Thoughts On The Dead

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

Author: Thoughts On The Dead (page 3 of 782)

President Trump Examines His Military Options


“Lemme see hands. We’re gonna vote, even though I’m the President of all the people, even the blacks. We’ll vote, but maybe I’ll just do what I want. Who knows? We could do voting, we could do my idea, we’ll see. Okay, voting. All in favor? Opposed? Beautiful, wonderful, the ayes have it. We’re getting cheese in the crust. General?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Where’s my General?”

“You’re literally making eye contact with me, Mr. President.”


“Sweet Jesus, take me now.”

“General! There you are. I thought the Deep State got you. General, make the call. Cheese in the crust, which was my idea. I called up the CEO of Pizza Hut, told him, he did it. Millions. Millions, this guy made from jamming cheese in the crust. I told him to do it. Great guy. You should see his yacht. Call for the pizza, General.”

“We’ll get to the pizza, sir. But, once again, who are these people in the Oval Office?”

“Good friends of mine from Mar-A-Lago. It’s a membership perk for the real winners. Unlimited cocktail shrimp, plus you hang out with me for the day. Watch the greatest president in US history from up close. In many ways, these spectacular people are the real historians of our age. Great, great, wonderful folks. Some of ’em don’t speak English, but they’re rich, so it’s okay.”

“Have they been vetted?”

“Vetted, shmetted.”

“Holy God.”

“Are we doing the God bit now? Let us pray.”


“No, we’re not doing the God bit, sir.”

“I pray very well. The Pope told me that. Better than him, that’s what he said.”

“Sir, we have a meeting scheduled with–”

“You hear that, everybody? Meeting! Very exciting, wonderful, okay, great.”

“–General Mattis to discuss…sir, it’s top secret. We need to get the civilians out of the room.”

“You heard the General, folks. Sorry. Let’s go. C’mon, I’m gonna show you the Lincoln Bedroom.”

“Not you, sir. You’re not a civilian anymore.”

“I knew that. I was testing you, and you passed, unlike the slimy James Comey, who didn’t even see my hands. I never showed him my hands, not once, and in fact never met him in person, so his book must be fake news. Excellent work, General.”

“Okay, out.”


“Very forceful. Strong. You’re the best general, General. Can I promote you?”

“No, sir. I retired from the Army, so–”

“You’re promoted. Bing bong. Done, there you go. You’re not just a general, you’re a major general.”

“That would actually be a demotion, sir.”

“Bing bong.”

“Whatever. Listen, Mattis is here.”

“Ooh, great. General sandwich. All my generals in one place, and I have the best generals that anyone has ever seen. They’re all tall, really sharp. The best generals.”

“Yes, sir.”


“Oh, here he is.”

“Is that the pizza?”




“How’s he today?”

“He’s a gibbering fucktard incapable of even the most basic thought.”

“So, the usual?”


“He’s gonna call me Mad Dog, isn’t he?”


“You want a xan?”



“Muchas Garcias, brother.”

“Where you headed to?”

“Gonna get shitty in the Treaty Room. Got a bottle of Cuervo stashed in there.”

“Save some for me. Gonna need some when I get through with Momma’s Special Angel.”

“Mad Dog!”

“Fuck, he saw me.”



“Mr. President.”

“Mad Dog! Where’s my Mad Dog?”

“Standing in front of your desk, sir.”

“Mad Dog?”

“Not out the window.”

“Dog? Mad Dog?”

“I don’t know why you’d look in the wastepaper basket, sir. I’m clearly not in there.”

“General Mad Dog?”

“Now you’re just staring at the ceiling. Right here, sir.”

“Mad Dog! There’s my dog! What’s up, dog? The blacks say that all the time, and then they make the rap gestures. What’s up, dog. You ever meet Ludacris?”

“I haven’t, sir.”

“Good business mind. You know, for what he is.”

“Sir, I’m here to talk to you about the situation in Syria.”

“Add more milk.”

“Not cereal, sir. Syria.”

“Very bad. Obama started that war. Personally. May have also been born there. He kind of looks Syrian, right? Many people who know Syrians have told me that Obama is definitely a Syrian, and these are real smart people. Winners, sharks, my very good friends. Obama was Syrian.”

“Uh-huh, yeah. Sir, we have a plan ready for your approval to bomb selected sites within Damascus that we believe may be key to the chemical weapon program.”

