Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

And Here’s Keith!

Hey, Keith. Whatcha doing?

“What?”

I said, “Hi.”

“Okay. Do you have any nembutol?”

No.

“Tuinol?”

Nope.

“Lude?”

None of these drugs exist in my temporal location.

“What?”

Nothing.

“I pooped myself.”

This is why you’re not a regular character.

Caption Contest!

“I farted.”

OR

“We need to join a better-looking band.”

OR

“Garcia farted.”

Singing A Lullaby Beside The Waterslide

Precarious?

“Yo.”

It’s supposed to be Spinal Tap, then Puppet Show.

“The water slide?”

There was no other place to set up the stage?

“Honest?”

Please.

“Boys were a little full of themselves this tour.”

This would knock anyone’s ego onto the floor, I guess.

“Eh. You never met Mickey.”

True.

Boys On The Radio

“Oteil Brubridge, welcome back to the Radio Randy Show on SiriusXM’s JamOn channel.”

“Hey, Radio Randy. You look different from last time we talked.”

“I’m an entirely different human being.”

“Huh.”

“‘Radio Randy’ isn’t a name so much as it is a title. Or a curse.”

“Like the Ghost Rider?”

“Oh, my God, yes. Exactly. You’re my first guest to understand that.”

“How many guests have you had so far?”

“You’re the first.”

“Randy, is that going to be the level of the jokes for the whole interview?”

“It is.”

“Awesome.”

“Oteil, you’ve got your own band now. How is it different from playing with Dead & Company?”

“I get a much bigger chunk of a much smaller check.”

“Concisely stated.”

“I’m not a chatterbox, Randy.”

“Why is there a massive picture of you behind yourself?”

“So that bitches can recognize.”

“Great, great. If you had to eat a member of Dead & Company, who would it be?”

“Chimenti.”

“You didn’t even have to think about that.”

“Didn’t have to. Already done all my thinking on that subject. See, John is the youngest, so you’d think he’d be tenderest, but he works out too much. Chimenti’s got a couple years on him, but he never gets off that piano bench. He’s like a veal with good hair. I don’t even think you’d need a knife.”

“Definitely not an original Dead, huh?”

“Oh, no. That meat’s bad. I mean, I would taste some of Bobby just out of respect. Otherwise, no.”

“Oteil, let’s take a call.”

“We can do that?”

“Sure, why not? Caller, you’re on.”

“Uh, hi? Is my dad there?”

“I thought you said we were going camping this weekend, Pop.”

“This isn’t your father, John Mayer.”

“Who is it?”

“Radio Randy.”

“Oh. Is my father there?”

JOHN MAYER’S FATHER AT THE BAR DOING SHOTS AND GRABBING PUSSY NOISE

“No. He’s not.”

“Ah. Do you wanna take me camping?”

“I don’t really have time, buddy. Gotta go.”

“Why won’t my money buy me happi–”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY LONGER

“That was weird, Oteil.”

“He’s so much needier than you’d assume.”

“I see that now.”

“You ever read The Great Gatsby?”

“Sure.”

“The scene where Gatsby’s showing Daisy all his shirts? That’s the vibe from Mayer every minute you’re with him. It’s exhausting.”

“Well, he’s gone now.”

“Okay. Randy?”

“Yes?”

“Are those the lights, or did you vomit bile onto the front of your shirt?”

“The second thing.”

“Okay.”

“My insides are dying.”

“And yet this is still the best interview I’ve ever done with JamOn.”

A Han Solo Story

INT – MILLENNIUM FALCON

YOUNG HAN SOLO (played by ALL THE KIDS FROM STRANGER THINGS EXCEPT THE BLACK ONE) paces around the hold. YOUNG LANDO (played by THE BLACK KID FROM STRANGER THINGS) and YOUNG CHEWBACCA (played by a #TIME’SUP PIN) are also there. Everyone is doing SPACE BULLSHIT.

HAN
Hey, Lando. Guess who sent me a hologram?

LANDO
Young Luke Skywalker?

HAN
Who?

LANDO
Oh, right. We haven’t met any of them yet. Who?

HAN
Bryx Darb

LANDO
That is a very Star Wars name.

HAN
Right? We’re going to a 50’s diner, which exist for some reason.

LANDO
You’re gonna wear that?

Young Han Solo is wearing SPACE OVERALLS.

HAN
What’s wrong with this?

