Thoughts On The Dead

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

Author: Thoughts On The Dead (page 2 of 662)

The Best Three Minutes And Fifty-Two Seconds You’ll Spend Today

The guy’s name is Ranveer Singh, and he’s my new favorite person in the world.

You Don’t Bring Me Scarlet Begonias

“I’ve gotten over Katy.”

I see.

“Barbra gives me everything I need. The sex is great.”

Ew.

“Down there? She’s like butter.”

Right.

“Plus, she’s got a shopping mall in her basement.”

Yeah, Babs is rich as shit.

“She calls me her Johnentashen.”

Again: ew.

The Daily Recounting 4/26/17

To Whom It May Concern:

I write this letter to persons, beings, or intelligences unknown in hopes of pleading my case. From the events of the recent past, I can only come to the conclusion that my consciousness exists in some sort of artificial construct. A “virtual reality” if you will. There are any number of Hollywood films I could reference to liken my situation to, but the point is this: someone needs to call IT; the program is malfunctioning, and things are getting weird. Whatever you’re doing with my body is fine by me: battery, sex stuff, food; I don’t care. Just debug the code.

Alternately, this might be a Twilight Zoning. If it, I demand to know what I did that was so ironic that it required a Twilight Zoning?

Excuse me.

ANSWER ME.

Stop yelling. You don’t even know who you’re yelling at.

I most certainly do. Have you read the papers?

Since it isn’t 1985, no.

It was a euphemism. have you?

I can do nothing but.

Is any of this bullshit possible?

Not a whit of it. Nothing that is happening right now could ever happen for a million years.

Right. Therefore, this cannot be the actual reality, and must instead be one created for us. By whom? I know not, but I will complain nonetheless.

You’ll complain to no one. This is the real life.

This is just fantasy.

Caught in a Trumpslide.

No escape from insanity.

That was fun.

None of this fun in any way. Anyway, Basketball Head is trying to look busy. His 100th day is coming up, and he made many promises that–for some reason–the media believes his supporters will care if he breaks. They do not. Whatever failures he has will be blamed on the obstructionist Democrats, or the activist judges, or the topic will be changed to Hillary Clinton.

However, the media is blinded in their desperation to normalize this carnival of nightmares, AND are therefore reporting about the 100 day benchmark like traditions still matter and we weren’t on the downhill side of the American Singularity, BUT Donald does nothing but watch teevee news and press the lever for his sugar-water, SO the 100 day thing is important to him.

(Note: the neologism “normalize” becoming so prevalent speaks to how weird everything’s getting, doesn’t it? See also: weaponize.)

An ontological question, Enthusiasts: what do you call something that never lived, but yet refuses to die? Not a zombie: a zombie used to be alive, died, and came back. This is a creature that was never a creature, just a husk of dark potential, void of sentience or empathy or compassion. I speak, of course, about the Republican health bill, now known as Pleasewon’tsomeonecare. It lives! (Even though it didn’t in the first place.)

Remember the Freedom Caucus? They were the bootstrap-lickers that rejected the last version of the bill for not being cruel enough. This new plan kicks more people off the rolls, and also permits the bow hunting of the poor. Moderate Republicans agreed with the first part, but prefer to be seen in public as disagreeing with the second. For the second time in 100 days, the GOP has fucked up their healthcare push.

But they got to hold a press conference about it and the president saw it on his teevee and that made him feel happy and strong.

In terms of “potential saviors of the Republic,” incompetence is running neck and neck with the Judiciary. This happened again today:

Trump Administration does thing.

Judge says, “No, you can’t thing.”

Turnip tweets out that the judge should suck his balls.

Repeat Ad Impeachium.

That keeps happening, and it amuses me every time. This go-round, he managed to get Circuit courts mixed up with District courts, plus he said “See you in the Supreme Court” and there’s at least one level before that. Then he mused about breaking up the Ninth Circuit, as if he could do that. It’s almost–almost, mind you–as if he doesn’t have a detailed understanding of the workings of the American government. Just almost.

And the day’s coup de grace, Trump’s tax plan. It is a piece of bald laziness: I was a terrible student, and I recognize the lack of effort in this meager offering. It’s got last-minute stink all over it.

Look at this bullshit:

That’s it. That’s the whole thing. Nothing on the back, either. This might as well have been hand-written. We can add “tax code” to the list of things Donald Trump didn’t know was so complicated.

This has been the 97th day of our national nightmare; we may soon wake.

Rejected Dwarf Names

  • Slappy.
  • Stanky.
  • Hinky.
  • Kinky.
  • Easy.
  • Peasy.
  • Lemon-Squeezy.
  • Burly.
  • Hairy.
  • The Great Moon-Faced One Whose Smile Is Made Of Flies.
  • Tushy.

