob. Bob the builder. “Well gang, today we’re going to be finishing the camp project that we were working on, for the big election. Also, by the way, the twin tower project went out with a “bang.” Bob winked at the camera, and the camera zoomed into his face. What did that mean??
“What kinda camp is this? A marshmallow camp?” One of the trucks said out loud excitedly. A talking truck. “A sleepover camp? A picnic camp?” “No!” Bob yelled happily. “A FEMA camp!” Wait, what?
What was a Fema camp? “A- Female camp!” He said. Correcting himself. Bob’s head spun three hundred and sixty degrees on its wobbly frame as I heard a loud crack that really began to hurt my ears.
“A female camp!” One of the bulldozers said. “That’s great! We can invite wendy!” Bob held up a large, paper box. “Don’t worry compadre! She’s already here!” “What do you mean?” One of the trucks said. “I have a gift for you, compadre!” Bob said, his british accent no longer sounding british. “What?!” The truck said. “What is it? Twinkly lights? Candy and cake!” “No!” Bob yelled, smiling and smiling, and smiling away. He opened the box, revealing the severed wobble head of Wendy. “Oh my fucking god!” The truck was yelling. “Oh my god oh my fucking god!” All this cursing. Very innapropriate. And from a truck. “I’m okay!” Wendy smiled, her head severed.
I was beginning to get really concerned. Bob the builder smiled. “Americans, your coffins have arrived! Paid for by your own U.S. tax dollars.” He yelled, showing some plastic coffin liners in the background.
Bob began to rant about inflation, taxation, the national debt and the usurping of global funds through a reverse funnel project paid for by the United States federal reserve and contracted out by a series of multinational billionaires with corporate holdings overseas. It was all pretty boring, I had stopped paying attention.
I got excited when he began to finally, FINALLY build something. It was a swastika. “The Germany nationalist party will rise again!” He yelled. “Dur Wille Zer mann!! MANN!” he screamed. Bob was sounding less like he worked in construction and more like a raving lunatic. “Delfine sind sexy!” He screamed.
“A planck here! A planck there! A max planck Everywherzen!” He sounded nuts. Bob? Bob the builder? This wasn’t bob the builder. I noticed dishevelment and a slight bit of beard stubble. His one pupil was missing the whole time, I just hadn’t noticed.
This man…was an imposter.
What the-what? “Constructionzen ze final solution!” He screamed. This was no building. He was assembling wooden planks to resemble a swastika. He was a neonazi, or maybe just a nazi, or maybe just some fellow who liked yelling german things. Whoever he was, I knew I wasn’t safe watching this. He was…removing the eyes from all the trucks. He took out a wrench and tore the eyes from their sockets while the trucks just lay there.
Cold. Emotionless. Dead. Like trucks.
An orange haired man, a small leprechaun shaped fellow and a tiny dancing dollar walked out. My confusion grew to suspicion and then horror when the next sequence of events shattered the fragile frame of my soft boiled sanity into a hard shelled, goopy mess of terror.
The words “Elect” flashed onscreen in capital letters, boldfaced, comic sans font, the kind you’d get in a trial version of Microsoft windows 95 and an after dark screensaver that you played with because you couldn’t afford actual video games.
His accident, accent was loud, and fierce as he raised his fist. “Can we fixit?!!!” He screamed. “YES WE CAN!” The remaining trucks saluted, lifting their lifters in unison to the furious orator. “YES WE CAN!”
It must have taken thousands of hours to render the mass of trucks that slowly zoomed out of the Claymation landscape. All of those trucks saluting at once. Horrifically. Terribly. And worse of all, not a single one seemed to have eyes. The All Ighty Ollar had one again. The trucks began digging graves as several boxes like the ones earlier were loaded up into trucks funded by Aramark, Pfizer, Goldman Sachs and a naked, bleeding uncle sam.