Thoughts On The Dead

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

Author: Thoughts On The Dead (page 1 of 739)

For Mayer Or For Poorer

They spelled your name wrong, Josh.

“This is going to come as a shock to you, but I’m a highly respected artist.”

You paint?

“Not that kind of artist.”

What is this for?

“Awesomeness.”

Uh-huh.

“And record sales. I move product like Escobar.”

You do sell a lot of units. I don’t see the last album on there.

“Excuse me?”

The Search for Everything. Didn’t go Gold?

“It did.”

Oh.

“In Canada.”

Does your girlfriend live in Canada, too, Josh?

“Y’know, your shitty little attitude and hateful disposition can’t bother me today. I’m happy. I’ve got, like, nine bands; millions of dollars worth of probably-not-counterfeit watches; my tattoos are so sexy; and I’m happily married. I’m objectively winning at life.”

How is Miles?

“I am so in love. Bought him a present.”

Oh, God. Lemme guess.

“Look at this fucking toppermost my bitch bought me.”

I was right.

“I’m clean as a motherfucker. Bitch got a good eye.”

That is a hell of a toppermost, Mr. Davis.

“Best wife I ever had. Shops more than Cicely did, but he pays for his own shit. Brings me presents. Washes all my shit real good. Gets all freaky on my armpits.”

You’re into that?

“I wasn’t, but now I am.”

Sure.

“He’s a good wife. Strong on the inside. Very spiritual. And powerful legs. Boy can take a pounding. I like that. I got a hard stroke. I stroke long, I stroke hard.”

Sounds like you got something good going.

“Love that motherfucker. Traded some of his watches for coke.”

“What now?”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m fucking talking.”

“But you said–”

JAZZ BACKHAND

“Which watches did you–”

JAZZ FOREHAND

“Did you at least save any coke for–”

JAZZ BACKHAND

“Stop slapping me!”

“Okay.”

JAZZ CHAIR-ACROSS-THE-BACK

“That better?

Could you stop beating him, please!?

“When he acts right.”

Mr. Davis, may I speak to your wife, John Mayer?

“Quickly.”

Josh? Buddy?

“Daddy was right. I shouldn’t talk back like that.”

Josh, I need you to know how serious I am, so I’m going to call you John.

“Wow.”

Yeah. Johnny?

“Just John.”

He’s going to kill you.

“He’s not. He loves me.”

He may very well love you. Most people get killed by people who love them.

“You’re just speculating.”

I’m not. I write this bullshit. I decided he was going to shoot you a couple days ago.

“It is the logical dramatic progression.”

I go where the muse takes me.

“I really think I’ll be fine.”

I promise you that you are not.

“Bitch! Get over here and grease up.”

“I gotta go.”

I warned you.

Heading To The In-Laws

PLYMOUTH, MASACHUSETTS – 1621

“The Wakkaflakkaflames?”

“The Wampanoag, James.”

“The Wookienoogies?”

“You’re doing it on purpose.”

“I am, Constance. I don’t see why we have to eat with these…savages.”

“They’re our neighbors now.”

“They’re heathens!”

“James, we’re Pilgrims. We think everyone’s a heathen.”

“Well, they are some heathenistic heathens. They heathe it up!”

“The verb form of ‘heathen’ is not ‘heathe.'”

“Don’t correct me in front of the children. Where are the children?”

“Dead.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“We picked an awful time to have kids.”

“The 17th century?”

“The past in general. We should have waited until, oh, 1980 or so.”

“Tactical error on our part. Put on your pants.”

“I don’t want to. Tell me again why we’re eating with these animals.”

“Because they have food, James. Because they’ve figured out how to live in this godforsaken wilderness and we’re gnawing on our shoes for nutrition. Maybe if we’re nice to them, they’ll teach us how to cultivate our crops in this new soil.”

“We know how to farm.”

“We know how to farm in England. How are we doing over here?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Some of the fields are a bit sparser than one would prefer.”

“Well, except for the cemetery. That’s getting pretty full.”

“These savages have nothing to teach us, Constance. Once this cold snap is over, we’ll have so much food we won’t know what to do with it.”

“Cold snap?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean winter?”

