Thoughts On The Dead

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

Bill Kreutzmann: Friend Of The Jews

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Hey, Billy.

“Ass! Happy Hokkamokka.”

Close enough.

“Dead wouldn’t be the Dead without Jews, y’know?”

I see no way this could turn unpleasant. How so, Bill?

“Shit, you ever see one of our audiences? Curly hair and noses for miles. Plus, you know, after we got tired of having all our money stolen, we hired some official Jews to take care of it. Haven’t lost it since.”

Official?

“Not like Mickey.”

Okay.

“Doughy and clever.”

Right.

“I remember my first Jew broad.”

Stop it.

“Her name was Miriam Shmeckleplotz.”

No, it wasn’t.

“I had never been shtupped before, but I liked it! She fed me blintzes and sour cream afterwards, and then we ate kugel off each other.”

This never happened. Kugel is not sex food.

“Kishka?”

No.

“Whatever. Good times. People think I’m Jewish sometimes. I guess cuz of the “man” in the last name.”

What do you do when they ask?

“I punch ’em in the dick. You shouldn’t go around accusing people of shit like that.”

We’re done.

“I got feelings, y’know.”

Shut up.

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