A Break In The Case

“Help.”

Hello?

“Help me. Please.”

No, no, no. I am not talking to a road case.

“Not the case. It’s me, I’m in here.”

Red Metal Stool! My God, you’re all broken and mangled.

“Get me to a hospital.”

No. You’re not a person.

“A vet.”

Or an animal.

“Blacksmith.”

That’s who you want. What happened here?

“I assume it was terrorism.”

Maybe a stagehand dropped the case.

“No. Terrorism.”

Whatever. Why are you even in a road case?

“Bobby threw me off the bus.”

Why?

“Kept dropping deuces.”

I don’t blame him. Wait. You can poop?

“Yes, and I can feel. And I can cry.”

I hate what my life’s become.

Do You Know What The Street Value Of This Mountain Is?

I just don’t understand why you’re here.

“I can’t take a vacation?”

Sure, you can. But you’re at a ski resort in non-ski clothing. If you skied, you would have a custom coverall with Stealies  all over it. You look like a guy schlepping down to Kossar’s to get bialys.

“Have you ever heard a mountain? So many sounds just waiting to be recorded.”

Please don’t turn the mountain into a drum.

“No.”

Good.

“The ski lift.”

Bad.

“When you hit the support cable with a hammer, it makes the most amazing noise.”

Don’t hit the support cable, Mickey. With anything, let alone a hammer.

“It’s perfectly safe.”

How so?

“No one’s died yet.”

That isn’t what makes something safe.

“The snow is very fluffy, too.”

People are still using the lift while you’re doing this?

“They increase the resonance! Their bodies are like echo chambers.”

I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.

“Drumming!”

At Last, He’s Enjoying the Ride

The glamorous life of a Rock Star.

“Gig’s a gig.”

What is this, a county fair?

“Festival.”

Which one?

“One of ’em.”

Sure. Actually, this is worse than a county fair.

“How so?”

County fair has animals. Local farm kids bring in their prize heifers and chickens and whatnot.

“And that’s desirable?”

I like looking at animals.

“Can’t really argue with that. But, uh, here’s one for the festival’s ‘pro’ column: there’s a chick on the ferris wheel that flashes me every time she goes by.”

You sure she’s not flashing Josh Kaufman?

“Yeah, positive.”

Me, too. Just asking. You gonna go on the ferris wheel later?

“Oh, no. Nuh-uh.”

Scared of heights?

“I’m actually scared of widths, but it’s not that.”

What is it?

“Here by myself. My wife–”

Natasha Monster.

“–Natasha Monster isn’t here. Can’t ride a ferris wheel without your girl.”

That’s very sweet, Bobby.

“I’m gonna go on the bumper cars without her, though.”

Well, duh.

Who Got Fired From ESPN?

  • The guy who maybe wears a piece.
  • That lady whose ethnicity your mother tries to guess.
  • Fatty.
  • Bald fellow.
  • The one who wears bow ties.
  • The guy who won’t stop talking about sports.
  • Hockey person.
  • Woman who’s always on air when you go to the gym, no matter what time it is.
  • Trent Dilfer.
  • The young dude who talks about boxing, and you’re like, “People still box? What about the dog track results?”
  • Lady golf reporter with sensible haircut and powerful calves.
  • Sportsbot, a humanoid robot with AI so advanced it could come up with a hot take in less than milliseconds.

Stephen A. Smith still has his job, because God is on His coffee break this year.

Another Successful Grindr Match

“Vhy are du vearing vhite? Vhite is mein color.”

“Benny, I can’t have-a dis argument with-a you no more. I’m-a da Pope now.”

“Du ist Fake Pope.”

“You gotta stop watching da Fox News. It’s-a warping your mind.”

“Ich bein Pope again. Ich called it.”

“You can’t-a call it. Is-a not like-a da shotgun.”

“Pope!”

“Benny, you’re-a making da fool of-a yourself.”

“Du ist ein Globalist.”

“Si, si.”

“Du admit it?”

“Sure, whole-a globe. I tell-a everybody about-a da Jesus.”

“Vhat about putting ze Vatican first?”

“Because legally, only me and-a you live here.”

“Ja. Vhat is problem?”

“Benny…you just-a don’t get it.”

“Deine Oma masturbiert im stehen!”

“Okay, sure.”

“Ich am leaving. Ich have to catch ein plane.”

“Where-a you going?”

“Ich am giving ein speech at Berkeley.”

“That-a sounds right.”

Hey, Slim

’75 Garcia could give Bobby a run for his sexy. There, I said it. Look at him, all skinny and clean and happy. I bet Bobby was leaving candy bars in Garcia’s dressing room.

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