Thoughts On The Dead

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

Author: Thoughts On The Dead (page 1 of 764)

And Those That Could Not Sink Or Swim Were Just Left There To Float

Hey, Bobby. Put your nipple away.

“He’s, uh, on vacation, too.”

True. Whatcha doing?

“Puzzling at this fellow’s choice of beach-footwear.”

I probably wouldn’t go with a loafer.

“Gotta let the dogs out when you’re on vacation.”

He’s not on vacation, Bobby. He’s at work.

“I kinda am, too.”

Not that you’d know it. What happened with the livestream?

“It’s better now. I started taking palmetto root.”

Not that stream. I’m talking about the webcast.

“Exterminators took care of that.”

The internet, Bobby. They usually play your shows on the internet.

“Do they now? Wow. 21st century, huh?”

The stream on Thursday night was shitty to the point of people complaining, and then nugs.net canceled tonight’s ‘cast without much of an explanation.

“Ah.”

Any idea what happened?

“Sunspots?”

No.

“Rebels in the hills?”

There are no rebels in the hills, Bobby. You’re on the Mayan Riviera.

“Weird how the Mayans named their coast something French.”

What I’m hearing is that you have no idea what happened.

“In my defense, there’s, like, eight layers of people that bullshit has to flow through before I get involved.”

True. Follow the rules of water safety.

“Always assume the boat is loaded, and keep your finger off the rudder.”

Close enough.

Dancin’ In The Streets

The Grateful Dead wasn’t a political band; remember that. When the kids took the campus, they showed up and choogled, but they weren’t political. They played benefits in support of the Black Panthers and against the death penalty, but they weren’t political. They raised money for the rainforest, and for Amnesty International, and…well, here:

What the organizations above have in common is this: they represent the little guy.

That’s what politics is. It’s a fight between the big guy and the little guy. And the Dead have always taken David’s side.

But remember: they weren’t a political band.

After Many A Peaceful Evening, A Late-Night Call Comes For Maggie Haberman

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Jesus. Fuck, I’m awake. I’m awake. Nothing but old bits tonight, huh? Hello?”

“Good evening, Ms. Haberman. This is Robert J. Mueller.”

“It’s three in the morning, Mr. Mueller.”

“I stopped sleeping two months ago; I just don’t have the time. We’re drinking from the firehose of stupidity in my office.”

You dropped some big indictments today.”

“Big? Please. You ain’t seen nothing yet. I was quoting Al Jolsen there, Ms. Haberman.”

“I understood the reference.”

“Obviously, I was not wearing blackface when I said it.”

“It hadn’t crossed my mind until you brought it up. So, today wasn’t big?”

“All I did today is whip it out. Not only have I not yet begun to fuck, but I haven’t even gotten hard yet. And I’m a thorough lover, Ms. Haberman.”

“Ew.”

“I’m setting the stage. Previously, there was a strong contingent sticking with the ‘Russia did nothing wrong’ line. They’ll abandon that now for ‘No collusion.’ Then I’m gonna prove unwitting collusion, and they’ll accept that and retreat to ‘We didn’t commit treason on purpose.’ From there, we’ll get Junior to flip and testify to willful collusion. The argument will then be ‘The President himself didn’t do anything wrong.'”

“And then?”

“And then, Bob Mueller’s gonna cum justice all over America’s face.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’ve been drinking.”

“I gathered.”

“You would, too. My job is getting depressing. Everyone’s so damned dumb. Those Russian hackers? Those super-cyber warriors? They were posting selfies from work on Instagram and hashtagging it #internationalespionagelol.”

“Not stealthy.”

“Everyone involved in this asshole parade is the opposite of a ninja. You know ninjas, Ms. Haberman? Japanese, quiet?”

“I am aware of ninjas, yes.”

“The opposite. You can see them coming, and they leave nothing but evidence. And none of them are Japanese.”

“Sure.”

“Although I wouldn’t be surprised if the Yakuza showed up in this. Russians, Americans, Mafia, Chinese businessmen.”

“Chinese businessmen?”

“They’re like Ferengi. I think they smelled the corruption all the way from Beijing and floated here led by their noses like Pepe LePew when he got a whiff of skunk-puss.”

“They were usually cats, Mr. Mueller.”

“Puss-puss. You know what I mean. Oh, and the Israelis.”

“Jared?”

“That’s offensive, Ms. Haberman. I thought you were better than that.”

“Oh, wow, you’re right. I’m sor–”

“Of course it was fucking Jared. He loves those hummusfuckers. Promised Natanyahu that if Trump was elected, Israel could start bombing the shit out of Gaza again.”

“Make Israel great again?”

“I shit you not: those were the exact words the pale little fuck said to Bibi.”

“Wow.”

“In return for some ‘campaign donations.'”

“Did you say that last phrase with quotation marks around it?”

“Yup.”

“So you meant…”

“Briefcases full of cash.”

“Jesus. So you’re gonna indict some Israelis, too?”

“Mm, no. We made a deal with the Mossad in return for their help with…listen, Ms. Haberman: I’m working at unbelievably high levels here.”

“Apparently. So we’re just gonna concentrate on the Russians?”

“I’ve been waiting for my chance to get even with those tsarist fucks since the very first time Charlie shot at me with an AK47. This goes all the way to the top over there. I’m thinking about indicting Putin.”

