Thoughts On The Dead

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

Page 5 of 773

Phoreheads Are Better Than One

“What’s going on here?”

“Forehead time, boy.”

“Oh, okay. How long does it–”

“Rub. Back and forth. Get some friction going.”

“I don’t understand what’s–”

“Nogginate me, Treyvon.”

“That’s not even a–”

“Gimme the nog! Gotta have it!”

“Are you finished?”

“I’m just happy to be out of the restaurant.”


“Now, remember: no matter how many times I tell you to slow down, keep playing fast.”


No One May Follow

Speaking of Jane’s Addiction: this is the best Dead cover of all time. No snark or sarcasm about Best EVAR or whatever. This is the shit; listen to it all the way to the end for the Big Show Biz Finish.

These Jews Are Worse Than Gary Cohn, But Just Barely

  • Bernie Madoff.
  • Hymen Roth.
  • My aunt, Helen. (The woman is a pig.)
  • Whoever decided there should be seeds in rye bread. (Why the fuck would you ever choose seeded rye breaded over seedless? Seeds are just edible splinters; all they do is get stuck in your teeth, and the little fuckers get way up in there, too.)
  • Judas Iscariot.
  • The Jew broad from Goodfellas who wouldn’t go out with Tommy alone. (She was racist against Italians. Can you believe that?)
  • Auschwitz kapos.
  • Meir Kahane.
  • Mayim Bialik. (She’s horrendous.)
  • Hal Gadot, Gal’s brother who likes to make himself vomit on children.
  • Harvey Weinstein.
  • Woody Allen.
  • Those Hasidic assholes who attack women in shorts.
  • Leopold.
  • Loeb.
  • Julius Rosenberg.
  • Ethel Rosenberg,
  • Freshy Greenblatt.
  • Did you google Freshy Greenblatt?
  • Yeah, I made him up.
  • But good on you for doing your own research.

What In The World Ever Became Of Sweet Jane’s?

“So, uh, where’s this Jane lady? I’ve had some experience with drug abusers. Maybe I can talk some sense into her.”

“There’s no Jane, Bob. That’s the name of the band. Jane’s Addiction.”

“Did she die?”

“She never existed.”

“I have several friends that don’t technically exist, but it doesn’t stop me from caring about their wellbeing.”

“It’s just made up, Bob. Just a name. Like how there’s no actual dead people in the Grateful Dead.”

“Well, uh, that’s where you’re wrong. There’s tons of dead people in the Dead.”

“Why don’t we just jam?”


Maggie Haberman Must Have Expected This Late-Night Call


“Hello, Sam.”

“Hi, this is Sam Nunberg and…how did you know it was me?”

“I’m the only person in Washington you haven’t talked to today.”

“The Nun’s on a run!”

“You sure are, slugger.”

“Mueller can suck on my huevos. They’re pink, plump, and shiny. Just like my head.”

“Sam, are you okay?”

“I’ve never been better, Maggie. Know who’s not gonna be okay?”


“That fuck. I’m thinking about going over to his office and putting him in a figure-four leglock.”


“That’s my finishing move.”


“I’m a beast, Maggie.”

“Are you drinking again, Sam?”


“Then that wasn’t the sound of ice cubes and whiskey?”



“I’ve switched to vodka.”

“Sam, stop drinking.”

“How will I wash down the pills?”

“Don’t take any pills.”

“Did you hear what they wanted me to do? Find ALL my e-mails! Years worth! And they wanted me to do it in one weekend!”

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t even know where they are. I checked the basement, but that’s where I live. Checked my parents’ room. Nothing.”

“You live with your parents?”

“My parents and I live together as equals.”

“Okay. So, you said something today about how you thought President Trump had colluded with Russia?”

“Oh, he toooooootally did. I have no precise knowledge of what happened, but I don’t not know what happened.”


“I wasn’t in the room, but I was also in the room. If you know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“Just trust me on this one.”

“Absolutely not. What the hell set this off, Sam?”

“What? Monday fun-day Nun-day?”


“Listen, Marble–”

“Not my name.”

“–this may be the xannies talking, but I will DIE for Roger Stone. I will DIE for that man.”

“You have the worst taste in men.”

“He is a BUTTERFLY. He is a gorgeous butterfly made of kindness and high-fashion! That man took me in and taught me about politics, and life, and a lot of pervert shit I don’t wanna get into, but I enjoyed. Don’t worry about that: I wanted to do everything, but I don’t feel comfortable listing the acts for you.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable having them listed.”