Lando and Chewie look at each other and shake their heads. Chewie makes ONE OF THE NOISES THAT MAKES NERDS CUM. They both GET UP and walk into the COCKPIT, where Chewie HITS HIS HEAD on a PAIR OF DICE HANGING FROM THE REARVIEW and all the NERDS CUM AGAIN.

INT – THE SPACE MALL

Wacky ALIENS and THAT SORT OF BULLSHIT walk around the FOOD COURT where SPACE TEENS are SPACE FLIRTING.

HAN
Guys, I don’t know about this.

LANDO
Han, old pal, we’re gonna make you look groovy.

CHEWIE
<Wookiee sound.>

They enter a store: HOLO-CHESS KING.

SOUND CUE: WALKING ON SUNSHINE BY KATRINA AND THE WAVES

Lando and Chewie sit outside a DRESSING ROOM. A retail CLERK played by Kevin Spacey Christopher Plummer is with them.

Han emerges in a COMICAL OUTFIT. Lando, Chewie, and the clerk SHAKE THEIR HEADS. He REENTERS the dressing room.

Han comes back out in a WHITE BLOUSE AND BEIGE LEGGINGS. The nerds CUM. The clerk DOES, TOO. Lando and Chewie are UNIMPRESSED. BACK IN the dressing room.

Han re-emerges wearing a COAT MADE OUT OF WOOKIEE FUR. Chewie does that thing where he SHAKES HIS SPACE MONKEY ARMS OVER HIS HEAD. Lando attempts to hold Chewie down, but is THROWN OUT THE WINDOW TO HIS DEATH.

The clerk pulls a weapon.

HAN
No blasters! No blasters!

Chewie EATS the clerk.

Han takes off the coat.

HAN
Okay, okay. No need to get nuts. It’s fake!

Chewie examines the coat. They have a BIG LAUGH.

HAN
What about this?

Han pulls a BLACK VEST and WHITE SHIRT off of a hanger. Chewie approves.

INT – DEATH STAR

A CREEPY CGI MOFF TARKIN and a DARTH VADER THAT DOESN’T LOOK RIGHT stand at a monitor looking at the SPACE MALL.

TARKIN
You may fire when ready.

VADER
I’ll teach you to ban me from Sears!

TARKIN
You were hitting on teenagers, Darth.

VADER
The Force wants what the Force wants.

SHZWAM!

The Rock Doc Drinking Game

Whither the Rock Doc? Hither? Thither? What about yon?

Don’t be weird this early.

The Rock Doc! 45 minutes of content padded out with an hour of interviews, long sweeping pans over photographs everyone’s seen before, and (depending on the budget) some kickin’ tunes, man. From acts that never made it to semi-defunct choogly-type bands, from venerated clubs to iconic studios, there’s enough Rock Docs to fill an entire app in your Apple TV menu. (I think it’s called Qello or something.)

And, of course, 90 percent of them are unwatchable shit. (That number comes from something called Sturgeon’s Law, which postulates that 90% of everything is shit, and was first set forth by Scottish politician Nicola Sturgeon.) Unless, of course, you turn the whole scenario into a drinking game.

Print this out for next time you give up and hit PLAY at random on something, anything, with a Stratocaster on the icon.

TAKE A SIP

  • A man in his 50’s is dressed like a man in his 20’s.
  • Slow pan across a mixing board.
  • “Artistic” shot of a jumble of cables.
  • Bad plastic surgery.
  • Sunglasses indoors.
  • Story about a person ends with a sad picture of said person and a chyron reading “1956-1992”.
  • Footage from another, better Rock Doc.
  • Johnny Depp appearance.
  • Obvious hairpiece.
  • It’s clear from the first five minutes who the pain-in-the-ass in the band was.
  • Skull ring.
  • Dismissive Brit with posh accent.

TAKE A SWIG

  • Rick Rubin, barefoot.
  • “And that’s when I got sober.”
  • Two lanky white men sit on a couch with their legs crossed in opposing directions and leaning away from one another.
  • Black-and-white Super 8 footage of a tense recording session.
  • Someone goes back to first rehearsal space/apartment/etc., and says “This is where it all started,” and then chuckles.

TAKE A GULP

  • Don Was, barefoot.
  • Woman is allowed to speak.
  • Cigarette smoking. (Modern Rock Doc only. All vintage Rock Docs feature wall-to-wall nicotine consumption.)
  • Story you’ve heard so many times you know it by heart.

