Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill walton (page 1 of 8)

Christmas Squattings

“Put me down, man.”

I know that voice.

“It’s me, man.”

Soup? Are you living in Bill Walton’s comically oversized Christmas stocking?

“It’s cozy in here. And all the oranges I can eat, man.”

That’s good for your scurvy.

“My gums are the pinkest they’ve ever been, man.”

Does Bill Walton know you’re in there?

“Shit, yeah, man. I know Big Bill since forever, man. I used to live in his van.”

I remember that.

“Big Bill’s good people, man.”

He is. Merry Christmas, Soup.

“Back atcha. I’m glad we can finally say ‘Merry Christmas’ again, man.”

Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’re on that Fox News ‘War on Christmas’ bullshit.

“No, man. I meant since last December. You say ‘Merry Christmas’ for, like, eleven-and-a-half months out of the year, and people think you’re nuts, man.”

Never change, buddy.

“I only got one set of clothes, man.”

What Is A “Ute?”

Hey, Bill Walton. Is that–

“It’s Brent.”

–Brent in the…yeah, I figured.

“Sporting events are his jam. That and theme parks. Very easy for a 27-years-dead guy to walk around in those venues.”

Sure.

“Nudist colonies, not so much.”

Do you frequent nudist colonies, Bill Walton?

“Oh, yeah. I love to dangle.”

Ew.

“Many people don’t know that the testicles absorb vitamin D more efficiently than any other part of the body. Couple hours of sun on your balls, and you feel like a new man.”

Let’s move on. Are you in Utah? The background does not look like Utah.

“The Beehive State is fascinatingly diverse. And by that, I mean the landscape and climate. Not the people.”

It’s a homogeneous place.

“I thought I saw a black guy yesterday, but it was a Mormon’s shadow. Incredible history, the Mormons. Do you know they believe that Jesus was resurrected in Missouri?”

Yes, I’ve heard that.

“I nearly resurrected in Missouri. Almost signed with the St. Louis Spirit of ’76.”

The ABA team?

“Yeah. They wanted me, man. Sent Marvin ‘Bad News’ Barnes up to Portland to talk to me. At least, they tried to: Marvin missed five straight planes and then punched a police horse.”

Sounds like him.

“Uh-oh.”

What?

“Lost track of Brent. Darn.”

Is that bad?

“He tends to affect the attributes of the animal he’s wearing.”

Oh, no.

“Yeah, he’s been leaping at sunbathers from second-floor windows.”

You should find him.

“Conference of Champions!”

I’d Walk A Mile On A Camel

Hey, how’s it going?

“Me, man?”

Not you, Garcia.

“Are you talking to me? Because I have a great story about Coach Wooden and the difference between lava and magma.”

Not you, either, Bill Walton.

“MRRRAAAAAAGHCCCCHHH.”

Not you, camel.

“Is me?”

Yeah. How you doing?

“Okay, mister.”

What’s your name?

“Idir.”

Howdy. I’m TotD.

“TotD? Is not name.”

It’s a nom de plume.

“Okay.”

A pen name.

“Okay.”

You’re just saying “okay” and smiling, aren’t you?

“Okay.”

Awesome. So, what’s the deal with this? You lead tourists around for a living?

“Naam. White people come. Put on camel. Walk around. White people down. Eat. Very exciting them.”

You like your job?

“Is a living.”

Sure.

“Most money on side.”

What do you mean?

“Hashish.”

Right.

“Beard man and friends good customers.”

I bet.

“Who they?”

The Grateful Dead. They’re a band from California. You know what California is.

“Jews and whores on beach.”

Yeah, that’s it. They play choogly music.

“Please. What is jooooguhl?”

Choogle.

“I no can say. Move past.”

Sure.

“Why band in Egypt?”

Because the pyramids are sacred and geomantic power and ley lines and secret histories and the Illuminati.

“Is white bullshit?”

Yes.

“Okay. Why is mustache man punch camel in dick?”

Oh, that’s Billy. He does that.

“Camel get mad.”

I would imagine.

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.”

Ew.

“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.”

True.

“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.”

Okay.

Twice Were Kings

If there were a Dead shirt-off between Mickey and Bill Walton, who you got?

OR

No one from the Kings’ organization asked them to do this.

OR

If you gave me ten chances, I couldn’t find Sacramento on a map. I know it’s not in Los Angeles, but that’s about it. Is Sacramento in Oakland? California’s a weird place, and sometimes cities are contained within other cities.

Don’t Ever Talk To Me Or My Son Ever Again

Fun fact: the Russian rock show that Bill Graham was telling stories about yesterday? It really happened. Look:

And read.

Steve Wozniak really did pay for it, too, at least the first half-a-million. (The subsequent cash infusions were just Bill Graham embellishing the story.)

Funner fact: If the Woz wants a shoulder-pocket, then the Woz gets a fucking shoulder-pocket.

Mitt, Mick

Hey, Bill Walton. Whatcha doing?

“Mitts up on defense!”

Sure. What are those things?

“They’re clearly labeled.”

Why do you need them?

“Why do we need the sun?”

Not a great analogy.

“Sun provides warmth; so do Turbotits.”

Nope.

“Teriyakimynx.”

Wow.

“Whatever they’re called, they’re wonderful. Just the best giant blue heating/cooling therapy mittens I’ve ever owned.”

How many have you owned?

“These are the first.”

Sure. Does Mickey have a pair?

“Oh, yeah. He’s gonna play ’em during China>Rider tonight.”

Of course.

Hall Of Famers

I was number one.”

“You don’t say.”

“Ahead of Orlando Bloom, Groban, everybody. Best bang.”

“That’s wonderful, Josh. Who are we talking about?”

“Katy Perry.”

“Is that a friend of my wife’s?”

“An internationally famous pop star.”

“I don’t know their names, but I know who they are. Are you talking about the tall, skinny, mean one?”

“No, but I nailed her, too.”

“Nice. Was it the one who’s always smoking doobies in public?”

“She won’t return my DM’s.”

“I don’t know what that is. So, this young lady said you were hot to trot? Well done.”

“Right?”

“I got great reviews from Pam Dawber.”

“Mindy?”

“Yeah. She had a thing for athletes.”

“Cool. Well, you know, Katy’s reeeeeally famous.”

“Don’t sleep on Mindy. Her and Mork were America’s sweethearts.”

“Any other ’80’s teevee stars?”

“Markie Post.”

“Niiiiice.”

“Not really. Very petite woman. Like trying to shove your head into a tube sock.”

“Ouch.”

“All the Facts of Life girls.”

“At once?”

“Threesome with Tootie and Blair. Natalie and Jo separately.”

“Details, man. I need details.”

“Tootie kept her roller skates on.”

“Sweet. Who was the MVP?”

“Natalie. Hands down. And everything else down, too. She was happy to be in the game, and she gave it her all. Real winning attitude.”

“You should write a second book.”

“Benjy keeps calling me about it.”

Bring The Boys Back Home

“None of these boys know how to properly fight a Rando War.”

Dammit.

“Coach Wooden taught me everything I know about Rando Wars.”

Which is what?

“Number one: try not to touch the randos.”

Good rule.

“Number two: watch your wallet; some randos are actually pickpockets in disguise.”

Smart.

“And I’m especially susceptible to pickpockets. My eyes are 22 feet away from my pockets.”

You’re Comey-sized.

“Number three: hands up on defense.”

Bill Walton, I have a question.

“Shoot.”

Was there a situation for which Coach Wooden didn’t say to put your hands up on defense?

“Driving.”

Okay.

“Hands at ten at two. Coach was a stickler. Sometimes, he would hide in the backseats of our cars to make sure we were doing it right. Used to scare the bejeezus out of me.”

“Can anyone get in on Rando War?”

Who is that?

No, Andy Cohen from Bravo, you cannot be a part of Rando War.

“But, I have a rando.”

You’re not a Grateful Dead.

“Neither is Walton.”

Walton has two championship rings.

“I have tons of rings.”

Andy, you’re out. Not happening. I let you in Rando War, and every loose screw and nutjob out there is gonna want in.

“Bullshit. I want in. And when Andy Cohen wants something, just watch what happens.”

I see what you did there.

“I’m quick on my feet.”

“I have a rando! Are we doing Rando War?”

Okay, first of all, Amir Bar-Lev: you cannot participate in Rando War. Second: that is not a rando. That’s Greg Gumbel.

“This is anti-Semitism.”

How!? Andy Cohen’s not allowed in, either!

“And homophobia.”

You stop accusing me of things, dammit.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

This is not a negotiation.

“12-hour long Director’s Cut.”

Don’t you lie to me, Amir Bar-Lev.

“Three hours is the Englishtown show.”

There is no Director’s Cut. There’s just wackadoos and speculists making shit up on the internet.

“If you say so.”

“The Senator from Minnesota rises to enter Rando War.”

Oh, no.

Again: not a rando. That’s a Senator.

“How many Senators could you pick out of a lineup?”

I could pick Elizabeth Warren out, Al.

“Senator Franken.”

Your lapels are too narrow.

“I want in Rando War, and I’m prepared to shut down the government or do my Mick Jagger impression until it happens.”

I truly hate this bit.

“It’s not as bad as the one with the Burning Man girls and then the picture of the weird guy.”

True. That one’s dreadful.

“Wanna talk Althea?’

No.

The Tripps Spelling Bee

“Okay, if the crowd will just settle down then we can go on to our next round. Let’s have the first contestant up. From Atherton, California, Bobert Weir.”

“Bobby’s fine.’

“Hello, Bobby.”

“Hiya.”

“Bobby, your word is whirlicote.”

“I don’t need a coat.”

“Whirlicote.”

“No matter what it does.”

“No, Bobby. The word is whirlicote.”

“Ah. Can you, uh, use it a sentence?”

“Yes. The Duke and Duchess took a whirlicote to the opera.”

“Okay. Can you spell it?”

“I cannot.”

“Then how are you going to know if I get it right?”

“I meant that I can’t spell it for you. I know how it’s spelled.”

“Well, you know: only cuz you have it written down in front of you. Might wanna get off your high whirlicote.”

“Just spell the word, Bobby.”

“B-O-B-B-Y.”

“You missed the comma in between ‘word’ and ‘Bobby.'”

“Huh. Yeah, looks like I did. Do-over?”

“No. You’re out.”

“All right, then.”

“Let’s have the next contestant. This will be Mr. Billiam Kreutzmann from…Mymother? Is that a town? Billiam, where is Mymother?”

“Probably at the bus station with a cock in her mouth.”

“I see what you did.”

“Got you, fucker.”

“Great. Are you prepared to spell your word?’

“Hit me.”

“Skeumorph.”

“Nation of origin?”

“Greek.”

“Is it about butt-fucking?”

“No.”

“Big butt-fuckers, the Greeks.”

“It is an ornament or design representing a utensil or implement.”

“You sure this bullshit’s a word?”

“Yes.”

“S-U-C-K–”

“Wrong! No. You’re done.”

“Blow me.”

“Thank you, wonderful. Next contestant, please.”

“This is one of the most exciting night s of my life, being here with all these wonderful people and enjoying knowledge and learning and celebrating everything good in the world.”

“Please put your arms down, Mr. Walton.”

“Hands up on defense.”

“This is a spelling bee, sir.”

“You play your way, and I’ll play the right way. Now hit me.”

“Choucroute. Would you like me to use it in a sentence?”

“No need. U-C-L-A.”

“Get off the stage.”

“Which way did Billy got?”

“Follow the screams.”

“Usually the best way to find him, yeah.”

“Let’s just get through the rest of this. Next contestant?”

“Set me up one o’ them fancy words, Professor! The ol’ Pig’s ready to do some spellin’!”

“Didn’t you die in 1973?”

“This a spellin’ bee or a damn trivia quiz!? Don’t you worry ’bout who’s dead and who’s not!”

“Fine. Your word is boxbacknitties.”

“That ain’t no word.”

“Yes.”

“Then lay a little bit o’ context on me!”

“Here is the sentence: She’s got boxbacknitties, and great big ennobled thighs.”

“That’s just gibberish. You drinkin’? And if you is, why haven’t you offered the ol’ Pig some?”

“The word is boxbacknitties.”

“Pig! It starts with a B!”

“Mr. Weir, you’ve been eliminated. Please don’t help. Mr. McKernan?”

“B. Um, uh.”

“Mr. Weir, I can see you making an ‘O’ with your arms.”

“Just stretching.”

“Thanks, Bobby!”

“You got it, Pig.”

“I quit.”

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