Sylvester: teaching all the Funkateers about consent.
Sylvester: teaching all the Funkateers about consent.
You may be Saturday’s child all-grown
Moving with a tinge of grace
You may be a clown in the burying ground
Or just another pretty face
P.S. I know this woman. We were friends a lifetime or two ago. She never struck me as a fibber.
You’re starting to look like him.
Jerry. Your friend and bandmate.
Little bit. Of course, it took you til 70 to look like he did at 40.
“That’s clean living for ya.”
You said it. How’s John?
“Better. Getting his strength back. This afternoon, he was able to solo briefly.”
Good to hear. You yoinking his pain pills?
Is he sharing them?
“Oh, not you. Not today.”
I’m just here to check up on my guy. Nothing but positive vibes and cheerful words.
“Uh-huh. Are my disembodied appendix and Miles Davis coming to kill me?”
Not until you get better.
I swear. And no one’s gonna call you and start talking foolishness at you, and Katy Perry isn’t going to launch cruise missiles at your house, and you’re gonna be left to recuperate in peace. Even the semi-fictional version of you has earned some bed rest.
Did they give you ice cream?
“That’s when you get your tonsils out.”
The tonsils and the appendix are very similar organs.
So, what happened? Give TotD the exclusive story so I can sell it to Relix and make a fortune.
“You know you’re not actually talking to me, right?”
Shut up and tell me what happened.
“I was in my hotel room in New Orleans. Wasn’t gonna go out, so I had so many options. Should I solo? Buy stuff online? Laundry? The night lay before me like a highway.”
“And then imagine a fat guy.”
“A fat guy made of knives with barbed wire for hair.”
“And now imagine that fat guy made of knives and barbed wire is dancing in your abdomen.”
What kind of dancing?
Oh, that sounds terrible.
“It wasn’t good. I was, like, doing this cry/yell thing for a couple minutes and Bobby heard and came in the room.”
How did Bobby get in your room?
“We always have adjoining suites and leave the door unlocked in case there’s thunder.”
“Dude, Bobby was awesome. That wonderful man literally picked me up and carried me down to the lobby.”
“He fucking did, man. Course, he threw his back out and now he’s in the next room.”
“Is that jackass bothering you while you’re in the hospital, Josh!?”
“Don’t worry about it, Bobby!”
I know when I’m not wanted.
“You don’t. But whatever, there’s one more thing you have to do.”
“Get Billy and Mickey out of here.”
They visited you at the hospital? That’s sweet.
“They stole half the pharmacy and crashed an ambulance into the gerontology department.”
What floor is that on?
I’ll see what I can do. Go lay down, buddy.
“Okay. No bullshit for a while, promise me.”
I promise. But you gotta promise me one thing.
“You must be joking. What?”
Think about keeping the mustache.
“You like it?”
It’s awesome. Just shave the shit off your chin. Give the ‘stache pride of place.
“I’ll think about it. Fuck off.”
Jesus, no. What are you doing?
I demand you stop this right now.
Who cares? End this bit; it’s offensive.
To who? Australians? Homosexuals?
Talented comedy writers.
You deserved it.
I know. Still hurts.
“The Florida shows are back on.”
Bobby, do not invite Sammy Hagar to join the Grateful Dead.
“The show must go on.”
No. It truly doesn’t. Besides, “The show must go on” is propaganda. Vaudeville owners used to tell the acts that to get ’em to work while they were hurt.
“Huh. Is that true?”
Sounds plausible, doesn’t it?
“Sure. Listen, the Deadheads deserve a concert and Sammy’s available. He knows the songs.”
“Three Lock Box of Rain.”
“Eyes of the Best of Both Worlds.”
“Well, don’t know what to say. He’s in. We took a vote.”
You took a vote?
“Well, the four of us who get votes did.”
You do realize how bad of a look it is to not allow Oteil a vote, right?
“Hey, uh, White Phil didn’t get a vote either.”
Bobby, this is not a good idea.
“I think it is. And Sammy’s all in. Right, Sam?”
“You heard him.”
“Okay, Sam. I’ll tell him. Uh, Sammy doesn’t like your negativity.”
What? How did you get that from “WOO?”
“I can translate Sammy Hagar into English.”
“Sure, Sam. I’d love a cup of coffee.”
“Yes, I still do take it with cream and sugar. How thoughtful of you.”
“You’re my best friend, too, Sammy Hagar.”
“Except for Jimi Hendrix. Right, right.”
What the fuck is going on?
“Have you seen Guardians of the Galaxy?”
Sammy Hagar is not fucking Groot, Bobby.
“Calm down, Red Rocker. He didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You better wrap this post up. I don’t know how much longer I can keep him calm.”
Nothing fucking makes sense around here.
“Yeah, yeah. Like you’re such a prize.”
Who the hell are you?
“I’m John Mayer’s appendix.”
Oh, COME ON. It’s not bad enough I chat with abstract concepts, dead famous animals, and stools; I gotta talk to pop stars’ internal organs now?
“Hey, I’m not internal anymore.”
“I’m getting a lot of visceraphobia here.”
Not a thing.
Whatever. So what’s your deal, anyway? 40 years of doing absolutely nothing and you explode?
“But I didn’t explode. Didn’t even get a chance to fulfill my destiny.”
“Murdering John Mayer.”
“Me and his spleen have been talking about it for years. Fuck that guy.”
“Ever hear his songs?”
Yes, but that’s no reason to murder the guy.
“No, no. Who does he talk about in his songs? The heart. Eyes. Ears. Lungs. Hands. Every fucking body part gets a song, but me? What do I get? Bupkiss, that’s what I get. Fuck that guy.”
“I will not be ignored.”
You will be now. You’ve almost certainly been thrown away.
“Oh, no. I got rescued. Someone came and got me, and then plan’s still on. John Mayer will pay for how he treated us.”
Someone? Us? Who is “someone?” Who is “us?”
“You know who, motherfucker.”
“Me and the bitch’s appendix won’t be treated this fucking way.”
I hate everything about this universe.
“Appendix, get in the fucking car.”
“Can I drive?”
“You ain’t got no hands, motherfucker. No, you can’t drive.”
I don’t want to
Die before my time
Eight of my lives