Thoughts On The Dead

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

Looking For Good Lovin’ In All The Wrong Places

pigpen organ rheingold
“Hey! Narrator man!”

Excuse me?

“Got a question fer ya!”

You guys are not allowed to beckon me.

“Fooey t’that! You’ll be answerable to your subjects or I’ll horsewhip ya!”

Fine. What is it?

“Who was that fine-looking colored chick in the picture?”

We had a talk about language, Pig.


You can’t call people that any more.

“Oh! Sorry! Who was that fine-looking colored lady in the picture?”

Walked into that one, I suppose.

“She’s a fox and she cranks my motor! I gotta get me my guitar and serenade that vixen!”

Attempting to serenade that woman would end in a sniping. You would be sniped.

“She does look awful fancy. What she do for work?”

Goes on talk shows, tells people how to eat, makes women feel bad about their arms.

“You’re talkin’ in circles, ya damn reprobate!”

Pig, that’s the First Lady. How do you not know that?

“I been dead since 1973, ya damn waterhead! Don’t watch the news no more! Ain’t no paperboy!”

Okay. Well, yeah: the First Lady.

“That’s the First Lady?”




“Which makes that fella…”

“Things done changed.”

In a lot of ways, yeah.

“But that relationship? It’s solid?”

Night, Pig.


  1. rheingold = nycity?

  2. I was all 16-yr-old-stoner-caricature-with-the-giggles at: “Fooey t’that!”

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