Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill walton (page 1 of 7)

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.”


Twice Were Kings

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


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


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.”




“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.”


“I got great reviews from Pam Dawber.”


“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.”


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


“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.”


“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.”


“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.


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



“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?’


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.”


“Bobby, your word is whirlicote.”

“I don’t need a coat.”


“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.”


“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.”


“Nation of origin?”


“Is it about butt-fucking?”


“Big butt-fuckers, the Greeks.”

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

“You sure this bullshit’s a word?”



“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.”


“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.”

Beam Me Up, Mickey

One of these days, Mickey and Bill Walton are going to have a Dead shirt-off, and I don’t think both of them will survive the ordeal.


In Donald Trump’s dreams, his hands are the size of Bill Walton’s. (Holy shit, look at those paws.)


What’s the doohickey? Bottom right on the near side of the Beam. It looks like a coin slot. Does the Beam take quarters? If someone is playing the Beam and you put your quarter down, do you get next?


Is Mickey about to perform? Or–and this is my guess–has he begun wearing those sweatbands at all times?

March Madness Without Research

  • I know I usually cheat a little on the tenets of Without Research, but I promise not to this time, mostly because I sincerely don’t give a shit.
  • It is a basketball tournament, but LeBron is not in it.
  • Florida is (was?) in it, and number 11 on that team is a young man named Josh Jackson who has an immense upswoop of afro; he looks like Huey from The Boondocks.
  • Brother on the Dead went to U of F, so I root for the Gators when it comes to college sports.
  • My alma mater did not have sports, unless you count experimenting with heroin and homosexuality a sport.
  • So I just root for BotD’s school, and I noticed Josh Jackson on the teevee; I was like “Yay, Josh Jackson,” and then I saw something about him the internet and I think he may have shit on the hood of a woman’s Kia.
  • I have remained a fan of people who have done far, far worse things than that.
  • First there are 64 teams.
  • Then, 32.
  • After that is the Sweet Sixteen.
  • I think they want us to call this round the “Elite Eight” but that’s just horrible.
  • Finally, four.
  • The NCAA tournament is a reverse logarithm, if you think about it.
  • Did Bill Walton win it?
  • I’m going to assume that Bill Walton won it.
  • Duke.
  • Wow, am I not even going to attempt the coach’s name Without Research.
  • You know who I’m talking about.
  • University of North Carolina.
  • They are the Tar Heels, but I think they’re also a goat.
  • Xavier and Gonzaga.
  • Every fucking year with Xavier and Gonzaga, and I have absolutely no idea where either of them is.
  • I mean to look it up every year, but then I don’t because I just don’t care.
  • I do know that “Xavier” is not pronounced like Professor Charles Xavier, but like Xavier Cugat.
  • The X makes a Z sound.
  • Which is silly: just be Zavier, Xavier.
  • Stop confusing comic book fans.
  • There are seedings, and sometimes teams can be overseeded or underseeded, even though neither of those words are words.
  • A team will be deemed the Cinderella Story.
  • College basketball is broken into geographical groupings called “families;” and coaches have to swear a blood oath, or omerta, to the family and regularly kick up cash and teenagers’ knees.
  • I have been informed I am sort of talking about the mafia; I apologize for the mix-up.
  • There’s the SEC, which is in the South, and the ACC, which is not.
  • And the Conference of Champions, which is in the West.
  • (The conference probably isn’t actually called that, but I don’t know the real name of it and that’s what Bill Walton calls it.)
  • Is there a Big 10 for basketball, or is that just a football thing?
  • The tournament takes the best teams from each conference and pits them against each other in gentlemanly, amateur competition until we know who the victor is; sport at its purest.
  • Nah, just shittin’ ya: the whole shebang is just a reason to gamble.
  • You fill out your brackets, which are decision trees made up of the dreams of teenagers, and then you got yourself a one-in-a-quadrillion shot of getting it right.
  • Wait, I was wrong: one-in-14-quadrillion.
  • (Yeah, I cheated. I don’t care about the basketball, but the corruption and money are interesting.)
  • $10 billion every year, and here’s the fun part: only a quarter or so of that goes to American bookmakers; the rest leaves the country via the internet, and I’m positive that it only goes to the nicest people.
  • Obama used to love the tournament, and he would do a spot on ESPN every year about his bracket and what he thought of the teams.
  • He was witty and charming, and he could tell a joke or take one.
  • When they asked Trump to fill out a bracket, Kellyanne Conway stepped in front of the president, and then her face split open lengthwise and cancer flew out, and tuberculosis, too; all the pestilence of earth, foul and roaming, and Kellyanne shrieked Bii-YAAAAAALLL and the ESPN reporter was never seen again.
  • If you stop dribbling the ball, you cannot start dribbling it again or the ref will call you for a double-dribble, which is the least-imaginatively named penalty in sports.
  • (High-sticking is pretty on-the-nose, too, now that I think about it. TotD prefers that fouls be described more abstractly. “Icing.” That could mean, like, anything. Everyone’s on the ice at all times. “Balk” is a good one. Balk is an obscure verb, and it gets bonus points for being awkward to say.)
  • Is there a Final Four for Quidditch?
  • Fuck, I hope not.
  • You know people play Quidditch, right?
  • I despise these screeds from the pasty patsies at the Times (that useless Frank Bruni did one this weekend) about “the terrible state of our students.”
  • The kids are all right.
  • They got a reason to be pissed.
  • But when I see those little shits waddling around on broomsticks pretending to be wizards and shouting dog Latin at each other, I want to get the Time Sheath and have President Nixon call in the National Guard to their campuses.
  • Stop playing Quidditch, children.
  • If you want people to know you’re from the suburbs, then go buy yourself a frisbee and start an Ultimate team.
  • Do not Quidditch, children; we will not defeat Radical Islamic Terrorism that way.

Pack Up Your Life Again

Be careful, Bill Walton. Leaving that van door open is an invitation for–

“Heeeeey, man.”

–Soup to show up. Hey, Soup.

“Oscar night glamour, man.”

You’re watching the Academy Awards?

“No, this is the night that my buddy Oscar comes over. He’s a snappy dresser, man.”

Sure. You’re living in Bill Walton’s van in 1978 now?

“Just for the weekend. I’ve been surfing these past few months, man.”


“Well, you know need a place that’s available, right? So I been staying at the White House on weekends, and Mar-A-Lago during the week, man.”

There is an open bed at those places at those times. Good thinking, Soup.

“Nothing gets by me, man.”

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