DRINK THE REST OF YOUR GLASS

  • Story you’ve heard so many times you know it by heart is told incorrectly because the teller’s new wife is sitting next to him.
  • John Fogerty isn’t a dick.

Got My Teevee Eye On Little Aleppo

In the desert, an old man sat in the dark. There was nothing between your eyes and the universe, not in the desert, nothing blocking the sun or blotting the stars, and the horizon was without towns and highways, so nighttime was still a motherfucker, out here in the desert, out here in the Low Desert in a modernist house slung low around a pool and cut off from a street called Pinyon Way by a ten-foot wall made of expensive cinderblock and topped with fan-tail palms that spread their fronds like photosynthetic jazz hands. Nothing to see here.

Two washingtonia robusta trees shared a root system, all twined into one another. Each was a hundred feet tall with seams every eight feet and a great green crown atop, and each leant away from the other in the acute angle of a set-top teevee antenna.

And the cameras were there, he was in the studio, he was in Studio City, the guard on the gate was named Terry, he was sure of that, Terry. He drove himself in those days. The microphones weighed hundreds of pounds. Dressing room over here–the walls were temporary, but the couch was swanky–and the band was over there. Control room was beyond the lights which got so hot. The air conditioner rumbled between takes. Had to cake on the makeup in those days, this grey-bluish chalk that took three washings to get off.

The Tommy Amici Show was a half-hour, or sometimes the full hour; once it was 45 minutes long. Television hadn’t gotten its shit together in ’52; the world was much less professional. 8 o’clock on Tuesday nights, live and in two colors, to almost a million sets across America. Tommy had been a bust in movies, and so they gave him a television show.

Jews ran the movie industry, but television was still based out of New York, and so Wasps were in charge. Colonel Lumley ran the Network. It was 1952 and the bastard hadn’t taken his uniform off yet. Closest he got to the fighting was negotiating with the Musicans’ Union over the late show at the Stage Door Canteen on 44th Street. The colonel didn’t care for Tommy, but he had a slot to fill and Tommy had a sponsor, Arrow beer, and so Tommy had a show.

It was what they called a variety show–they don’t truly exist any longer–and they were vehicles for celebrated personalities, usually singers. As many songs as they could get away with, plus a skit or two and some light banter; Tommy was supremely capable of the first, but the second and third requirements were well beyond his grasp. He could sing, and women wanted to fuck him; neither skill lent itself to sketch comedy, especially because Tommy was not funny. Which is not to say people did not laugh at his jokes: they did, and loudly. But Tommy was not funny, and so the audience would not laugh. This would confuse him. At rehearsal, all the guys had laughed their asses off at that line! It was funny! Ah, what do these hayseeds know? And then Tommy would try giving the crowd the shpritz, but all of his jokes were stolen from his buddy, the insult comic Herbie Slott (formerly Herschel Slotnick), but ethnic insults are different coming from a tiny, bald, spherical man than they are from a clearly enraged nightclub singer who arrived to the taping surrounded by goons.

The audience had cooled on Tommy Amici. America had cooled. The last string of movies were all flops. The Modern Man’s Guide To Dames was supposed to be a Cary Grant-style comedy, but Tommy fought with the director and fucked his costar (and also fought with her) and couldn’t do comedy no matter whose style it was. Southwinds! was a musical, which should have worked, but the music was treacle and, instead of letting him sing, the director had Tommy dance, which Tommy could not do. He played a doctor who falls in love with his nurse in Heart Surgery; this is often regarded as one of the worst casting mistakes of all time because Tommy: A, did not know how to pronounce any of the medical words, and B, refused to read his script, rehearse, or do more than one take.

And there were character issues. This was 1952: there were different rules for celebrities. Certain things they could get away with as long as they maintained a proper sense of decorum. Drunkenness, fucking around on your wife, that sort of thing. Don’t bring your hooker to Chasen’s, basically. Other hobbies, such as homosexuality and hopheadedness, were completely inexcusable. Ixnay on the Communism, obviously.

But Tommy didn’t give a fuck about the rules, except for the ones about Commies, homos, and drugs. Tommy hated Commies, homos, and drugs. (“Drugs,” of course, meaning marijuana and dope, and not the pills his doctors prescribed.) And he also followed the rule about not getting too drunk in public, but that was due to his constitution.