“We made each other hand-happy.”

“Told you I didn’t want to know.”

“He dressed me up as Nancy Reagan and made me service strangers at laundromats. Roger hid inside a dryer and masturbated.”

“Stop talking, Sam Nunberg.”

“Donald Trump is not a good man, Maggie. He treated me and Mr. Stone very badly. He called me Sam Cuntberg many times, and that was hurtful. I worked so hard for him, and he called me that. Meanwhile, Lewandowski’s banging Hope Hicks in the bathroom of Trump’s campaign office, Bannon was skimming money from the campaign, Carter Page was colluding with everyone he could find, and his idiot children are skywriting ‘Come and do treason with us’ over the Russian Embassy. But he called me names.”


“So you think I should respond to the subpoena?”


“Huh. I’m gonna call in to QVC and see what they have to say.”

“Good idea.”


Show, Festival

Go read this. The great Jesse Jarnow writes (wonderfully, as usual) about the Bobby & Phil shows from Radio City.

Read this, too. It’s by the brilliant Corinne Fitzpatrick, and it’s about medicine and money.

Or, don’t. I’m not in charge around here.

Old Tricks

“Hey, tell Big Red over there to slow down.”

“I keep telling him, Weir. He won’t listen.”

“Gingers can be obstinate.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Is Radio City an actual place?”


“Because, uh, I’m picturing a universe like in the children’s film Cars.”

“But instead of cars being alive, it’s radios?”

“Yeah. And the fancy systems are racist against the transistors. And, uh, the senior citizens are all AM car radios with the push-button.”

“And then video comes and kills everybody.”

“There you go, there you go.”

“Hey, how much did you tell Treyvon we were gonna pay him?”

“Oh, I didn’t. I thought you were having that conversation with him.”



“So, no one has discussed him getting paid?”

“Looks it.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“Good idea, yeah. We should give him cab fare, though.”

“Oh, sure. And I got a shitload of coupons for the restaurant.”

“That’s perfect.”

“I think so.”

Phamily Band

“Having a much better time playing with you than last go-round, Treyvon.”

“Yeah, we’re kicking ass.”

“It’s not that. It’s because the drummers aren’t here.”

“You guys do not get along.”

“Too old to deal with their bullshit any more. Neither of ’em ever grew up. I heard they went on several panty raids this last tour.”

“I think panty raids are felonies now.”

“They were always felonies! Both of them are felons!”

“I getcha.”

“Your drummer’s an idiot, isn’t he? Imagine two of the little cross-dressing hobbits running around.”

“I don’t want to.”

“So we understand each other.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man. Now let’s play faster and annoy Weir.”


What In The World Did I Do?

In honor of Patsy Cline, who died this day 55 years ago, and everybody’s new best friend, Sam Nunberg.

Dead & Company 2049

“I’d like you to meet my secret, Mexican family.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. None of these people are secret or Mexican. These people are whiter than an envelope factory.

“You’re right. This is Team Mayer.”

You should make some trades. I think this team needs a rebuilding year.

“Nah. We’re a finely-tuned machine. All the way on the right there is Stubby Maybelline. He’s my personal croupier.”

Why do you have a personal croupier?

“Never know when the bones are gonna call.”


“Next to him is the Human Post-It.”

I don’t get it.

“Those aren’t tattoos; they’re, like, notes I wrote to myself. ‘Pick up milk, bang Demi Lovato’ that sort of thing. Sometimes, I just doodle on him while I’m on the phone.”

Doesn’t seem cost-efficient.

“And next to him, of course, is Pete Ulrich.”

Who’s that?

“Skeet’s younger, far less talented brother.”


“Jumpsuit Jean, the Jumpsuit Queen.”

Obviously. And her purpose is?


Right. What about the beardo?

“That’s Not Your Father’s Gorton’s Fisherman.”

I’ll say.

“No, that’s his name. Not Your Father’s Gorton’s Fisherman. Gorton’s did a rebrand of their corporate logo and they’re paying me a million bucks to cross-promote it.”

Nice work if you can get it.

“Plus a  truckful of fishsticks. You know the saying, ‘They’ll back the Brinks truck up to your door?’ Well, they did, but the truck was full of breaded cod or whatever the fuck it is.”

I’m going to go back to ignoring you until the next time you’re a Grateful Dead again.

“Cool. See you Friday in Boston.”


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