“They can’t do chemical. This is what everyone who knows anything says. Shooting? Bing bang bang? Sure, go ahead, shoot your guns, whatever. Sometimes these things happen. Bing bang. But chemical? No, not chemical. Very, very bad. Chemical. It’s a big deal.”

“Yes, sir. Now, there may be blowback from the elements backing Assad.”

“Fuck ’em. Bomb!”

“Such as Iran.”

“Fuck ’em. Bomb! Bomb, bomb, bomb.”

“And Russia.”

“Excuse me?”

“Russia is backing Assad.”

“Fake news.”

“No, sir. Everyone on the planet knows this information.”

“Maybe we should wait. Two weeks, kick it around. Maybe we should see what Hope thinks. Hope!”

“She quit two weeks ago, sir.”


“She is in a different state, sir.”


“For fuck’s sake.”

“She’s probably in the bathroom. Amazing control on that girl. She goes when she wants to. Holds it in for days. It’s a miracle.”

“Sir, the conflict with the Russians might be ameliorated by, through back channels, alerting them to pull their troops from the sites we intend to destroy.”

“Good idea.”


“That better not be who I think it is.”

“Mr. President!”

“Da. Is Putin. Hello, The Donald.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“President Putin, everything in America is going so, so, so beautifully. The jobs, everything. Trade deals are being made, but I get no credit for at all, but America is winning again and it’s a real compliment to me. How’s the weather in Moscow?”

“Is snowing.”

“Great, snow, the skiing, gloves, wonderful. Listen, Mr. President, we’re gonna shoot some rockets at Syria in a little bit. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, who knows? Anyway, your men should duck out of the way.”

“Vhere vill you shoot these rockets?”


“Is big country. Vhere exactly?”

“You ask the best questions. I got no idea. I’m the big picture guy. All the details, I leave to my staff. Hold on, let me put the Mad Dog on. He can tell you the locations.”

“Holy shit, do not put me on the phone with fucking Putin.”


“Mr. President, we’re gonna call you right back. My pizza’s at the front gate.”

“Vith cheese in crust?”

“Bing bong.”

Who Says A Basic Bitch Can’t Play The Funk Music?

We’ve found it, Enthusiasts. The 800-pound gorilla of Sincere Acoustic Covers; the silverback that turned Dian Fossey into a woman; an ape whose cape King Kong wouldn’t tug upon. We have ourselves a winner, folks, and yes the song is not truly all acoustic, but it does have whiteness in spades, and whiteness is truly the most necessary component of the SAC.

Is it breathy? Oh, it is breathy.
Is it slow? Slower than a dead turtle.
Are there banjos? Fetch Granny her girdle, thar be banjos.
And does Taylor mean it? She means it, maaaaaan.

I don’t mean to sound overly dramatic, but this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to black people. I am including slavery and that time the Urkelbot ran amok in Indianapolis. They are owed reparations for this bullshit here; the song may in fact be a hate crime.

But I don’t hate you. Cleanse your palate with funk:

Just Hold My Hand While I Come

I don’t know if this one of them sad-sounding happy songs, or one of them happy-sounding sad songs. But it fits the night, I suppose.

And I Said Bow, Mickey Bow

“Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face.”

Stop it.

“Drums to fill my dreams.”

That’s not even the line.

“I’m thinking about getting a velour suit with runes all over it. Something spiffy for the summer tour. Can’t let Josh be the only clotheshound out there.”

Cool. Why haven’t you?

“Well, I keep going to the merch table looking for a velour suit to yoink, and every time the kid there is like, ‘We don’t carry size 36 Regular velour suits, Mickey.’ And I usually punch the kid.”

You gotta be you.

“No one else wants to be. Wanna know something?”

You also use the bow for sex stuff.

“How did you know that?”

Just a guess.


