Thoughts On The Dead

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

Author: Thoughts On The Dead (page 1 of 747)

A Note On Giving

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The Hogfather

What’s your favorite thing about Christmas, Pig?


Besides that.

“After that, I s’pose I like the music best. All them songs ’bout Christmas heroes and whatnot. I’m talkin’ ’bout Frosty and Rudolph, all them fellows. Big Red.”


“The ol’ Pig loves him some Santa. Me an’ him in the same business! Bringin’ joy to the children!”


“”Cept that fat man only works one day a year! I’m out on the damn road sweatin’ and makin’ it night after night!”

Well, in Santa’s defense, it takes a lot of prep work to get ready for that one day.

“I figure most o’ Santa’s time is taken up by elf management.”


“We tried to do one o’ them Secret Santa deals one year. Didn’t go good.”

What happened?

“The Grateful Dead was involved!”

That will throw a wrench in things.

“Weir didn’t understand th’ underlyin’ concept! He thought ‘Secret Santa’ was like a secret agent or somethin’! Started sneakin’ around in a trenchcoat and other various foolishnesses! Gave himself a code name!”

What was it?

“Felix Navidad.”

That’s a good Secret Santa name.

“I don’t got no hard feelings ‘gainst the name. It’s clever.”

What about the other guys?

“Drummers just took their dicks out! Garcia forgot! The endeavor was an immediate failure at every damn level!”

Sounds right.

“Can’t let nothin’ ruin your Christmas, though. Gotta go out and suck all that Christmas down quick as y’can! Only get so much of it, gotta grab it ‘fore it’s gone. Put that Christmas in the freezer, so’s you can take a little bit out when you need it in July or somethin’.”

You always make sense, Pig.

“I know!”

Cosmic Shit

Hey, Oumuamua. Whatcha doing?


Oh, no.



“Ah, I’m just fucking with ya.”

Oh, thank God.

“What did you call me?”



It’s Hawaiian for “Scout.”

“Like in To Kill A Mockingbird?”

Sure. But in Hawaiian. One of the big telescopes out there was the first to spot you, so you got a Hawaiian name.

“Is there a way to say that I’m not a fan without seeming racist?”

Eh. It’s a tough climate right now.

“It’s just that I can’t pronounce it.”

Me, neither, but it’s a battle you don’t want to fight.

“What about a different Hawaiian name?”

Oh, that’s good. We could do that. How about Pakalolo?

“I intuitively understand how to say that word. Yes. You may call me Pakalolo. What does it mean?”

You’re named after what you look like.

“Burt Reynolds?”


“Love that Bandit.”

So, uh, Pakalolo: what are you doing in our solar system?

“Same ol’, same ol’. Going that way.”

Which way?


Oh, that way.

“Inertia without friction is a recipe for a long road trip, man. But, you know, there’s gravity. I go through different gravity wells all the time.”

All the time?

“Like, every three hundred million years. One right after another. It’s like, ‘Hey, give an asteroid a break,’ but then you get too close to another star and WHAMMO you’re influenced slightly and gradually by it over millions of years. Fucking exhausting.”

Dude, how old are you?

“I don’t know.”

You don’t know?

“Asteroids don’t celebrate birthdays. We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

If you say so.

“I’ll tell you this, though: I am old as shit. You know that the stars you can see are the second set that’s been up there, right?”

Yeah. The first round were all too massive and collapsed and seeded the universe with elements.

“Right. That was a fucked-up afternoon.”

You were alive for that?

“Lived through it, you mean.”

What was it like?

“Okay, imagine the night sky. Real clear. You can see every single star. Can you picture it?”

I can.

“Okay, now imagine all the stars exploding.”

Oh, that is scary.

“This is what I’m trying to tell you. Horrible experience.”

So, that would make you around ten billion years old.

“If you say so.”

You must be from an entirely different galaxy than ours. Wow. What have you seen in your travels? Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion?


Death Star?



“Nope. Listen, man, I hate to burst your bubble, but space is boring. That British guy who said space was big? Completely missed the point: space is boring. There is truly nothing to do out here. I’d kill for a magazine.”

Sorry to hear that.

“I mean, the view doesn’t change for a million years at a time. It gets to you.”

Sure. One last thing.


You positive you’re not alien bug-creatures in a disguised spaceship?

“Are you?”

Well played.

“I come in peace. I mean you no harm.”

We’ll see.

Set A Course For Adventure

Too cold for a toppermost?

