Hey, Potato Salad. Whatcha doing?
“Wha? Oh, hey, look at that.”
There’s a lot of carbohydrates going on.
“I gotta take these things back to Creepy Ernie. First of all–”
He sold ’em to you as a lengthy short.
“–he sold ’em to me…right, yeah. Turns out it’s not a thing.”
I’ve been telling you that.
“I don’t trust you.”
“And, you know: as you can see, there’s a certain bullseye-kinda-deal going on. Doesn’t matter what position I’m in; seated, downward dog, lotus, napping: lumpier than a summer camp mattress.”
Can we talk about the 49ers?
“Football, my crotch, whatever. Love the Niners. Going to games forever. Ever hear about Kezar?”
“Oh, yeah. The old days. Fights everywhere. Stood a real good chance of getting your ass kicked.”
Were you okay?
“Sure, well, you know: a lot of the people starting the violence were our road crew. I was good.”
And then Montana.
“Joey. Good guy, friend of mine. Used to come backstage. Big Deadhead.”
“Walton-level. Liked the old stuff.”
“Joe Montana loved ’69.”
“Walked right into it.”
What happened to Red Metal Stool?
“He knows what he did.”