It was the fucking around that got him.

He’d met Cara Thorn at the Borderline Casino & Lodge in Lake Tahoe; she was waiting out a Nevada divorce, and he was singing and checking out an investment opportunity. Headliners make a lot of money, but not as much as the guy who pays them, and Tommy wanted to be the boss, but he didn’t have the cash to be the boss, so he called a friend, who was called The Friend.

“It’s the perfect business.”

“A casino? Yeah, I know,” The Friend said. “I own several.”

“So let’s buy this one. It’s for sale.”

“Is it?”

“Everything’s for sale.”

“Ah.”

The pants of Tommy’s tuxedo had creases that would slice a hummingbird in half, and they were on a cedar hanger across the dressing room. Sheer black socks reached just below his knees and stuck out from under his thick yellow robe. He sipped from a itty-bitty cup of espresso. The Friend did, too, but he was in a suit.

“Tommy, you don’t have any fucking money.”

“I’m doing okay,” he huffed.

The Friend set his itty-bitty cup on the makeup mirror in its saucer, next to his borsalino hat, which was dark-blue on dark-blue.

“Oh. Because I own ten percent of you, Tommy. And lately, that ain’t shit. So…are you telling me that you’re ripping me off?”

You could hear the orchestra warming up through the closed door.

“That’s not what I’m saying. No. That’s not–”

“Tommy, I’m fucking with you!”

“–what I’m saying…you’re funny.”

“Maybe I should write you some jokes.”

“I got Jews for that,” Tommy said, dreaming of the moment when he would be the most important person in the room again. Tommy Amici used to be Tomas Valenzuela from Little Aleppo, and then he met The Friend, and now he lived in New York and Los Angeles and wherever else he fucking wanted, and all it cost him was ten percent off the top. Amazing what a good friend could do, and The Friend had ’em all over the place. Teamster’s locals that used to throw Tommy’s rivals’ records out the back of the truck when do one was looking. Men who owned nightclubs and radio stations, and the men who hauled away their garbage; the latter could be deployed against the former in case of recalcitrance. Cops and reporters, too. It was always good to be friends with cops and reporters.

Tommy continued,

“You see that crowd out there?”

“You can surely pack ’em in, kid.”

“And it’s a class crowd. Money crowd. I hang around, do some shows every month or so, bring in some pals. We’ll make a fortune.”

The Friend picked up his itty-bitty cup, threw back the dregs of the coffee.

“Tommy, this is a legitimate place. You need a license here. All kinds of paperwork to get through, and you know how I hate that.”

“License’ll be in my name. That’s the whole selling point. It’s gonna be my place.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Places, Mr. Amici.”

Tommy stood up and slipped off his robe. The shirt had just buttons, no studs poking through the buttonholes like a groom at a middle-class wedding, and he fixed his bow-tie in the mirror. Pants on, and then The Friend helped him into the jacket with its high arm-holes and creamy silk lapels. One last look in the mirror, and The Friend had the door open for Tommy.

The hallway was full of his goons. Everyone waited in the hallways when Tommy talked to The Friend.

“Fuck ’em up, kid.”

“Always. You’ll think about it?”

“I’m thinking about it as we speak,” The Friend said, which was not true: he had already decided to buy the casino. As it related to Tommy Amici’s career, this would prove the second most disastrous decision made in the Borderline Casino & Lodge that night. The first was when the maitre d’ of the showroom sat Cara Thorn all the way up front. Especially in that yellow dress.

What’s wrong with falling in love besides everything?

If they had snuck around, maybe. Neither knew how. They stole a police car that night. Fights in nightclubs, and screaming matches on jets to Spain, and more screaming on jets out of Spain after being thrown out of the country for calling Franco a queer, and heated reconciliations in crowded restaurants. They fucked on the buffet at Archie’s one night, which the gossip pages translated into “canoodling.” Tommy still had the balls to act incredulous when Theresa slapped him with the divorce papers. It was one thing for two Hollywood nutjobs to split up after 8 months of marriage–that was precisely what Cara was doing–but to leave your family for some sexpot movie star?

Records stopped selling, and without hits you don’t get first choice of material, which led to weaker singles, and this in turn brought sales down even further. The movie studios were delighted to stop calling. No more drunken, surly Tommy wandering around the lot fucking his way through the steno pool and having his boys throw writers through windows? No more directors in tears because Tommy called his costar a whore and won’t learn his lines? No more crackly, expensive international calls with panicky details about Tommy’s latest disappearance from the set? Good riddance to Little Aleppo trash, the movie studios thought.

