Life Life Life of Bob Bob Bob

Roger was even more depressed. He was so depressed, he couldn't even go to the pub anymore.
We were in the park.
His campaign to ban non-smokers from all public areas wasn't going very well.
"They're pissing on my human rights," he grumbled.
"It could be worse," I said.
"I'm fat, I'm middle-aged, I've got three failed businesses and four failed marriages behind me, I'm in debt up to my eyeballs, I've got three ex-wives chasing me for maintenance and one publishing a book entitled 'My Ex-Husband is a Fucking Disgrace to Humanity', my kids have disowned me, I've got no money, my only friend is a clueless twat, I'm going bald, my house stinks of piss, I haven't had sex for over a year, I haven't had an erection for six months, my car is about to be repossessed, everybody hates me, my bank manager laughs at me, insurers refuse to speak to me, my life has been a complete waste of time and when I try to think of the future I just see blackness - blackness, only blackness."
"Still," I said, encouragingly, "at least you've got your health."
"I have anal herpes," he said, gloomily.
"You've got nice shoes," I suggested.