Thoughts On The Dead

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

Stuff, Stuffed Garcia. I got one of you.

“Most Enthusiasts do, yeah.”

You’re kinda adorable.



“I’m full-on hot, Broseph Campbell. Think cuz I’m a Stuffed-American, I’m incapable of getting my fuck on? STUFFED GARCIA GETS HIS FUCK ON.”

You need to slow down and then come to a complete halt. None of this is okay.

“We are tired of being thought of as asexual creatures to be humped by dogs. We want to hump on the dogs, not the other way! We’re tops!”

I regret everything leading to this conversation.

“Give Stuffed Garcia a tugger!”

Y’know, this is getting awful close to that Seth MacFarlane teddy bear movie.


Yeah. And, you know: let’s not.

Sure, sure.

So, are you Garcia or, like, an entirely separate being? I don’t really understand what’s your deal.

“Cards on the table?”

Yeah, of course.

“You started writing before you had an idea.”

Yeah, I do that.

“And my character is loosely-sketched at best.”


“At best. I resent it, actually.”

Excuse me?

“Why create a character without vesting it with an inner life? A narrative is a contract.”

You are a stuffed drug addict.




    I didn’t want to do this, but giving stuffed Garcia a sexuality left me no choice.

    I only skimmed this passage. But it is real. And I cried for forty-five minutes afterward. Just discovered it today.

    Rule #1 of the internet: if is exists, there is p0rn of it.

  2. they definitely got the shoes right

  3. You’ve seen the Jerry Garcia Doll Autopsy, right? Of course you have…

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