A rose by any other name would smell as sweet — unless it was named Bob. Then its aroma would be more Bob-like. Like Bill Murray in “What About Bob?” Or Bob Costa, the famous sportscaster. Or reggae legend Bob Marley — who probably generated a wonderfully woozy aroma that could be associated with various names: Ganga. Herb. Blunt. Reefer. Stinkweed. Skunk. Boom. Blaze. Block. Or Boo.
What about other Bobs and their corresponding scents? How about these: Bob Dole, Bengay. Bob Hope, golf shoes. Bob Dylan, guitars. Bob Woodward, ink.
Shakespeare was right: Roses by any other name might smell as sweet — but I’d be too embarrassed to order a dozen long-stemmed Bobs. Or a beautiful Bob bouquet. Or Bob water. And I wouldn’t go to a Guns & Bobs concert. Or join the American Bob Society. Nor would I march, stroll or even ride in the Tournament of Bobs Parade. Or attend the Bob Bowl.
Isaac Hayes once observed, “If you enjoy the fragrance of a rose, you must accept the thorns which it bears.”
But if roses were named Bob, I don’t think anyone would care about the thorns. They’d probably say, “Thorns? Yeah. That’s about what I’d expect from Bob.”
