Triumph...such a sweet, but short-lived thing, like eating a luscious piece of chocolate. So many times when Bob had gotten what he wanted, or had come close to it, only for it to be taken away from him.
That short time as a TV show host had been almost too good to be true; perhaps Bob shouldn't have been so shocked that it didn't last long. One moment, he'd had the attention and adoration of Springfield's children...except for one child, and that child had ruined everything.
bob had been so close to killing Selma, inheriting her money and also taking an indirect revenge on Bart by killing one of the boy's kin, but Bart had outsmarted him yet again, by remembering some seemingly unimportant details. True, Bob ha a hand on his own downfall (if only he hadn't shouted at that hapless young bellhop) but how was he supposed to know that Selma was filming him?
That time on the houseboat...he'd been so close to killing Bart. If only Bart hadn't been such a sneaky, manipulative little trickster, getting him to sing so much...
Bart had a talent for getting under Bob's skin, as did Lisa...had they not done so when he was mayor, and gotten him to confess to electoral fraud, he would still be mayor, and Springfield would be a far better town than under Quimby's weak Democratic government. That was a big blow for Bob, when he thought he had actually succeeded, for once.
Those times when Bob had tried to reform: ruined by Cecil and Chief Piggum the first time, ruined by Lisa the second time. He, Francesca, and Gino had come so close to killing the Simpsons in the coliseum. If Krusty hadn't happened to be there, and in a charitable mood, they would have succeeded.
Singing "Vesti la giubba" had felt pretty good, though. Bob loved having an audience in such a grand piece of historical architecture.
He'd come so close to killing Bart in the funeral home. Too bad Lisa had recalled the seemingly insignificant detail of the extra space made in the coffin for his feet. That defeat had hit him quite hard, and his mind had snapped. He hadn't seen his family since then.
Last thing Bob had heard of his estranged wife, she had returned to Springfield and had watched that disastrous televised outdoor musical about Jebediah Springfield, but she hadn't wanted to see Bob. Bob worked better on his own, anyway. He didn't need a wife or a child to hold him back. He was already holding himself back, even when he didn't intend to do so.
The prison therapist had told Bob that he brought his miseries on himself, by repeatedly dwelling on the times other people had wronged him, and Bob had already known that. It was just easier to blame others for his suffering. Bob waged a constant war against his conscience as it repeatedly stopped him from killing Krusty or Bart. Bob's anger at others was transferred anger at himself...or so the therapist said. Psychology was an imprecise science, easily warped by subjective personal feelings, and Bob's father had dismissed psychiatrists as not being real doctors.
Maybe something would go right for him, someday, if he could keep his weaknesses at bay...