“How bad could it be?”

“Squanto said there would be four months of sub-zero temperatures and 20-foot high drifts of snow.”

“I’m not listening to Squanto. He’s a race-baiter.”

“James, we are going to eat with the Indians. We are going to be nice to them. We are going to get them to teach us how to find food.”

“We should have stayed in Holland.”

“They threw us out of Holland, jackass. They threw us out of everywhere, which is why we’re here in the middle of nowhere starving to death. How are your shoes?”

“What? My shoes?”

“Your shoes. What kind of condition are they in?”

“I could probably visit the cobbler.”

“Uh-huh. Do we have a cobbler, James?”

“No.”

“No. What do we have?”

“Preachers, large hats, and dead children.”

“Right. But the Indians have shoes, right?”

“I’m not wearing moccasins. I’d rather go barefoot. Jesus went barefoot.”

“He did not. He wore sandals. He was famous for wearing sandals. Plus–and this is important, James–he lived where it was warm. It’s gonna be 20 below zero in two weeks.”

“The Lord will provide.”

“He did. He sent the Wampanoag.”

“Stop talking back to me or I’ll tell everyone you’re a witch.”

“James, you’re gonna be polite. Period, end.”

“Counter-offer.”

“What?”

“I pretend to be polite, learn all of their ways, and then, when there are more of us, slaughter every last one of them.”

“That’s fine, too.”

“Happy First Thanksgiving, Constance.”

“Why would we call it that?”

“Shut up, witch.”

We’re Just Waiting For It To Come Back Around On The Guitar

It’s a song about Alice.

Maggie Haberman’s Phone Rings Late At Night Even On Holidays

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Oh, fuck me. It’s Thanksgiving. Why are they calling on…yeah, what?”

“Hello, Maggie. It’s me, Al Franken.”

“Asshole.”

“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately. It’s warranted. As you know, I’ve long been a champion for women’s issues and–”

“Oh, stuff it with that. Why can’t any of you keep your hands to yourselves?”

“Well, Maggie, sometimes the ass calls to you. You chicks, y’know, you put out vibes.”

“We don’t. Women let you know when they wanna hump.”

“Are you saying you wanna hump?”

“Senator, you’re in trouble.”

“I called Lorne Michaels for some advice. He’s pretty good with PR.”

“What did he say?”

“Didn’t have time to talk. Variety is writing a story about him that comes out Friday. It’s getting ugly.”

“Getting? You mean the decades of systemic harassment and titty-squeezing women have endured weren’t ugly, but now that men are paying for their actions, now it’s tough to look at?”

“I have long been a champion for women’s issues and–”

“Asshole.”

CALL WAITING NOISE

“I’m gonna take this and not come back, Senator.”

“Wanna come over for Couch Tour?”

“Good bye.”

“Hello?”

“Miz Maggie, this is Congressman Joe Barton, and I wanna send yew a picture o’ mah hog.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Ah got so many. All sorts o’ angles. Taint’s involved in a couple o’ shots. Some ladies like that, some don’t. You a taint girl, Miz Maggie?”

“It’s Thanksgiving, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, ah know. We havin’ a whole house tomorrow. Big ‘ol turkey. Yew wanna see a picture?”

“You’re going to send me a dick pic, Congressman.”

“Yew got me! Ah was. It was a trick.”

“I am a clever one.”

“Now, Miz Maggie, if you tell anyone about this conversation, it’s a felony.”

“That’s not how it works.”

CALL WAITING NOISE

“Who the fuck is this?”

“We could Skype.”

“Goodbye, Congressman.”

“Hello?”

“Maggie, it’s Congressman John Conyers. Are you wearing clothing that gives you free access to your titties?”

“Completely inappropriate.”

“Nah. Friendly banter.”

“Rough week, huh?”

“Everyone’s lying but me. I have done nothing wrong. You know what they called harassment? Sneaking up behind women while they were at their desks and laying my hairy root on their shoulder. That’s wrong now?”

“Not ‘now.’ Always. That has always been wrong.”

“But that’s my move!”

“Jesus.”

“I would say “There’s a mouse on your shoulder!” and when they would look, I would slap ’em in the face with my meat.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Sure, you can; you just need enough meat. Short-dicked man can’t play that game.”