“Far too cold. Toppermost is a temperate piece. Never winter. Now, this young Japanese designer named Toyota Toyota–”


“–is doing incredible work in that streetwear thing they do. What he did is translate the toppermost’s feel into a halfcock.”


“Halfcock. What I’ve got on.”

That’s a coat, Josh.

“Don’t call me that. It’s a halfcock. See the collar? Halfcock.”

How much secret rich-person clothing is there?

“Closets worth, dude.”

Wow. Do all rich people know about this stuff? What about Warren Buffet?

“He would have access to the information. I don’t know if he’d care to investigate.”

Probably not. Why are you recuperating in Montana? It’s cold there. Don’t you have a yacht?

“I don’t have a yacht.”

You should get a yacht. Fuckboat.

“I’m not getting a fuckboat.”

Do you not realize the rich-guy trajectory you’re on? You started on guitars, and then the watches, and the cars, and now you have to buy a fuckboat.

“Stop it. I’m not getting a fuck boat.”


“Goddammit, he got a fuckboat, didn’t he?”

Oh, yeah.

“Jesus. Hello?”


“Don’t call me that.”

“I bought a fuckboat! You paid for it, but I bought it, so we each own half of it.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“We’re gonna make money on this deal renting it out when we’re not using it, but we’re gonna use it so much! It’s great, man. Y’know what you do on a fuckboat?”


“Fuck! So much fucking. I was sticking myself in nooks and crannies, man. It’s just non-stop from the moment you get onboard, and it’s classy, too. Captain pipes you aboard, real nice. You can fuck the captain if you want.”

“I don’t want to fuck the captain, Benj.”

“He can fuck you, too. Don’t get to be the captain of a fuckboat without doing some heavy fucking. Captain Harvoldson. Big guy with a beard. That guy fucks.”

“A captain came with it? How big is this thing?”

“Not huge. But, you know, it’s not a Sunfish from summer camp.”

“How big is the boat I just paid for, Benjy?”

“Not enormous. 90 meters.”

“I have no idea how big that is.”

“Not big.”



“How big is 90 meters?”

“300 feet.”

“Thank you, Siri.”

“I love you, John Mayer.

“Wait, did your Siri just tell you she loved you?”

“Yes. Celebrities have a different Siri. Don’t worry about it. 300 feet long? Why would I need that? Jesus, how much did it cost?”

“I have no idea.”

“How could you not know what it cost?”

“I bought it in Bitcoin. What we paid is kinda fluctuating right now. We may have gotten a really good deal. Or not. I’m gonna be honest with you–”

“You don’t totally understand Bitcoin?”

“–I don’t totally…there you go.”

“No one does. Benjy, why did you buy me a floating tub of syphilis the size of a mall?”

“That’s not the question. The question is: why didn’t I do it sooner? I cannot overstate how spectacular the fucking is. Something about the sea air and the motion of the boat. Opens up your sinuses. And your butthole. Tons of butt play on the fuckboat.”


“On the fuckboat, the butthole is seen as an equivalent genital. That’s inclusion, buddy. That’s the progressive future we’re working towards.”


“The butthole must have a seat at the table.”

“Buddy, you’re gonna love it. 300 feet of fuck.”

“I have a question.”


“Whom are we fucking, Benjy?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Everybody’s hot. Very hot. Top shelf for both genders and also individuals who are flowing back and forth between. All kinds of everything. But hot.”


“And into it.”


“If you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“I mean fucking.”

“Benjy, where did these hot people come from?”

“All over the place. There’s every race and a lot of folks, you don’t know what the hell they are. Lot of accents, too. Sometimes, they yell at you in a foreign language while you’re fucking, and that’s all right by me. I like that.”

“I mean: why are they on the fuckboat? Are they being paid?”

“Only in sexual satisfaction.”

“Ew. So…they’re, like, party people?”

“Not really.”

“Benjy, who’s on the fuckboat?”

“They’re called veeslafs. You know what a golem is, right? Make ’em out of clay, stick a prayer in ’em, they come to life?”


“These are like golems, but made out of flesh.”




“Here’s the thing–”

“This won’t be good.”

“–when I tell you, you’re gonna be upset, but when I explain the reasoning behind it, you’ll understand. Okay?”


“The flesh comes from children.”


“You didn’t let me finish! I said I would explain!”

“Okay. Explain.”

“Not the good kids. Just the uggos and dummies. And fat kids. Not to fat shame or anything, but it’s just more efficient. Ten skinny kids or five fat ones: what’s easier? Fuckboat’s about smooth sailing through the water, buddy. That ethos applies everywhere.”

