Thoughts On The Dead

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

Sit Down And Patch My Bones



You shaved your beard.

“Oh, I can’t lie: I’m not really Bobby.”

You could lie, but I’d see right through you.


Right? How are ya, Bobby Skeleton?

“Good, good. Turning 30 in a few, can you believe that?”

I would prefer not to, as it would remind me of my own age.

“What’s the alternative to getting older?”

Fountain of Youth.

“Not real.”

Virgin blood.


What if you ate the Time Sheath? That would do something.

“Death, jackass. You get up in the morning? That’s the tits, brother. Nothing better than not being dead.”

Nice perspective.

“Dude, I’m from the Touch video.”


“Well, did I start the band towards their sad, over-inflated stagger around the country’s stadia with pickpockets and frat boys in tow? Or did I cement their true and fucking deserved place in post-war cultural history by letting ’em sell out the big rooms for almost a decade?”


“Or does the question not matter because when Trey played the solo from the radio version note-for-note in Chicago, the place lost its mind?”

That, too?

“Everything that isn’t math is just a story. Stories have tellers. Careful who you get your stories from.”

You are blowing my mind, Bobby Skeleton.


“They spared no expense.”


“Yeah. Hey, TotD?”


“Can you take me with you?”


“I’m sentient.”

So many things around here are!

“Right, and–as you might have noticed–I have basically been buried alive in a storage facility. So, um, please take me with you.”

Here’s the thing…

“You motherfucker.”

Well, it’s a definite no if this is your attitude.

“You’re a racist.”

I can’t be racist against skeletons: some of my best friends have skeletons.

“At least change the foam padding. It’s starting to smell.”

You don’t have a nose.

“I don’t have a dick, but I’m about to shove it in your ear.”

Y’know : you are nothing like the real Bobby.

“You should meet Phil and Billy Skeleton. Married seven years.”

Gay skeletons are getting married now?

“I know, right? Thanks, Skeleton Obama.”

“You gonna help me out?”

One condition.

“I am a skeleton, and therefore have no fleshy holes. I literally cannot be fucked.”

That was not the condition.


I wanna disassemble you and put you in a backpack and wear you like Chewie and Threepio in Empire.


Let’s go, partner.


  1. Adopt me this is my aesthetic AF

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