CALL WAITING NOISE

“Oh thank God. I’m hanging up on you, Congressman Conyers.”

“Press the phone up against your titties.

“Goodbye,”

“Hello?”

“Ms. Haberman, this is Roy Moore and I’m going to get right to the point: do you have daughters?”

“Oh, hell no.”

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

The Dead Sell Out

When did Phil stop drinking? Because this is from before that. I think it’s ’85; that shirt combination was one of Garcia’s favorites in ’85.

OR

“So it’s me and Mydland and Jer. and we’re singing or something.”

“Okay.”

“But then the camera pulls to out reveal we were on a monitor.”

“I don’t think there’s a special effects budget.”

“We’ll figure it out. Anyway, now we’re in the studio and you read the copy or whatever and Billy sits there and dicks around.”

“Right.”

“But then the camera zooms out…”

“I’m listening.”

“And I’m sitting there, too!”

“I don’t get it.”

“I was in the teevee monitor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And then I’m sitting next to you.”

“You can always sit next to me, buddy.”

“Weir, I just fucking can’t with you today.”

OR

There are (at least) three schools of thought about the Grateful Dead’s business acumen, two of which are wrong and believed by others, and one of which is correct and obviously belongs to me. The first is that the organization was made up of apple dumplings with scrota full of glitter and hugs; men and women who cared nothing for the material and did it all for the fans, and for the music. Maaaaan.

The second take, the revanchist take, the contrarian take, is that the Grateful Dead were visionaries of commerce and communication. That their early-adopter stance towards technology advanced the industry as a whole, and that their intuitive use of branding led to memetic penetration of the teenage mind via ballpoint drawings of Stealies on desks and backpacks, and then you’re gonna hear a rap about how tapers either built the internet or were the internet. Run from these types.

The truth is that the Dead did all the same bullshit the other big bands did, but–due to congenital bushiness of their collective league–they almost always fucked it up. They tried hard to be big stars, and they worked diligently at pushing merch; they played Lovelight for 45 minutes at the biggest gig of their life, and they made commercials like this.

Go watch that bullshit again. I demand it. You must. I’ll wait.

CASUAL WHISTLING

Did you see that bullshit?

Did Precarious Lee write this script? What is for sale? “Projects and products.” What is that, Grateful Dead? You literally could not be less specific. “Projects and products” encompasses actions and objects. You’re basically saying “We have nouns and verbs for sale.”

Also: calling back? Younger Enthusiasts, before the internet there were far fewer ways to buy stuff. You went to the store. Other than that, you had catalogues. You wrote the company, usually longhand, having been taught both the proper format for a business letter, and enclosed a check or money order in the envelope. Mailed it off and then waited. There was no app to obsessively check the status of your package, so there was joy in the surprise when it arrived.

After a while, you could call an operator and order out of the catalogue.

By ’85, you could also shop on teeevee. Call the number on the screen, give ’em your credit card number, and they’ll send out your Ab Weasel. (The Ab Weasel was an actual weasel that bit you if you stopped doing sit-ups.)

And that was it. There was no “call you back.”

So: the customers had no idea what they was buying, and–even if they wanted to put their money down on sight-unseen merch–needed to wait for you to get back to them?

Good work, Grateful Dead. Proud of ya.

Not Sweating It

You playing for Metallica now?

“Oh, hey, Ass. I wear black on the outside because black is how I feel on the inside.”

What’s up, slugger?

“Net Brutality. They’re gonna take all the snuff films off the web?”

Neutrality, Billy.

“Oh. Then I don’t give a shit.”

Shocked. How’s the tour going?

“Well, we didn’t get the tour of the Capitol we were promised.”

Yes, the Senator from Shakedown Street is a bit occupied these days.

“I’m not making his mistake.”

Groping women?

“No, running for office.”

Sure.

“I don’t need anyone vetting me.”

You vetted yourself, Billy. The book.

“Heh. Yeah. I left shit out.”

How much?

“Like, 90%. Like an iceberg made of skank and cocaine.”

Wow.

“I’m sticking to this gig. Besides, you heard about the RRSP?”

