Good for you, Australia. Love is love; may it not fade away.
Jesus, no. What are you doing?
I demand you stop this right now.
Who cares? End this bit; it’s offensive.
To who? Australians? Homosexuals?
Talented comedy writers.
You deserved it.
I know. Still hurts.
It’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve Irwin!
The Dead never went to Australia. There were many reasons: the 85-hour plane flight, the visa requirements (Billy had bitten the last three doctors who tried to give him a booster shot, so Rakow had had to forge the paperwork for the insurance company and immigration tends to look at things more closely,) and the fact that Bobby was convinced he was “gonna fall off, man. Opposite Day’s one thing, but Upside-down Day? Not on my watch.”
The Dead down under? Silliness.
But it happened.
Once again, David Lemeuixxx (DL’s alter-ego who runs a Dead-themed webcam show in which he talks about the upcoming releases while removing up to three layers of fleece and/or goretex) has roused a TUMESCENT TERROR from the nether reaches where lies spawn and honor receives a bad haircut. A DEMON OF LIES, is he, out to ROGER US PROPERLY with his FIB-BONER!
I can’t even look at you right now.
The Dead did indeed visit Australia, and New Zealand too, in the Summer of ’77. Mickey’s car crash was a ruse, a shuck, a jive: twaddle, I calls it! Think about it: Mickey getting fucked up and doing something stupid that cost the organization a small fortune? Does that sound like Mickey?
The plane ride went poorly. Everything got covered in acid and then there was turbulence so everything got covered in vomit and there were still, like, 32 hours to go.
Their arrival went poorly, too. In Australia, they’re fond of a certain word, starts with a “C,” they use it constantly about everyone and everything. We don’t. So, when the custom official, in what he thought was friendly banter, called Betty Cantor that, she hauled off and socked the dumb cunt.
Nicely done. Subtle.
Luckily, the entire country–including everyone in authority–is made up of sunstroked lunatics of criminal stock, so they respect a good border-guard whalloping. They think it’s a way of asserting your home countries’ pride. Australians are like Klingons in flip-flops.
The shows went poorly, as could be guessed: there were too many distractions. Jon McIntire got eaten by a kangaroo, then fired by Billy for it. Keith, having accidentally taken too may uppers instead of his usual barbiturates, declared himself Cockodile Dundee and wandered around Perth stark naked and demanding strangers look at his Uluru. It was nice of him to use the traditional name for it, but still.
The disasters continued: Garcia was mistaken for a koala and forced to pose with tourists in a nature preserve: he didn’t much mind because they kept him tranquilized and he copped a lot of feels when good-looking ladies took a picture.
The last dates were in New Zealand, so the boys rented a boat to make the hop, except it’s about 900 miles between Australia and NZ, so they nearly died 9 or 10 times and when they got there, everyone realized that it was just hobbits and sheep and cliffs–New Zealand is basically warm Iceland–so they went home and when they rehired Jon McIntire, who had been brought back to life via Time Sheath technology, his first task was to hunt down all the tapes of the shows and destroy them. When he had burned the last tape, Billy fired him again for no discernible reason.