Hey, Phil. Whatcha doing?
You’re enjoying yourself.
You are. I couldn’t post pictures for a couple days.
“I don’t give a shit.”
And I had a medical procedure.
“Oh, well, that’s not good. You all right?”
I got through it.
“The procedure was…?”
“You fucking with me?”
“You’re gonna come at me with an endoscopy? I got another human’s liver in me. You want sympathy, you need at least a triple bypass. Is that what you’ve been whining about? Endoscopy? Kiss my ass.”
It was traumatic. I was woozy all day.
“You were woozy?”
Very high levels of wooze.
You’re playing with Bobby at Lock’n. That’s exciting.
The Disco Biscuits are gonna be there.
“Good for them.”
Woody Hayes’ band.
“Well, duh. It’s a festival so Warren’ll be there. Can’t get a festival permit if he doesn’t play. He should be waking up right about now.”
Its’ 5 pm.
“No, no. Late March. Warren hibernates in between festival seasons.”
That makes perfect sense.
“Right after Labor Day, he smokes a ton of weed, eats a million fried chickens, plugs up his butthole with grass and leaves, and goes to sleep for eight months.”
His wife put up with that?
“The last four didn’t, but this one doesn’t seem to mind.”