The Remaining Rock Stars Protocols? Of course.

“There you go. There’s a clause in it that voids your protections if you get some other job.”

Like if Paul Stanley hosted Extreme Home Makeover?

“Exactly. Not smart right now to draw too much mainstream attention. Everyone’s hunkering down in their fan bases.”

The sea is stormy, but you’ll weather through.

“I’ve been getting away with it for this long.”

Right.

Pedal By Us, Tamalpais

What are you wearing?

“Gardening gloves, work boots, and a yoinked shirt. You know: bicycling gear.”

What happened to spandex? You bike people love that bullshit.

“Oh, that’s just for when you’re on public roads. Then, you wear that stuff so everyone knows you’re exercising, not that you’ve gotten so many DUI’s that you don’t have a license.”

Oh, that’s what that crap’s for.

“It’s a status signal.”

Man, being a white person is complicated. Any thoughts on John Mayer’s outfit from last night?

“Who?”

Josh Meyers.

“Ah. You’re referring to his toppermost.”

Everyone needs to stop saying that non-word.

“I liked it. Looked, uh, roomy. Very comfortable. He let me try it on after the show.”

Oh, no.

“Thinking about getting some for myself.”

I forbid it.

“They got more pockets on the inside than you’d think. Wouldn’t need my fanny pack.”

No. This is not happening.

“Bobbermost.”

Goddammit.

What’s Beneath Bush League?

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Call me French cuisine, ’cause I’m feeling saucy.”

“Wonderful, sir.”

“It’s as though life itself were tickling my bottom.”

“Good for you, sir.”

“And the balls. Gentle tickling of the balls. Just enough to know you’re loved.”

“May I ask what’s led to this optimistic mood, sir?”

“Cocaine, Jenkins.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Call me Lane Sniffen.”

“No, sir.”

“King Tootankhamun.”

“No, sir.”

“Chief of Surgery at the Yeyo Clinic.”

“Sir, what have we said about cocaine?”

“Positive things, I hope. Mustn’t insult the cocaine. Get over here, Jenkins. Put your snoot in this.”

“I don’t need any, sir.”

“Snoot up.”

“Sir.”

“You a narc, Jenkins?”

PISTOL COCKING NOISE

“Where’d you get the gun from, sir?”

“It came with the cocaine. What’s the point of doing blow unless you have a gun to wave around?”

“Give me the gun, sir.”

“Let’s go shoot a mailman, Jenkins.”

“The gun, sir.”

GUN HANDING-OVER NOISE

“You can have it back at the end of the day.”

“That’s what you said about my Slinky.”

“Sir, we really need to work.”

“You really need to snoot up.”

“No, sir.”

“More for me.”

SCHNORF

“Tootski!”

“Sir, the poster.”

“Poster!”

“The band will be playing Washington, D.C., so I thought a patriotic theme would do.”

“No, no. Trump. Put our president on the poster. Give him muscles and a cock like a felled log. Show him using that cock to fuck America back into shape. And I want a lot of detail on America’s butthole. That cock’s gonna do some damage.”

“I have no response to your suggestion, sir.”

“It’s trolling, Jenkins. I learned about this recently. You act in a way to anger a stranger.”

“What does that accomplish, sir?”

“You anger a stranger.”

“Why would you want to do that, sir?”

“Because fuck that guy.”

“Sir, let’s not troll.”

“Oh, fine. I truly don’t care. Call the artist that did the last one.”

“He has been accused of sexual harassment, sir.”

“Bad news for Johnny Drawsalot. What about the artist that did the one before that?”

“Also been accused of sexual harassment.”

“How many artists–”

“All of them, sir.”

“–have been accused…dammit! All the problems started when we gave women the vote, Jenkins. Nothing’s been right since.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do we have anyone left in the stable?”

“Blind Stumpy Forbrush.”

“Is he any good?”

“No, sir. As you may have divined from his name, Blind Stumpy is both blind and has stumps for hands.”

“Well, is he any good relatively?”

“No, sir. That’s the miraculous part. The art is actually worse than you’d expect given the insanely low expectations.”

“Outstanding. Hire him at once.”

“Yes, sir. Any notes on what he should draw?”