More Scott Pruitt Demands

  • Big bag of money in a sack delivered bi-weekly to his office. (Sack MUST have a dollar sign printed on side.)
  • Sniper riding the roof of the car shooting out traffic lights as to get to Chipotle quicker.
  • The P in EPA? That shit stands for Pruitt now, muchachos.
  • Intern with the sole task of finding out how the Muppets rode bicycles in the first Muppet movie.
  • Get Ludacris to stop by and spit some truth for the fools, maybe over lunch.
  •  Bulletproof secretaries.
  • 30 or 40 more desks, and the biggest ones you can find.
  • When Scott Pruitt becomes weary, Scott Pruitt will enter the nearest private home and be billeted there.
  • Rental (or possibly co-ownership) of the Starship, the plane that Led Zeppelin used to fly around in.
  • Goons all dressed in matching outfits like on Batman.
  • Make Condoleeza Rice respond to my dick pics.
  • Find out if there’s anything better than the Four Seasons, like a Five or even Six Seasons Hotel, then book an entire floor.
  • Tanning bed (for security purposes).
  • All flights including domestic short-hops will be booked on Qantas.
  • Four well-bred Lipizzaner stallions.
  • Hay for the horses.
  • I suppose I’ll need a stable, too.
  • Turn one of the cafeterias into a stable for my fine steeds, for I am Scott Pruitt, the Secretary of the EPA, and my will is divine!
  • Not the cafeteria where the hot Dominican cashier works, though.
  • The other one.
  • Next intern that looks me in the eye is getting shanked.
  • One of you shitstains better get me a Wonder Woman outfit pronto.
  • Scott Pruitt will also require a shopping spree and someone to draw him a bubble bath.

Seriously, read this bullshit. 


“Look! It’s Nick Offerman!”


“Ernest Hemingway?”


“Mariel Hemingway?

That’s Teddy Roosevelt, Mickey.

“Where’s his top hat and wheelchair?”

Did you even go to school?

“I mostly just drummed on my desk.”


“History is not my strong suit. Wasn’t that hot at math, either. Or science. Used to skip gym class. Honestly, I just drummed on my desk until they gave me a diploma.”

No doubt. You’re at the Planetarium?

“The Hayden Planetarium in New York City! Never played here before. Very exciting. We’ve already been banned from ever coming back.”

Who is “we?”

“The Dead. I brought everybody. Bobby’s at the bar. Billy’s at the bar. Brent is, well, he’s at the bar, too. Everybody’s at the bar.”

Could you stop using the Time Sheath to bring dead keyboardists to your gigs, please?


Okay. What did you guys get banned for?

“Bunch of stuff. You know that Neil DeGrasse Tyson guy?”


“We have been calling him Branford all day.”

Not cool.

“He has virtually no sense of humor. Plus, Pigpen stole one of his fancy little vests with all the stars and comets and shit on it.”

You brought Pigpen?

“Big fan of astronomy.”

What else did you guys do?

“There’s been a lot of ‘Uranus’ jokes.”

Can’t be blamed for that.

“Road Crew had a cookout in the main theater. You know that big doohickey that the lasers come out of? Looks like a double-sided dildo?”

I do.

“Turns out if you up the amperage, you can flash-fry a lobster in ten seconds. And, obviously, you set some seats on fire.”

Why can’t the Grateful Dead be taken anywhere nice?

“We’re hooligans.”

Yeah, okay.

Second Set

  1. Touchstick/Catface/Olympic Muff
  2. Timpani Ladle
  3. Hacky Sack on the Long Island Expressway
  4. Deep State Pizza
  5. Deep State Secret
  6. Deep Jewel Staite.
  7. Smoky Gong
  8. Bandit Gong
  9. Hong Gong Fooey
  10. Picnic Explosion
  11. That Fucking Squirrel Again, Doris
  12. Beyoncé
  13. Lucy Liu
  14. Rain Drops
  15. Drop Tops
  16. Coffee Break at the Orphanarium
  17. Ding Dong Dash
  18. Henry Mancini’s Left Nipple Go Boom So Loud
  19. Steel Vagina>I Need A Miracle

We’re Going Straight To The Dark Side Of The Moon

So who went to see Mickey at the Planetarium tonight?

Maggie Haberman Was Just Fooling Herself If She Thought This Call Was Not Forthcoming


“Gosh, I wonder who this could be. Hello?”

“Baberman! P-Dog here!”

“Speaker Ryan, it’s three in the morning.”

“Prime time, dude! You should stop by the house. It’s me and Zippy and Rosey and Big Mick and Little Mick. Dude, we’re raaaaaaging! Little Mick just fuckin’ Iced Zippy. It was legendary.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You know what Icing is?”

“Sadly, I do.”

“You slam a bottle of Smirnoff Ice down in front of your bro–”

“I said that I knew what it was.”

“–and he’s gotta down that shit. No matter what he’s doing! Rosey got me once when I was plowing the intern with herpes.”


“It’s cool. Not like I can get it again, y’know? I go raw on that chick.”


“I go raw and I go hard.”

“I need to get an unlisted number.”

“You see me give all those old fuckers the finger this morning? I let ’em have it, man.”

