Hey Reddit, I wrote this joke for you all of you. I hope you like it.

On a cold winter night in Detroit Bobby Johnson was born to Wilhelmina and Brock Johnson. The year was 1948; the war was over, most people were well off and the only things society deemed worth worrying about was the content of particular domicile under ownership of a particular ‘Mr. Jones’ and the proximity of Old Joe Stalin’s hand in relation to a very scary red button. Unfortunately the Johnsons didn’t get to live the life that most people associate with that era. Little Bobby Johnson was the seventh of seven child that had the misfortune to pass through Ms. Johnson’s birth canal. He grew up in the mean streets of Motor City, USA. It was the sorta place where the obituaries were filled with stupid young men, hearts filled with passion, each of whom died long before his time. Bobby was the school punching bag. Everyone beat the shit outta Bobby. That’s just how it was. It was just a thing young boys did to other young boys. Always has and always will be. There was one exception of course, and that was Brett Anders, a wall of muscle topped with a blonde flattop. Brett took sadistic pleasure in making the lives of those around him hell, a specially Bobby. He beat the poor boy to a pulp every day and stole his lunch money, which he didn’t even need for any particular reason. Bobby’s own home served as no place of refuge. His father took offense to Bobby’s love of literature and playing the guitar his father had inherited from a distant cousin, seeing them as ‘tell-tale signs of a faggot’ and no son of his was going to be a faggot. He saw it as his mission with Bobby to beat the faggotry of him with a belt. He never told Bobby this to his face. In the darkest corner of his mind he knew it was a way to make the pain go away; the pain of waking up too early on a shitty bed to go to a shitty job only to come back home to a shitty house and a cold woman that don’t love you no more. The pain of having to watch a the life leave the eyes of a Jap soldier whose bleeding out in a ditch, knowing that you threw the grenade that put him in his current state of hellish agony. The pain of having to watch Connor Murphy, your best friend from high school get gunned down by a Jap who had just surrendered, only to pull out a Nambu the moment you took your eyes off him. Brock Johnson was a man with many demons, but none of them excuse every time he took his fists and belt to Bobby’s flesh. If you didn’t already guess it, he was an unpleasant man, whose only friends where Jack Daniels and Captain Morgan, who were frequently present during Bobby’s many beatings; not to mention those of his other children and his wife.
Bobby’s life changed one day at school when he experienced what he at first believed to be an act the divine as for a moment he had wholeheartedly believe that a bona-fide angel had descended from the heavens to take the seat to his left on the first day of 6th grade english. Her face was water to a dying man, her flawless skin glistened in the morning sun, and her eyes were two magnificent sapphires behind which lay a fire that burned bright enough to illuminate even the darkest recesses of space. She played with her light brown hair as Bobby looked at her the same way a man would look at a priceless Monet in a museum, though only for a few moments as he had to eventually come back to his senses. For Bobby, however, those few moments might have well been centuries. Her name was Heather Patterson. They became friends, having similar interests such as the works of H.G. Wells, Lucille Ball, Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio, and of course The King. They would spend hours every day listening to the King, drinking Coca Cola, and reading all those good old comics from every nerd's two best friends; Stan and Jack. She became Bobby’s sanctuary from the big scary thing that was his life. One day near the end of the eighth grade Bobby found Heather getting all felt up by Brett and his boys in an alley. Nobody in that alley was aware of him a moment he could walk away and let everything that was about to happen happen. There would be no consequences for Brett. Few women even reported rapes in those days and even if Heather did, there was nothing that Brett’s money couldn’t fix. He could walk away, but Bobby knew that the decision that he made here was going to be decide what kind of man he was going to be. He stepped into that alley and fought like a wild animal, giving Brett and his posse a beating they would remember till the end of their days. He sent Brett and his gang running in fear and pain. Afterward he leaned up against the hard brick wall, bleeding like nobody’s business and looking at Heather, not sure what to say. Heather asked him why he dared to go against Brett. In his dazed state he confessed his love for her and she confessed her love for him. After she patched up his wounds they made sweet, sweet love in the backseat of his car. Their hearts were pounding in excitement as they removed each other's clothes and he planted an amorous kiss on the left side her supple neck. Then, as soon as they were both fully naked, he took his erect penis and entered her. It lasted for about three minutes, but they were three minutes of pure ecstasy for all parties involved.