“A bear, terribly. A car, also terribly. Some photos of D.C. buildings stolen from google. And some other bullshit. I’m calling a Dealer’s Choice on the other bullshit. Just make sure it’s terrible.”

“Yes, sir. The color?”

“Blurple.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Misspell the name of the venue.”

“On it, sir.”

“Get on this Scott Yayo.”

“No, sir.”

“Snoot some chachi, Jenkins.”

“You can have your gun back at the end of the day, sir.”

“I’ve got more.”

Pedophilia: An FAQ

Should I pedophilia?

Do not pedophilia.

Just a little?

Not even a little.

What if it’s by accident? 

Are you gonna be a putz all your life, or are you gonna ask something intelligent?

Why exactly are we discussing this subject?

Because Republicans are now backing a pedophile in a Senate race.

 

We should define our terms. 

You should define my veiny salami.

Ignoring you. Pedophile refers to sexual relations with a child, so I think the word you want–

JAZZ SLAP!

Thank you, Mr. Davis.

“I don’t like that boldface motherfucker.”

Yes sir. We’ll keep it down. Listen, I know people like to throw that hebrewphile (hezbollahphile? ephraimzimbalistjrphile?) bullshit around, but those people are pedants and perverts. Words drift. Decimate doesn’t mean killing a tenth of your legions anymore. Pedophilia means any sexual acts between adults and non-adults, the line between being 18 years old.

Each state sets its own age of consent and–

Eighteen.

Years.

Old.

You feel strongly about this.

As should we all. This is America: we drive on the right, and we don’t fuck children.

Succinct. Who are we talking about?

Roy Moore. Was there a sheriff in Porky’s?

Even if there wasn’t, I know who you’re talking about.

Well, imagine the sheriff’s a judge. He’s so bad at his job he gets removed from the bench twice.

How is that even possible?

Alabama.

Sure.

That’s beside the point. The pedophilia is beside the point that the man is completely unqualified for the job and has made statements and issued opinions that should get him chased back into his vermin hole. This is beside the racism and homo-hating. This beside the years-long fight he made the state pay for after installing a giant Ten Commandments sculpture on his courthouse lawn, then refusing to remove it after higher courts said, “Are you kidding me with this?” We’re just here for the pedophilia.

Can you stop saying that word?

I could say “child-fucking.”

Oh, no, that’s worse.

The Anglo-Saxon vocabulary is a blunter one than the Greek.

What did this guy do?

Trolled malls for teenieboppers. Once, he yoinked a kid out of the courthouse’s lobby.

That’s no good.

Not even a little.

How do we know these facts?

The magical power of journalism.

So he hasn’t been found guilty in a court of law? Why are you liberals always so anxious to ram your salty cocks into our nothingburgers?

I think you mixed up a few right-wing memes there, buddy.

I’ve been drinking.

Sure. This is not about legal proceedings. This is a political campaign. Two women have come forward to tell stories about this man assaulting them as teens. Others have corroborated. More are coming. His denials have been confused, contradictory, and equivocating. He did it. People knew about it. He was “Teenfuckin’ Roy.” Motherfucker got banned from the mall.

Why hasn’t he dropped out of the race?

Because shameless people have no shame.

Does he still have supporters?

Oh, yes.

What kind of just God would allow 2017 to happen?

Excellent question.

Who is still backing a pedophile?

Two camps: the deniers and the dissemblers. The deniers have stuck their fingers in their ears and sung Dixie at the top of their lungs, punctuated by the occasional whoop of “Fake News!”

I’m always amazed at what human beings have the capacity to deny.

There are people who don’t think the Dark Ages happened, and Charlemagne was made up.

I can’t believe we’re allowed to be in charge of ourselves.

Many of us are not right in the head.

What about the dissemblers?

This group has several avenues of argument. They are:

  1. Democrats are worse than pedophiles.
  2. Tax Reform is worth electing a pedophile to the Senate.
  3. It was just light pedophilia.
  4. And it was white girls.
  5. Not…
  6. …you know.
  7. Hey, look: Al Franken.

Those arguments are monstrous and evince a complete lack of morality or decency.

Yes.

