“Are you doing one of your little routines?”
All I see are two chairs. Listen, chairs: I already talk to a stool, and that’s kind of enough.
“You doing the camouflage bit?”
I am, yeah.
“Delightful. So. Hear you’re gonna die.”
“Irma’s blowing pretty hard.”
And not even cupping my balls.
I think so.
“I’m gonna miss you.”
I’m gonna miss you a lot, John. I know we’ve had our differences–
“You blew up my house and let Trump freejack my body.”
–but I feel that we’ve truly become friends. Our relationship will be one of the things that goes through my mind as the palm tree goes through my chest.”
Yeah, sure, why not?
“You’re such a dick.”
I’m the only one who tells you the truth, John. Has anyone else told you that you have weak ankles?
Surprised they haven’t snapped in half yet while you soloed.
“There’s nothing wrong with my ankles.”
They just look like they should have a charm anklet around one of them. Maybe both. Dude. Dude? Double anklet.
“I don’t know why you’re like this.”
I calls ’em likes I sees ’em. And those are the ankles of a six-year-old girl.
“I’m gonna go.”
Not even an athletic six-year-old girl.
“Leave me out of this until winter tour.”
Are you confirming that there’s a winter tour?
“Yeah, sure why not?”
You turned it back around.
“You want me to sing at your funeral?”
Solo stuff or Dead?
Have some respect for the doomed.