Portrait of Bob as a Young Man Bob Rossetti was born and raised on the mean streets of Worcester, Massachusetts where he was split from birth by the ethnicities & loyalties that came together to bring him into this world.  Half-Irish and half-Italian, with a Harvard Educated Red Sox faithful mother and a YankeeFan & Three Stooges loving father, it was like Eugene O’Neill meets The Godfather. He was educated by a wild pack of Xaverians who schooled him in dead white male literature, the New Testament, and Physical Education, and it was there amongst a horde of young republicans yuppies that made Alex P. Keaton look like Ralph Nader, that he found something better ...COMEDY In 1998 he stepped out of the Family SUV in the Village to go to New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts where for the next four years he studied screenplay, sketch, sitcom, and variety show writing, along with acting and directing while working on numerous short film and video projects to earn a B.F.A. in Film and Television Production.     After graduation it was easy to get lost in a sea of pompous pretentious possibilities and dead end temp and bartending jobs before washing up alone on a beach strewn with Vista Print business cards, Craigslist postings, and MySpace Profiles, where the only refuge was an underground theatre group who didn’t have a play but did have a fundraiser.   Having performed with the likes of Jim Gaffigan and Jessica Kirson and opened for both Hamburger and Neil Hamburger, Bob sets out night after night, armed only with a notebook and a microphone to try to take over the world.   Bob’s Comedic Origins and Motto/Disclaimer  “As a small child in Nursery School all I wanted to do was try the tap-dancing shoes.  However everyday that free-time came I was never, ever allowed to use them.  Instead I’d watch from high atop my perch on the Jungle Gym as everyone else got to try them at least once.  I don’t remember there being any kind of list like with a pool table at a bar, it was up to the different teachers to hand out different toys, games, to different kids.  Now both my Nana and I, had always felt that I could become the next Fred Astaire, but apparently these nursery school teachers, in all their wisdom and experience, looked down at little Bob and said, “This kid’s never going to be a dancer.  Here’s a smock and some macaroni, run along now.”  And thus the hating began...