“You’re going to indict Vladimir Putin?”

“No. I’m thinking about it. It makes me happy to do so. It’s going to be bittersweet charging the President of the United States with a crime. I wish I didn’t have to. But Putin? Fuck that guy.”

“Mr, Mueller?”

“Uh-huh?”

“How does this end?”

“One of two ways: poorly or terribly. And you wanna get down on your knees and pray for the first option.”

“Good night, Mr. Mueller.”

“Justice never sleeps, Ms. Haberman.”

Tall And Tanned And Lovely

This bit again?

“Life is cyclical; it bounds back to its place of birth.”

Do the end justify the means?

“It depends. What are the means?”

Mass murder.

“Then, no.”

What if it’s a reeeeeeally good end?

“Still a no.”

You’re a woman with strong beliefs.

“Principle is no vice.”

Do you have any body hair?

“I have no body hair.”

Wanna buy some?

“Sticking with no.”

What should we know about Mexico?

“Far more Germanic than you think.”

What should we know about America?

“Same thing.”

Define art.

“Do I look like Samuel Johnson?”

You look like the opposite of Samuel Johnson.

“Then let art define itself.”

Why must we know of death?

“We couldn’t plan funerals, otherwise.”

I feel like I made a good decision bringing this bit back. You wanna tongue kiss?

“Even if you weren’t repulsive, I’m currently dating a Wookfight.”

Wookfight?

 Ah. Wookfight.

“STOP PULLING MY DREADS!”

“YOU STOP PULLING MINE, DUDE!”

No, I was wrong. Horrible idea to bring this back. Sorry, everyone.

Dar Un Paso Atrás

It was around the 75th time some gringo in a tie-dye requested Mexicali that Gustavo snapped and began beating him with his chubby guitar.

OR

ATTENTION FOREIGNERS: please do not wear native garb at me. It makes me feel colonialistic. I’m glad you have the gig, but you can totally wear your normal clothes.

OR

The three guys in the middle with the trumpets? They were the Dead’s horn section in the September ’73 shows that David Lemieux hates so much and I adore. (He’s right. I love those shows because they’re terrible.)

OR

Guantana-MAAAAAAAAAY-ra!

OR

Second from the left. I love that move, the violin tucked in with no hands. I remember watching a special with Itzhak Perlman as a kid, a master class kind of thing. He would bring students up and work with them, and he gestured as much as you would assume a man named Itzhak Perlman would, and the fiddle bobbed around and swerved and swayed. It made me very nervous.

OR

“Why do they cheer when we sing the line ‘Soy capitan, soy capitan?'”

“No idea, Gustavo. Just don’t hit any more of them.”

“I promise nada.”

First, I Look In The Perse

What is this?

“Oh, glad you’re here. This is the new party poncho from James Perse’s new Dead & Company line. It’s officially licensed!”

It’s a garbage bag, Mickey.

“You know nothing about fashion. It’s Polybutadiene prepared with a high-quality Ziegler–Natta catalyst.”

Uh-huh. Wait here while I google that.

“Sure. I’m gonna drum.”

Great.

It’s vinyl, Mickey.

“Officially licensed vinyl.”

Sure.

“What our fans have told us is that they’d like higher-end merch. Also, what I’ve told the merch guys is that I’d like higher-end merch. A man cannot yoink on tee-shirts alone.”

How much is that?

“$1,995.”

Jesus.

“There’s a Stealie on it.”

So?

“So you wouldn’t believe how many rich morons we have as fans.”

I totally would.

In Lieu Of Thoughts Or Prayers

Do you need some good news?

I have none.

But I have this, which is Bounce music from New Orleans. It’s Big Freedia’s new single, and it has no wisdom to offer whatsoever, and thank God for that.

Don’t Let Him Flag You Down

You find interesting things when you misspell names.

Fuck The Founding Fathers

They were earthbound; they could not fly; they launched no satellites. One of ’em had a kite, and that was so impressive for the time that we still talk about the ink-stained pervert.

They walked. Or sat atop a beast, which walked.

They had no penicillin, nor even sulfate drugs. The treatment for tuberculosis was to move to a dryer clime. People died of infected wounds, and abscessed teeth. People died of cholera because it was beyond these apes to separate the clean water from the dirty.

For entertainment, they would read to one another, those who could read, or they would bet on animal torture. There was no recorded music because there was no electricity and so sometimes they would play for one another. Not the piano, though. It had barely been invented, and had not yet made its way to the Colonies.

They believed that some humans weren’t human, just property or in the way.

When they looked up, they saw five planets; when they looked inward, they saw four humours.

But, by all means, let’s take their opinions on guns as sacred.

 

Dog, Tracks

Why should you listen to 9/11/82 at the West Palm Beach Auditorium in the Sunshine State? For the Dupree’s, for the Let It Grow, and for the Baby Blue encore. (No kidding: killer Blue, brah.)

For those of you who don’t like the Dead, and instead prefer when shut-ins yell at dogs, here is this:


What the fuck are you?

“I’m Fwynn! I wuv you!”

Fuck you, you fluffy rat.

“Come here and wet me wuv you.”

FUCK YOU, OVERLY-CUTE DOG.

“I WUV YOU.”

This has to stop right now.

I thought it was one of my more coherent posts.

Good work, champ.

Older posts
%d bloggers like this: