Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill kreutzmann (page 4 of 80)

So Happy Together

Well, this is awkward.

“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass. Tell Phil he can munch my nads.”


“Hey, dickhead. Let Billy know that I can smell his asshole from here.”

I don’t know when I turned into a marriage counselor.

“Billy doesn’t believe in marriage counselors. He prefers defense attorneys.”



I’ll leave you two alone.

Mick, Dick, Prick

“Simmer down, Mick.”

“No! I’m gonna fuck this cheesy Danish up!”

“Nice one.”


Billy has completed his transformation into Richard Harris as Marcus Aurelius.


“Shit, Larry, I’m impressed.”


“It takes two of us to fuck up the time as well as you do all by yourself.”


“Pull my finger.”

“I’m not pulling your fing–”

“I’ll do it, Mick!”


“Windy one.”

“I had Bok Choy for dinner.”


“You owe me money, fucker.”

“I’ve never borrowed money from you, Mickey.”

“I know. I didn’t say that. I bought Lulu. You owe me money.”


“Hey, remember that movie you guys made where the only guy who wasn’t a complete asshole wasn’t in the band anymore?”

She’s My Summer Love In The Springsteen And Winter

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Hey, Billy.

“Look at these pants, man. Only thing sexier is what’s under ’em.”

You never change.

“Why should I? Shit’s been working for me so far.”

You’re in some pretty rarefied company here.

“Am I? I thought these were randos.”

Half the people in this picture are more famous than you.

“Wait, I know some of ’em. There’s, uh, Pimpy McGoo in the red suit. Guy next to him preaches at a church in the part of town I don’t go to. Oh, and that’s whathisface. Johnny Jersey or whatever his name is. Sings all the songs about cars.”

Close enough. Hey, you guys got a show tonight.

“Do we?”

Yeah, for charity.

“If Charity isn’t the name of a mud wrestler, then I ain’t showing up.”

It’s to benefit folks that got burned out in the recent fires, Billy.

“I dunno. I don’t see how I give a shit.”

The skank will like it.

“Skank like what you tell ’em to like. That’s why they’re skank. If you’re worried about the skanks’ opinions, then you’re worried about the wrong thing.”

I’m pretty sure you’re getting paid even though it’s a charity event.

“Oh, then I’ll be there.”

Billy, quick question.

“Five inches long but seven inches around.”

Not that question.


Please tell me we’re not going to see a story about you making women watch you masturbate.

“Make ’em? Shit, I permit them to. It’s a high fucking honor to watch me wax the turtle.”

Oh, Billy.

“Yeah, that’s what they say! ‘Oh, Billy.’ But they say it all skanky-like. There’s usually some phlegmy coughing, too.”

Have a great show.





What the fuck?



“We thought it provided an incongruously beautiful mise-en-scene.”


“Fucking with ya. I got no idea why we put that up.”

What are the monitors propped up on?

“Pizza boxes full of sand.”

It’s the Grateful Dead way.


What John Mayer Was Doing In My Pajamas, I Have No Idea

Go read Groucho: The Life and Times of Julius Henry MarxIt’s a much sadder story than you’d think.

And then go watch Duck Soup. It’s much funnier than you remember.

I Spy With My Little Eye…

  • Classic iPod. (Behind Mrs. Donna Jean.)
  • Amazon Echo. (In between Mrs. Donna Jean and Garcia.)
  • Two iPads. (To the left of Billy and Mickey.)
  • Phil’s booty. (Behind Phil.)
  • Precarious Lee’s handiwork. (Bottom left.)



Is that a humidor?

“On top of the monitor?”


“Nope. Ashes.”

Human ashes?



“Don’t worry about it.”

Is that secure? That angle is rather…



“It’ll be fine.”

Will it?

“Should be.”

Your words don’t fill me with confidence.

“I duct taped it.”

Oh, well, then it’s fine.

“I know.”

I was being sarcastic.

“I know. Don’t care.”

Bill, Bill, Phil

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Hey, Billy. Been a while.

“Help! Fuckin’ giants, man!”

Those aren’t giants. They’re basketball players.

“Either of ’em LeBron?’

Obviously not.

“Fuck ’em, then.”

Sure. Where you been, buddy?

“The islands, man. I only come back to the mainland when someone pays me to. Wait, I know who this guy is. Walton. I know this fucker.”

For, like, 40 years.

“I got my mind on other stuff. Preoccupied as shit.”

About what?

“Relix is publishing an article about all the skank I plowed. They talked to the skank, Ass!”

That’s not good.

“They talked to the skank!”

I heard you.

“There’s all sorts of stories in this thing. The time I jerked off into a plant in front of some skank.”

You made a woman watch you masturbate?

“Made her? It was her fucking idea! She was at the salad bar shoving celery in herself. She was on her period. Called it a Bloody Mary.”


“I don’t even know where they found half these chicks. I didn’t even know most of their real names. Like Bus Locker.”

Bus Locker?

“I kept her in a bus locker.”

Oh, Billy.

“She was into it!”

Well, that’s fine. It sounds like you’re talking about consensual perversions here, Bill.

“I didn’t consent to some of it. I liked it, but I didn’t consent to it.”

I don’t think this article will affect your reputation.

“It’s the principle of the thing. A gentleman never tells.”

You literally wrote a book about your adventures in skank town.

“Yeah, but I’m not a gentleman.”


“And it turns out that the skank aren’t gentlemen, either.”

No, they’re skank.

“I expected more.”

You shouldn’t have.

“I am laid low by that which I love the most. I’m like a Greek tragedy, Ass.”

You’re not.

“You know what a real Greek tragedy is? Running out of lube when you’re banging one of them. They’re all about the butt.”

We’re done.

“See you on tour.”


Ah, You Come Up With A Title; I’m A Bit Distracted

It’s not that Robert Altman.




Why you standing back there?

“Chili farts.”


The Parentage Trap

Esteemed Commentator Tor Haxson brings to the table an important question, and because I am currently avoiding writing several vital e-mails, I shall attempt to answer this most ponderous of mysteries.

Which Grateful Dead would you want as a parent?

See, I told you it was an important question.

We must start out by noting that none of the Grateful Dead’s children have rampaged through a Burger King, nor been indicted on racketeering charges. Not a one of them has ever been arrested for pissing on a stewardess while yelling “DO YOU KNOW WHO MY FATHER IS!?” They’re all presentable. Any honest reading of the situation must led to the conclusion that the Dead were, at least, decent parents.

But who would be preferred? All members of the band have their pros and cons. To have Phil as a parent means that you would be tall, and have a beard. If that’s how you’d prefer to look, then you should choose Phil. If, on the other hand, you would rather be a hot chick, then Bobby is your best bet. If you’d like a wholesome, hard-working, American name such as Stacy or Justin, then you need to go with Billy; for a hippy-dippy, godless, communist name like Taro or Raya, then Mickey is your man.

Mickey is also an excellent choice because he’s so easy to buy presents for.

“You got me a drum! How did you know what I wanted?”

“Just guessed, Pop.”

Are you going anywhere with this?

Honestly? No.

So why did you write this?

If I stop writing, I’ll die.

Even it’s complete shit?

History will decide its worth.

Go put your head in the stove.

It’s electric.

Put a gun in your mouth in your head in the stove.

Suicide by syntactical recursion. I like it.

Do it.

Trade Season

The rock and roll world was stunned last night when, just as the trade deadline was about to expire, Led Zeppelin shipped John Bonham to the Grateful Dead for Bill Kreutzmann, Mickey Hart, and a keyboardist to be named later. The trade is expected to be approved by the league after the men fail their physicals and then retake them with a less scrupulous doctor.

Bonham, 27, was quoted as saying, “It was time f’r a change, wunnit? Tired of playing wi’ a guitarist on th’ nod. Jimmy’s gettin’ sloppy. Be much better wi’ Fatty, wha’ever his name is.” Bonham then hit this reporter with a folding chair for no reason.

Kreutzmann, who gives his age as “Suck my balls, that’s how old I am,” responded to the trade by saying, “Turns out I’m getting paid more. Billy’s happy enough to punch dicks.” Kreutzmann then punched this reporter in the dick. Hart also refused to give his age and became belligerent with this reporter for asking. More dickpunching ensued, and, before this reporter lapsed into blessed unconsciousness, there were raccoons loosed.

The first performances of each newly-constituted band went poorly. Kreutzmann and Hart refused to rehearse and became enraged when offered English food to the point of sexually penetrating bacon butties. During the show, both drummers conspicuously mocked the other band members, frequently putting their sticks down to rise and do unflattering imitations of Jimmy Page’s guitar moves. When Robert Plant asked the crowd if they remembered laughter, the men leaned into their drum mics and told him that they did, in fact, remember laughter and called him an asshole. John Paul Jones was completely nonplussed.

Not surprisingly, the Dead’s performance was worse. Bonham, nervous about his first show, drank heavily and began throwing punches and tables. The Dead’s crew put up with it for about ten seconds and then began whaling the living tar out of Bonham to the point where he was unable to play that evening. The show was cancelled and Bonham was left in a dumpster on the way to the airport to pick up Hart and Kreutzmann.

The keyboardist that was to be named later is now being named: Brent.


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