“Benjy, who’s harvesting these children to make sex zombies?”

“Oh, it’s not like that. The boat just erases a kid in Johannesburg or Rome or wherever and zipzops the flesh to itself by saying that it happened. Oh, also: the boat is sentient and versed in postmodernism and literary magick.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who the hell did you buy this from?”

“Y’know how I can die and come right back to life?”


“Well, you meet some interesting people like that. I’m not the only one who can do that. It’s a whole thing.”

“Get rid of it.”

“You haven’t even fucked on it yet!”

“Get rid of the boat, Benjy!”

“I don’t know, man. Boat’s pretty sweet.”

“Hey, Garcia.”

“Big Jer–”

“Don’t call me that.”

“–I don’t know if we’ve met. I’m Benjy Eisen. How you doing on managers?”

“I already got two or three, man.”

Winners And Losers Of Last Night’s Alabama Election

Winner: Doug Jones Good work, guy. Your resume is sterling, and you truly live up to your name: you are the most Doug Jones-looking motherfucker on the planet. Anyway, congratulations and enjoy your two years in the Senate.

Loser: Roy Moore. Roy is also a bigoted childfucker, but today he’s a loser, too. Which is nice.

Winner: Statisticians named Nate.  And all the other poll-readers and predicticators: all the major outlets calling the race were dead-on that the contest would break late for Jones because of the blue cities (and their black votes). Far better than the last election in which a clever Jewish man named Nate was making the book; that guy did not tell me what I wanted to hear at all, and I blame him for it.

Loser: Society? Is watching the returns come in on three open windows while obsessively monitoring Twitter and keeping an eye in Russian botnet activity healthy? What if you do it while eating blueberries, which are known as superfoods?

Winner: Black People Specifically, Charles Barkley and whoever sang Teach Me How To Dougie.

Loser: White People What the fuck, white people? I can’t even look at you right now. Stop being like this. Thank you. (This has been TotD’s Social Comment of the Day, or the SCotD. Look for more of them in the upcoming days and weeks!)

However, #NOTALLWHITEPEOPLE. Valued and dear Enthusiasts are from Alabama, and none of them voted for a childfucker; the problem arises from the fact that all white people look alike. Were I to enter an establishment in Alabama, such as a bait shop or a fancy bait shop or a bait kiosk, then I wouldn’t be able to tell the sane and rational whites, ones who may even be far to my right politically but simply couldn’t vote for Uncle Touchy, from the dangerous whites. You do not deserve to be thrown in with them, good whites!

Here’s the solution: KISS makeup. If you are a white Alabamian* who voted for Doug Jones, then you should apply KISS makeup–you can choose who you want to be but Paul’s is the easiest for day-to-day wear–before you leave the house. This is drastic, the non-batshit whites say. I’m sorry, but this is the way things go, I’d say. And then you’d ask about all the fistfights and murders the plan would cause. I would not answer, because the plan would certainly cause all the fistfights and murders that were possible. (We can calculate the number of fistfights and murders using the equation A! when A is the number of Alabamians in a given space. Example: if seven Selmans are in a Seven-Eleven,  all white and wearing or not wearing KISS makeup according to voting data, then you multiply 7 X 6 X 5, etc., and we find that there are 5040 possible fistfights and murders.)

Excuse me. Why are you doing basic math at the nice people who haven’t given you anything for Christmas?

I think you answered your own question.


I continue: do not wear KISS makeup, agreeable whites of Alabama. This is a time of disharmony among men–and women, which is simply absurd–and we need not yet turn every public space political. Talk to the dangerous whites, my friends. They are, I know, your family and your friends. Smother them with love! Or hit ’em with a stick; I have no idea what to do with motherfuckers that voted for Roy Moore. Also, you should not wear KISS makeup because KISS will sue you.

You strayed away from the “Winners and Losers” theme, champ.

Hey, look at that: I did.

Stop talking about politics. It’s Christmas.

It’s Holiday now. Liberals are just calling it “Holiday” so it’s more inclusive. We all felt “Christ” was so Christ-centric.

Stop talking about politics.


At least half of your readers are hate-readers.


It’s true.

That’s why it hurt.



*People from Alabama are Alabamians, not Alabamans, and they will remind you incessantly of the fact.

Wham, Bam, Birmingham

Alabam’ don’t give a damn.

Singin’ Songs About The Southland

49 sister states have Alabama in their hearts tonight. Fuck you, Roy, and fuck you, Donny, and fuck yeah, Alabama.

Oh My God, Is It Real?