Bobby and Heather continued their relationship through high school. They were happy and her parents always liked Bobby.The only thing they didn’t see eye to eye on was their future. Heather would never leave Detroit and Bobby wanted to leave the moment he turned 18. He hated the city. On his 18th birthday the choice was made for him when he was drafted to fight in Vietnam or at least that’s what he believed. He loved Heather, but he couldn’t stand Detroit. Heather cried for days when he told her the news and for days when she left. Bobby’s last view of her was on a train platform, tears dripping down from those sapphire eyes.
Bobby trained for a little while with the marines before being shipped out to a little Vietnamese town called Khe Sanh on January 28th, 1968. Two days later it was attacked as a part of Tet offensive. Bobby watched as men were ripped apart by artillery and Kalashnikov fire. For months he fought bravely against the NVA while witnessing the horrors of war. Near the end of the battle he was shot in the leg and sent to recuperate on a nearby aircraft carrier. Once healed he received the medal of valor and an honorable discharge.
A few months later Bobby found himself in Los Angeles, debating on whether or not to board a plane back to Detroit. He decided to think that decision through and went to a small, obscure nightclub with a friend of his. That night mother of the musician that was supposed to perform had a stroke, leaving the club without any entertainment. His friend, who had listened to him sing and play guitar during the war, convinced him to take the stage and Bobby did. He ended up impressing everyone who was present. After playing for a few hours Bobby took a break and was approached by a man in a suit. The man introduced himself as Werner Faust and said he worked for a record company and that he would like to offer Bobby an album deal. Bobby accepted the deal and within a few years he became wildly successful. He was an international sensation and made a lot of money, which was nice, because he needed it to finance the heroin addiction he picked up in ‘Nam. Eventually he moved was asked to star in films. First it was just bit parts so that people could say “Hey, it’s Bobby Johnson!”, but all that changed when he was asked to star in a low-budget spaghetti western titled ‘Single Action Fury’. There his previously unknown acting talent shined and he began to be taken seriously as an actor, landing him bigger and bigger roles, all while his music career was still going strong. Eventually his life changed again while staring in an Oscar-award winning drama titled ‘Five Nights in Azerbaijan’, where he co starred with a woman named Ramona Thachett. She was the queen bee of Hollywood. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a body most people can’t even dream of; she was Helen of Troy reincarnated. They started dating and eventually married on a beach in Southern California. They lived happily for a long time, Ramona and Bobby gave birth to two beautiful daughters, Jackie and Marilyn, and continued to act. Bobby even published a novel and kicked his heroin addiction (the later for his children), though both are easier said than done and Bobby was more than content to live his life never having to do either again. In 1987, at 38 years old he decided to run for state senate. He was popular and resonated with the voters. Some pundits even went so far as to say that he was the next Ronald Reagan. During his campaign he was offered money and ‘friendship’ by a the local mafia. He rejected it, and as a result was made an example of. One night the police arrived at his house and arrested him in full view of his wife and children. He was charged with the murder of an underage prostitute that he had never seen before. The judge, the jury, even his own lawyer, were bought and paid for by the mob. The decision was swift: 25 years in prison. During those long two and a half decades Ramona filed for divorce and his daughters seldom visited him. Ramona ended up dumping almost all of their money down the crapper during the Dot-com bubble in the late nineties, leaving the family broke. The last he heard of Ramona, she and the girls were living with her sister in Charleston, South Carolina. In prison Bobby’s fortune continued to be bleak. He was sodomized and sexually enslaved by a gang of neo-nazies. His torment continued for many years, until he was released in 2012, at age 64. Bobby’s freedom was unfortunately, paired with some bad news: in his last days of imprisonment he was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. He had six months to live. On his way out of prison he was greeted by a man named Nick O’Malley. Nick said he was a private investigator hired by his old high school to track him down and invite him to a reunion party they were having. Bobby used a good chunk of his remaining money to fly back to Detroit to attend the party, having nothing else to do with himself. He sat down at a table, all alone. On the other side of the room, he saw an old woman, with eyes like sapphires sitting alone. He had to talk to her, but his mouth was parched. He decided to get something to drink first, something without alcohol, as he had dumped that along with the heroin, so many years ago. He went to the punch bowl, and to his surprise nobody wanted any punch. There was no punch-line.