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.”
“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?
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.
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.”
“Bitch, who you talking to?”
“No one important, Daddy.”
“I forgot my fucking robe. Gimme your toppermost.”
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?
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.”
“Yeah. I didn’t see it coming. Surprised me.”
“Thinking about letting him get gay married to me.”
“It would just be married, Daddy.”
“What the fuck did I tell you about correcting me in public?”
“That you appreciated constructive criticism?”
“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.”
“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.”