Welcome to the show, Doug.

Rope Enough To Hang Himself

Thirty two teeth in a jawbone
Alabama cryin’ for none
Before I have to hit him
I hope he’s got the sense to run

Reason those poor girls love him
Promise them anything
Reason they believe him
He wears a big diamond ring

Alabama getaway
Alabama getaway
Only way to please me
Turn around and leave
And walk away 

Majordomo Billy Bojangles
Sit down and have a drink with me
What’s this about Alabama
Keeps comin’ back to me?

Heard your plea in the courthouse
Jury box began to rock and rise
Forty-nine sister states all had
Alabama in their eyes

Alabama getaway
Alabama getaway
Only way to please me
Turn around and leave
And walk away

Why don’t we just give Alabama
Rope enough to hang himself?
Ain’t no call to worry the jury
His kind takes care of itself

Twenty-third Psalm Majordomo
Reserve me a table for three
In the Valley of the Shadow
Just you, Alabama and me

One of these days, Hunter’s gonna get something wrong. One of these days.

Live On The Ground In Alabama

It is a titch after 8:00 pm EST (or maybe EDT, I don’t know and I don’t care) here in Birmingham, Alabama, and Thoughts on the Dead is LIVE outside a polling place/Steak & Shake. The race between Roy Moore, who likes to fuck on children, and Doug Jones, who is not an admitted pederast, has come down to the wire because 2017 is a nightmare from which the human race is unable to wake.

I have a One-Man Mobile Uplink unit I borrowed from a guy who doesn’t need it any more, and let’s see if we can talk to some Alabamians who’ve just voted. Sir? Sir, may I ask you a few questions?

“Of course.”

What’s your name?

“Alan Foar.”

Hello, Mr. Foar. Can you tell me who you voted for today?

“Oh, I didn’t vote. I’m a reporter from the Alabama Times. Would you like me to pontificate on what the turnout might mean?”

Absolutely not. Get away from me. Let’s find someone else. Ma’am? Ma’am, can I have a moment of your time?

“Sure you can.”

What is your name and who did you vote for?

“My name is Katy Tur, and I didn’t–”

You’re done. Thank you, Katy. Nice glasses. Is anyone here an actual voter?

“I am.”

Oh, great. Sir, what’s your name?

“I’m Delroy Watkins.”

And are you a reporter or do you live here?

“Lived here all my life. Never left Alabama ‘cept for a couple years in the Navy.”

Wonderful. And who did you vote for today, sir?

“I didn’t vote for nobody cuz those cracker motherfuckers suppressed my motherfuckin’ vote.”

That’s terrible!

“No, son. What’s terrible is my utter lack of surprise.”

Yeah, I guess.

“I’m gonna walk away from you. I ‘pologize for my rudeness, but I can’t take the sight of any more white motherfuckers today.”

Would it help if I told you I’m Jewish?

“Not especially.”

Sure. Thank you, sir.

“Kiss my black ass.”

Yes, sir.

“Excuse me, did you say you were Jewish?”

Um, yes. Who are you?

“My name is Bernie Bernstein, and I work–”

NO. You are Fake Jews.

“On the first night of Hanukkah, you treat me this way?”

Get out of here!

“Potchen mein tuchas.”

Yeah, yeah. Sir? Sir, can I speak with you?


Hi there. Can I ask your name?

“Bobby-Bob Fungus, the Third.”

Hello, Mr. Fungus. Would you like to share with my audience your feelings on the election?

“Well now, I been studyin’ up on them issues an’ whatnot and somesuch. Man’s gotta do his homework. Politics is too dang important to be votin’ based on nonsense an’ personalities. But sometimes you gotta take inna consideration outside factors. And, welp, I have young daughters.”


“And, shee-it, me an’ their momma would love for ’em to find a man like Roy Moore. Thass a good Christian right there.”


“Yeah! Jesus! Roy’s tight with th’ man upstairs. I got two li’l ones, sweet as tea: Britney and Jamie-Lynn. Now, Britney’s 13, so she’s rarin’ t’ go. Jamie-Lynn is only 8, but she’s an early developer. All the girls ’round us is since they opened up that benzene factory upriver.”

Okay, great.

“Th’ Judge is gonna make our daughters great again.”

Uh-huh. Good talking to you. Oh, here’s someone to interview. Giant anthropomorphic hot dog! Over here!


Who did you vote for, giant living hot dog?


Well, there you have it, Enthusiasts. Remember: for all your news needs, tune in here to Thoughts on the Dead.

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