“It’s on. They want a Rando War, they got one.”
I hate all of you.
“Look at ’em! Hipster randos in their summer uniforms!”
I see. Please don’t escalate this.
“Bobby brings one rando, I bring two. Billy finds a pack of randos, I get a brigade of ’em. That’s the Connecticut way.”
“SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE RANDOS!”
–don’t…I need to write a book and get away from you people.
“You need to write a book, I need to pay too much for ugly bullshit and solo: we all got needs, man. And right now? I need to win this Rando War.”
It isn’t even a thing!
“John Mayer being in the Grateful Dead isn’t a thing, either, but here we are. RANDO WAR!”
What are you wearing on your lower limbs?
“I bought them at–”
We all know where you bought them, and we all know what happened to you while you were there. Move on and answer the question.
“They’re just pants, man.”
If those are pants, then where the hell’s your potato salad? I see a plate you could put the potato salad on, but no salad.
“Please stop thinking about my crotch so much.”
If it were where a crotch should be, then I would.
“Can I go? I have to look at these pins. Did you know I collect vintage Dead pins?”
“Since these guys showed them to me.”
“Already bought about three million worth.”
“Almost all of them turned out to be fake.”
That also sounds right.
God, I wish Garcia were alive.