A groupie was with Ned Lagin once, just once.
The next morning when the other groupies came downstairs for their complimentary breakfast (the Dead always offered their groupies complimentary breakfast and tote bags), Ned’s girl was sitting there already and she had not taken any bacon, nor was she drinking coffee, both of which were–need I remind anyone–complimentary.
The other groupies warmed bagels and read the paper and got into catfights and copied their AP Euro homework from one another. Not Ned’s girl: she just sat there.
The lass who had been with Garcia the night before (trying to be Mountain Girl calling herself “Lady of the Lake” like she doesn’t have a weird neck and is named Shelley like a basic bitch) sat next to Ned’s girl.
“How was it,” she asked.
And the groupie who had been with Ned answered, “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh N’dlag’n R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!” and then her face split open and a million bumblehitlers* swarmed out.
Ned Lagin is not an Eldritch horror. The man’s probably got grandchildren at this point.
You can’t prove he’s not an Eldritch horror.
Only because of the immutable laws of logic. I also can’t prove you’re not mentally retarded.
You can’t prove I am.
What’s a bumblehitler?
It’s like a bumblebee, but its honey is poisonous to Jewish people.
SOUND OF WALKING, DOOR OPENING, SLAMMING, CAR STARTING, SCREECHING AWAY.
You can just leave?
Well, sure: if you want to break up the band.