Deeply, and possibly permanently. This is the kind of sorrowful betrayal that leaves a scar, Enthusiasts. Perhaps this latest defeat will harden me like it did the little boy in Old Yeller, and I’m not talking about the well-known weepy ending, I mean the after-credit scene where the kid’s dad tells him, “And now we eat him,” and then there’s a five-minute long shot of the boy silently cooking a dog omelette. I am that disappointed, Enthusiasts. I am little-boy-killing-preparing-and-eating-his-beloved-pet disappointed, and it is in you.
Dead & Company are playing a half-hour from Fillmore South on Friday (12/8/17) and none of you have contacted me to arrange my Praetor’s Suite-level guest experience. No car service has called and given me a chance to reject all of their vehicles. (I travel either in the rear-facing seats of an Isuzu Brat or the limo with the hot tub in the back from the Phil Collins video.) The on-site concierge has not inquired about my dietary restrictions (many), my allergies (strawberries, toil), and my temperature preferences (crank the air and bring me a parka). I’m assuming the bar is open, but I don’t know. Am I entitled to a complimentary massage from the Florida Panthers’ trainer? I don’t know. What does the gift bag contain? I don’t know. And I hate not knowing.
How dare you not come through for me after all I’ve done for you?
“But, TotD,” you might reply. “This is quite literally the first you’ve mentioned of any desire to go to the show.”
You’re trying to destroy me, aren’t you?
You’d say, “What now?”
You want me gone so you can take my place. I see it now. You want to marry my husband, and take my children. I never should’ve hired you to babysit!
“I don’t understand what’s happening here,” you’d say, concerned.
And then I shoot you with a harpoon gun. My point is this, Enthusiasts: don’t put your failings on me. How can you call yourself readers and miss subtext this non-submissive? It’s barely subtext: it’d domtext. Go back! Go back and read through the past month or so, and you’ll notice a theme: “I’d maybe kinda like to go the Dead & Company show but don’t wanna pay for it or put any planning or effort into it, but obviously I’d fucking write about it and shit.” I swear it’s there, Enthusiasts; go and read. (Pro Tip: the more you want to see the theme, the easier it will be to see.)
Number one on my list: all of you.
Major publications, important newsgatherers, and beloved websites have fallen off (or been murdered) at an increasing pace. Why? Because they do not arrange for me to attend the 12/8/17 Dead & Company show in pampered luxury. Recently, Brian Ross of ABC News incorrectly reported that the President had been implicated by Michael Flynn in his plea deal; the story was retracted, and Ross suspended, but the stain on the organization remains. Could this have been prevented if ABC had sent me to the Dead show? Yes. Absolutely: yes. How dare you?
Number two on my list: the lying, failing, fake news media.
I include the band in my dudgeon. (Except Oteil, who is a perfect beam of sunshine.) How dare you, Dead & Company? Pardon my French, but comment osez-vous? You know where I live. You knew you were going to be here. I know I was discussed at Thanksgiving dinner. Yet: no laminate. Where is my laminate? (I can provide my own cord.) Should I call Will Call? Will Will Call call me? Shouldn’t Will Call be Will Text nowadays?
“Hey, Josh, you know that obsessive weirdo my lawyer is keeping an eye on?”
“TotD? He recently had me sodomized and murdered.”
“Yeah, that guy. We should hang out with him.”
See how easy that is, guys? If I didn’t know any better, I would swear that rock stars only thought about themselves.
Number three on my list: the band I want tickets to see. (Don’t analyze it, just go with it.)
- How dare you?