[ WP ] Each village has a designated `` scapegoat '' that everyone takes their issues out on . Write about the life of this person .

This is the story of Bob. 
 
 Bob was the Designated Scapegoat for his town. Just like every town had a Mayor and a Sheriff and a Director of Public Sanitation, they also had a Designated Scapegoat. As the town scapegoat, Bob's job was to provide `` relief by catharsis'' or in layman's terms, make everyone else feel better by letting them vent and verbally shit all over him. According to the law, this venting could only be done once a week, on a day that was selected by the townspeople. This varied from village to village, but for Bob, his `` Vent Day'' was always Friday. 
 
 So every Friday, Bob would trot out to the public square and stand in the middle of the brick stage that had been specially erected for Vent Day purposes ( it used to be wood before then-Mayor Kriegermann ordered a newer one to be built ) and let the entire population vent their weekly pent-up rage at him. Bob would then stand there silently for the day while the town would let loose on him. 
 
 `` My dog got run over by a car last week! Fucking Bob! Why did n't you save him!?'' 
 
 `` I just found out my wife is cheating on me with that no-good bastard neighbor of mine down the street! I bet you probably knew, Bob, and you did n't say anything! Prick!'' 
 
 `` My mom took away my PS4 for this weekend because I flunked a social studies test. And the new Call of Duty comes out tomorrow! God, Bob, you suck ass, you fuckin' noob!'' 
 
 This only happened on Fridays though. The other six days of the week, Bob was just a normal citizen, a respected citizen even. He worked as a teller at the local Bank of America branch and garnered respect and friendly behavior from everyone he met. He lived in a small single-story house over on Smith Street and could often be seen walking his dog, Lefty, on quiet summer evenings. 
 
 `` Evenin' Bob! Wonderful weather we're having, is n't it?'' 
 
 `` Hey Bob! We're having a little barbecue at my place on Sunday and we'd be thrilled if you could join us!'' 
 
 `` Hey Mr. Bob! Gee, your dog sure is swell.'' 
 
 Every Friday, it was nothing but anger and derision. But from Saturday to Thursday, it was bliss. This was Bob's life and he had learned to cope with the stark contrast that was Friday versus the rest of his week. There were Fridays when he had gone home and cried to himself while gently petting Lefty behind the ears and the pain never quite went away, but it was better than what had happened before the time of the Designated Scapegoat. 
 
 He was too young to remember the `` Bad Time'' but he had heard the stories from the old-timers who played shuffleboard in the town square. The marital disputes and property arguments that had spilled over into violence. Neighbors shooting each other over unpainted boundary fences or someone's dog digging up their garden. The mob that had hung the former mayor by his heels from the pavilion in the town square after the town discontinued its traditional free Sunday fried chicken feast. The shuddering of the shoulders and the far-off look in the eyes of the old-timers as they told these stories told Bob all he wanted to know about the Bad Time which the rest of the town did not speak of. 
 
 And so to end the violence, the town had created the role of Designated Scapegoat. One individual to absorb all the pain and frustration of the town so that its inhabitants might live in peace. A man who would be sacrificed to the greater good to prevent the Bad Time from coming back. A man who would have to endure the brunt of everyone's pain and suffering to keep his neighbors free from it. 
 
 That man was Bob.