Tommy didn’t care. Followed her to Paris. She was shooting Begin The Baguette. She was miscast, he told her. She threw a lamp at him. The next morning, Cara told the director she had been miscast and demanded to switch roles with the blonde, Lila McTear. He refused; Tommy threw a lamp at him. She flirted with the lead, a big chesty fellow named Roy Strompers that usually played cowboys, and Tommy fucked her makeup girl and they chased each other through the 8th Arrondissement in stolen Citroens. The Friend had no friends at all in the 8th Arrondissement, and so there were pictures in the papers.

No movies, and not even a radio show. The clubs–he’d always have the clubs–but his price had dropped for the first time.

And now the cameras–two of them!–with their rude lights all pressed up into your face, and all these wandering nobodies, technicians, whoevers filling every nook of the stage under the crude, harsh lights with B-list guests. June Mayfield, the Irvine Boys, Topper Most: no one was buying a set for those names. Tommy wouldn’t piss on ’em if they were drowning, but now he was sharing a spotlight with ’em. Doing sketches. Jesus, sketches. Not like goofing around onstage with Herbie and Geno, no: there were setups and punchlines and timing involved, the kind of shit that required rehearsal, but if Tommy wasn’t going to rehearse for a movie then he certainly wasn’t showing up for rehearsal for telefuckingvision.

It was ten o’clock Back East, and the announcer cried in the profoundest bass,

“IT’S…the Tommy Amici Show! With Tommy’s special guests: the Hayworth Triplets! Ansour Fine! Gerry MacGillicuddy! Music by Van Cantwell and the Radford Orchestra! And now…here’s Tommy!”

And there he was. Still godawful skinny and wearing a downright teenaged toupee. His jaw jittered back and forth, and he had no idea what to do with his big hands: into the pockets, clasped in front, down at sides, random gestures; his skull bandied about. There was no color teevee in 1952, but the audience in the soundstage didn’t know that, just stared at Tommy’s eyes, which were green as the Verdance in the summer, and they forgave him for everything and anything just as long as he’d sing.

Tommy wouldn’t forgive them. He didn’t forgive people he liked, so why should he grant absolution to strangers? He smiled and sang and suffered sketches, all the while seething for two seasons. Teevee. How fucking dare you make me do teevee? Because I left my wife? Fuck you; you never did for a woman what I did for Theresa and the kids. They got the house, they’re taken care of. None of them are ever gonna want for anything. Fuck your moral bullshit. Jealous. You wanna fuck her, he thought. Or be her.

But you can’t. She’s mine.

She’s mine, an old man mumbled in the dark. The Low Desert gets dark at night; there is not much civilization and there is so much desert, so it gets very dark at night. The nurse was in the next room. She had the pills, and she flipped the records. His records. The turntable was in the next room, with the nurse, and she would come in if he called out, but he did not, just smiled for the cameras that pressed themselves into his face even now in the Jeremiad Springs, which is three days by horse from Little Aleppo, which is a neighborhood in America.

Coot And The Maytalls

“Ass! How ya doing?”

Can’t complain. Where are you?

“Some shithole.”

Nicely done.

“Thought it was a good idea to get off the island for a while. People are pissed!”

No duh. You sent a false alarm to millions of people telling them they were going to be nuked.

“And I said ‘My bad.’ I don’t know what else people want from me.”

Maybe a better apology than “My bad.”

“Hey, whatever’ll get everyone off my nuts. I apologize for taking a shit in that elevator; I totally didn’t see the nuns.”

That’s not what you’re apologizing for.

“The naked hang-gliding?”

Why would you do that?

“My balls need to feel free.”

Well, no. Not that. Say you’re sorry for the Emergency Alert that scared the shit out of an entire state.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry everyone’s such a pussy.”

Nope.

“If anyone was offended, I–”

No.

“I came of age in the culture of the 60’s and 70’s, when it was okay to–”

Stop it.

“This political correctness is killing art, man.”

It is not. And what you did has nothing to do with political correctness. It wasn’t political, and you weren’t correct.

“Will it help if I promise not to appear in any more Woody Allen movies?”

Has he asked?

“No.”

