The day was finally over and Jerry was glad. Bob had fucked up again, like always, and Jerry was particularly sick of the badly written, repetitive tongue-in-cheek farce that his life had been. Over and over Jerry had contemplated ending his life and putting an end to his torment. He was sick of the kittens spelled wrong, he was sick of the lack of quotation marks, he was sick of the shitty crayon gag, and most of all he was sick of that buttfucker Bob.
Everyone else involved in the endless charade always treated Bob like a fucking messiah. Just because he got to say the line where he corrected him, everyone treated Bob like some sort of a fucking George Carlin, and frankly Jerry was sick of it. It wasn't only jealousy that was fueling both Jerry's inherent hatred of Bob and his Death wish, no. There was more. Bob was a fucking dick to him.
It initially started as a misunderstanding. After the three or four hundredth run through of the whole act, Jerry, wanting to congratulate Bob walked over to him and patted him on the back for a job well done. Jerry, not realizing that Bob was holding an expensive bottle of Chardonnay, made him drop the newly bought bottle on the ground, effectively shattering it into hundreds of pieces.