“You resigned via a carefully-worded letter.”

“I’m the fucking MAN!”

“You said you were going to spend more time with your family.”

“I am. My bros are my family.”


“I would DIE for my bros, Maggie!”


“Hold on, Mags. Dude! Dude! Dude! I can’t handle anymore 311. Put on the Sublime record. Hey, I’m back. Gotta ride herd on these boys.”

“Much like you failed to do in the House.”

“That place sucked. All I wanted to do was take Social Security away from the country. And all those dickweeds in there were like, ‘How?’ And I was like, ‘I don’t know how, just do it.’ They just sucked.”

“Did you accomplish anything in your almost 20 years in Congress?”

“I got, like, a warehouse full of office supplies. I could totes open up a Staples.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh, dude, I got sooooooo fucking rich. Folks were lined up to give me money. And check this out: do you know who writes the rules about what to do with the money?”


“Me! So, like, I kept a fuck-ton of it.”

“But what did you do for the money?”

“I asked for it. It’s like you don’t understand how politics work, dude.”


“Can you keep a secret, Sugar Mags?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You wanna go see Dead & Company this summer?”

“Concentrate, Mr. Speaker.”

“Oh, right. Can you keep a secret?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Ah, fuck it, I’ll tell you anyway. I’m nine MGD’s in. We–the Republicans?–we are gonna get fucking CURBSTOMPED in November. I’ve seen the internal numbers. Well, I had them explained to me. Anyway, we are going down faster than the intern with herpes.”

“I’m sure she has a name.”

“I’m sure she does, too. I just never bothered to learn it.”


“She has less status than me. Why should I care about her?”

“Just continue.”

“Dude, blue wave? It’s not gonna be a blue wave. It’s a fucking brown wave. You know what that brown is?”

“I do. You don’t have to–”

“Shit, Maggie. A shit tsunami is headed our way. A tshit tsunami. We’re losing the Senate. I’m gonna be as far as I can from this and let Fuckhead and Turtle Boy take all the blame. Let the tshit recede. Then? 2024, maybe 2028? Ryan for President, baby.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I do. Turns out Americans are fucking ‘tards.”

“Not false. What are you going to do now?”

“Ah, dude, that’s a good question. Thinking about me Rosey buying a van, seeing the country. Maybe Europe? Like, take a year and just see all the history and shit, fuck some hairy chicks. Or maybe move to Portland. I dunno. The future is wide open.”

“Do not quote Tom Petty at me.”

“Nothing but blue skies, Magzilla.”

“Paul, out of all the Speakers of the House this country has ever had, you’ve certainly been one of them.”

“WOO! The white man’s A-minus!”

“I’m hanging up.”


“Did you just Ice me?”

“Drink that shit!”

“It doesn’t work over the phone, Paul.”

“Pound that shit, dude!”


Dominus Gofastum

Hey, Your Holiness. Whatcha doing?

“Is-a da publicity stunt. Can I be-a honest with you?”


“Is-a my least favorite part of-a da job. Praying? Si, si. Comfort-a da sick? Oh, si. I love-a to comfort da sick. I see a guy with-a da weird face, I hug-a da guy. You bring-a me da Elephant Man, I’m-a gonna wash his feet. Love-a to comfort da sick. But-a dis? Is-a no job for-a da Pope.”

Well, if it makes any difference, this is a Formula E car.

“I no-a know what dis is.”

They’re electric. You’ve made Climate Change a big part of your papacy, so this is right up your alley.

“Si? Is-a da big go-kart?”

Yup. Plug it right into the wall, then it does 200 miles an hour. Actually, it’s a European sport, so the car does 200 kilometers per hour. Or whatever.

“Da future is-a here, now.”


“And-a who drives?”

Oh, it’s still pretty guys from rich families.

“Is-a tradition. Soccer is for-a da people, but racing is-a only for some of da people.”

Twas ever thus.

“In-a Argentina, we race-a da horses. Big-a horse country.”

Did you ever ride, Your Holiness?

“No, no. Is-a tough to ride-a da horse in-a da cassock. Gotta sit side-saddle. Is-a no a good look.”

True. Weird question.

“I heard-a dem all.”

What kind of blessing do you say over a race car?

“Is-a no specific prayer in-a da Bible. Mostly, I just-a make up stuff in Latin. Talk about what’s-a for lunch, that sort-a da thing.”

And everyone’s happy afterwards.

“Si, si. Why-a not?”

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