Billy, take this seriously. I don’t know if you’ll be able to go home.

“Then I’ll stay here. Same weather, and these fuckers love me. Watch. Hey! Trump sucks!”

“YAAAAY!”

“Obama forever!”

“YAAAAY!”

“See? Black guys love me, man.”

You’re impossible.

The Daily Reckoning 1/13/18

Ledes are getting a-buried, Enthusiasts! Soil turned, loosed, set aside and replaced with a void: and now the corpse FLUMP and before you refill the hole you also shoot your partner, Snitchy, who really shouldn’t have been let into the gang in the first place, and into the raggedly-dug grave goes Snitchy, too.

What’s happening here?

Sentence got away from me.

They’re wily like that.

Shut up, I’m talking about politics like a pundit. The past two days of Great King Shitsthebed’s reign have been even more tumultuous than usual, reminiscent of his “Nazis are people, too” moment after Charlottesville, but with the added glamour of the San Fernando Valley. And that half-hour a state thought it was going to die. (The amount that this man can fuck up in a day is staggering and enervating to the bystander: he is like Teddy Roosevelt, if Teddy Roosevelt sucked. Donald Trump is–in every sense of the word–a Stakhanovite.)

Let’s examine the three incidents and note where the important detail has been overlooked.

The Shithole Thing It’s not the language: there are multiple botnets–both virtual and human–trying to push the argument that other presidents were equally as vulgar. Irrelevant. Nixon was as foulmouthed as a sailor with Tourette’s, and Johnson had his dick out around 60% of the day, but they behaved this way in private.

Nor is it the racism. The only onlookers who do not realize that the Grand Wizard of Jamaica Estates is a racist are people who will never do so. They live in long articles in the New York Times containing lyrical descriptions of wheat fields, and Walmarts, and off-brand cigarettes. They admire a man who says what we’re all thinking. They are the economically anxious, and they do not think Donald Trump is a racist.

The rest of us, who aren’t fucking cretins, know that Basketball Head is a racist. It is not news he that would advocate Norwegian immigration over Haitian. (Nor, for that matter, is it news that he’s so ill-informed about the world that he thinks there’s a mass of Norwegians clamoring to leave their socialist igloos to live in Houston. We know he’s dumb, too.)

The important bit–as I alluded to–was that he made these comments as close to “in public” as is possible without a PA system. The Oval Office was full of Democrats who openly despise him, and Republicans that secretly do. Anything he said in that meeting may well have been tweeted out.

Who’s ready for some Game Theory?

NO!

Yeah, I was just kidding.

You better be.

No one needs that here. Besides, Game Theory doesn’t apply to Trump. You have to assume rational actors in GT, and he’s just a giant Filet-O-Hate at this point and doesn’t behave like a normal person.

True.

Thus, we can eliminate the theory that the pouch-eyed flop was dropping “shithole” into the meeting on purpose, that he wanted it to get leaked to appeal to his base. Now: it certainly has appealed to his base, because his base is composed of scum, but this was not a strategic play. If you had asked him about it immediately after the meeting, he would not have recalled saying it, but would argue that it was a great thing to say, probably the greatest, and many people were already congratulating him on it.

Lesson Learned?

He can’t get through a meeting with his political opponents without blurting out racist bullshit. That doesn’t speak to his racism, it speaks to his mental faculties.

The Porn Star Thing 

The president is a whoremonger. They made you say the Pledge of Allegiance every morning for your entire childhood, and now the president mongs whores. How’s that make you feel? Angry? Makes me angry, it should make you angry. Go get your guns. Get angry and get your guns. Now look up the directions to the roller rink.

Stop this.

No, fuck that. I’m mad and I want to shoot up a roller rink. It’s my right as an American.

This is why the New Yorker won’t hire you.

Commie rag.

Get back to the point.

Which is that it was missed. The weak and failing media, which is very fake, was of course obsessed with the salacious bits of the story. For example: the boobies. And also: the butthole. Less so: the blackmail.

The President of the United States.

Why did you stop?

I wanted to let the phrase percolate. Allow the Enthusiasts to dream of the terrible power ingrained in the phrase. The history. The blood. The city that phrase killed with a signature, and the other city it killed three days later with the same ease. I was letting the moment simmer.

Okay.

The President of the United States was extorted by a porn star.

I wish you hadn’t let it simmer. It hurt more.