We’re through the looking-glass here, aren’t we?

There is no looking-glass. It broke. We broke the looking-glass and left it about 900 miles behind us. The looking-glass no longer has any relevance on our current situation. Pedophilia was the third rail. There’s an old saying that Social Security is the third rail of American politics, but it was really pedophilia. But I guess they switched the power off, because the White House and the Republican Party of Alabama are holding on tight to that sucker.

In their defense, the national party and the Senate leadership has come out strongly against Moore. Wait. The White House?

Basketball Head waded into the debacle today.

Did he help?

As much as always. He said that he believed Moore’s denials.

It’s weird whose denials he chooses to believe.

Pedophiles, Nazis, and Putin.

Weird.

Weird.

So pedophilia’s okay now?

We’re gonna let the people of Alabama decide.

In Which, Through Fits And Starts, A Twist, Undreamt Of By The Typist ‘Fore His Sitting, Occurs

I don’t even know what to say to you at this point.

“How about ‘What a splendid toppermost, John?'”

No. Definitely not that.

“I like to look on the outside how I feel on the inside, and today I feel like an Albuquerque dentist’s office in 1978.”

Nailed it.

“Thank you. Honestly, man? I don’t know what I love most about clothes: buying them, wearing them, or washing them. But, you know, if you think about it: those three things are intertwined. I have a really involved metaphor comparing tee-shirts to the Holy Trinity, if you’d like to hear it.”

I would not. Seriously, what the fuck is that garment?

“I can’t keep telling you this. It is called a toppermost. It’s neither a kimono nor a robe, and it’s certainly not a coat.”

You can’t define words that way.

“Just watch me.”

Got me there.

“The toppermost is one of several articles of clothing that poor people don’t know about. Like footkerchiefs.”

Are those like handkerchiefs?

“Sort of.”

What else?

“An aglellon.”

What is that?

“It’s like a hat for your neck.”

You’re making this all up.

“I will send you a video of my aglellon closet. I’ll edit it into a trying-on-outfits montage like in chick flicks.”

I would like to see that. Hey, speaking of chicks: you have to make it to the end of this tour without getting accused of anything.

“It’s like a feeding frenzy.”

Just gotta make it to the end of the tour. You know that we’ve all grown fond of you, but if drag the Dead into the Problem Attic with you, Deadhead assassins will be dispatched.

“Deadhead assassins?”

Yeah. They’re not the best. Far more dangerous to themselves than to you. But you’ll be in a very odd state of existence forevermore: nonstop attempts on your life, but all of them doomed to fail.

“Dude, it’ll be fine. And nothing’s happening this tour, anyway. I’ve settled down.”

Oh, God.

“Bitch, who you talking to?”

“No one important, Daddy.”

“I forgot my fucking robe. Gimme your toppermost.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I simply do not know what’s going on here.

“It’s called love, you simple motherfucker. Bitch was respectful, educated. Learned how to cook my food right. Asshole real tight. Talked too fucking much, but I trained that out of him. Moved him in to the house in the City.”

You’re gay now?

BANG!

Saw that coming.

“Miles fucking Davis ain’t a fucking sissy. Nothing gay about fucking a man. Getting fucked by a man? That’s some gay-ass shit.”

I don’t think that’s how it works.

“No one asked your opinion on my fucking love life.”

Love?

“Yeah. I didn’t see it coming. Surprised me.”

Me, too.

“Thinking about letting him get gay married to me.”

“It would just be married, Daddy.”

JAZZ SLAP!

“What the fuck did I tell you about correcting me in public?”

“That you appreciated constructive criticism?”

JAZZ SLAP!

“That was in private, you dumb bitch.”

“Oh! Right! I got them confused. I thought ‘Speak up in public and be quiet in private’ but now that I think about it, it just makes no sense. I’m a scatterbrain.”

JAZZ PUNCH!

“Not in the face, Daddy! I need that!”

Please, Miles Davis, stop beating your fiance, John Mayer.

“When he stops needing a fucking beating.”

This is getting truly dark.

“Shouldn’t have fucking brought me here, you didn’t want me to be myself.”

None of this is my fault.

“Now fuck off. We going aglellon shopping.”

Sure.

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