It’s the embarrassment! It’s just all so fucking embarrassing!

Question.

Shoot.

You know the test where there’s food at the bottom of a jar with a small opening? And you can get your hand in to get the food, but then you can’t get it back out once you’ve made a fist?

Yeah.

How long you think it would take Trump to let the food go?

He never would. He would stagger around the West Wing smashing the jar into walls trying to break it. And he wouldn’t be able to, but he would refuse to take the jar off his hand and he does the State of the Union speech like that.

I agree. Good for us for not making a “small hands” joke there.

We cut our own path.

Lesson Learned?

I’m confident that the President of the United States was only extorted just the once. And isn’t currently being extorted. I’m confident.

The Hawaii Thing

You may recall Attorney General Jefferson Bocephus Sessions saying that Hawaii was just some “island in the Pacific,” which is like Turnip’s “shithole” comment in that it is on one level true, but that level is second-grade. Plus–and you’ll find this is a theme with these pinheads–you’re not supposed to say it out loud. (Unless, of course, you’re doing it on purpose to wink at your darky-hating supporters, but Jefferson Burningmississippi Sessions would never do something like that.)

(Now, you and I know that Hawaii shouldn’t actually be an American state, but humans are so clever that we got the point where the North American continent and the Asian one could trade regularly, and also kill each other regularly, so it’s better to control Hawaii than let the other guy do it. Also: pineapples.)

This morning, there was a false alarm broadcast out over the Emergency System threatening the island with incoming missiles. THIS IS NOT A DRILL, it said. The alerts are issued from everyone’s phones now–there used to be air raid sirens and radio announcements–and the noise is terrible. Families huddled in bathrooms, and others drank and fucked speedily. There were no missiles. Someone fucked up. And it was not Trump.

Finally, a win.

Putting aside the fact that it took him 13 hours to tweet about the incident when he SITS THERE every fucking morning TALKING TO THE TEEVEE like a DODDERING WRETCH–

Stop yelling. This is not the place for that. You’re a literary talent.

I am.

No more yelling.

It’s just all so embarrassing.

I know.

He was golfing, because of course he was golfing, when the false alarm went out and not notified until the “all clear” was given. There are two ways to interpret this:

  1. No one around Basketball Head, some of whom must be assumed to be at least semi-intelligent, thought that Hawaii’s impending incineration was important enough to interrupt the 10th hole.
  2.  They did think it was important, and conspired not to tell the president in fear of an unhinged response.

Lesson Learned

We’re all gonna fucking die.

False Alarm, The Only Game In Town

“Hey, Ass. Listen, before you get all bitchy–

Were you responsible for the Emergency Alert about the missiles?

“Not entirely.”

Goddammit, Billy. What did you do?

“Well, I was over at the Office of Emergency Management. I had gone to do chair-stuff to a chick named Gretchen.”

Chair-stuff?

“You know. Chair-Stuff.”

Nope.

“Chaaaaaaaaaaaaiiir-stuff.”

That wasn’t helpful at all.

Chair-stuff.

Hey, don’t play with the fonts, please. Let’s just assume “chair-stuff” is icky and move on. Why were you at the OEM?

“Government agencies are full of skank, man. They wear those sensible pumps, and then they pump ya real sensibly. Ever bang a DMV worker? That’s your tax dollar at work right there, but you have to be careful about the hair. Don’t touch a DMV worker’s hair.”

You’re going somewhere with this I won’t permit.

“Okay, so I was neck-deep in Gretchen when I remembered those videos of Trump with the porn stars we were talking about.”

Holy shit, I’d already forgotten about that.

“Everything’s going faster. That’s why I’m banging so much, man. Living on borrowed time, spooging on borrowed skank.”

What did you do, Billy?

“Ok, right, so Gretchen’s taking care of herself and this chick I picked up at an airport bar, and I try to find my emails on her machine.”

Which was connected to the Emergency Alert system.

“I pressed the wrong button. That’s on me. My bad.”

You scared the shit out of millions of people.

“Heh.”

That’s not funny.

“It’s a little funny.”

Not at all! Tourists were texting “goodbye” to their loved ones back home!

“It’s not my fault!”

Why not?

“Because I don’t want it to be.”

Just stop being involved with day-to-day events in the news.

“Nah.”

Can’t you at least stay away from computers? What are you doing?

“Bitcoin.”

Goddammit, Billy.

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