Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?
“Feelin’ it, sugar.”
I see that. You look like Kate Moss.
“All pretty people look alike.”
Your hair length says to me that you’ve suffered no extended illnesses.
“Okay, that’s enough. Don’t talk to me like you talk to those Burnin’ Man skanks, darlin’. I ain’t gonna contemplate the universe with you.”
“Besides, I’m married.”
Oh, Mrs. Donna Jean. I don’t want to do this bit with you.
“IS THIS GUY BOTHER–”
Did Keith just slide off the horse?
Where’d he get a horse?
Good talk, Mrs. Donna Jean.
In the distance, where the hills ran parallel to the stream of frissile blue water his best goat drowned in summer last, there were Comanche; The Guitarist had seen them, once, outside of a town whose name was unknown to him. The fierce horribles, gnashing ghastlies in mufti and chaps; some naked, and painted, not with paint; one had a stovepipe hat and a slavewoman’s ass for a saddle; blood-eyed mustang unsaddled madness in the red-specked snow of a winter that doesn’t belong to the white man around here.
And Mrs. Donna Jean thought, “Oh, not this shit again.”
We’ve got ourselves an old-fashioned chin-off, Enthusiasts.
Aw, they gave Bobby the clavés.
This is another pic from FoTotD Ste4ve (pronounced Stuh-FOUR-vuh) and maybe if you say nice things to him in the Comments Section, then there will be more. or maybe not: people with numbers in their names are often squirrelly, as exemplified by New York Times reporter Jennifer 8. Lee. That woman’s squirreliness is off the charts.
Game time, Enthusiasts! There are seven small differences between these two photos: can you spot them?
Also: the day Bobby bought those trousers was the happiest day of Creepy Ernie’s professional and sexual life.
This is a lovely photo of Mrs. Donna Jean that I hadn’t seen before, but this photo is also a good test of whether or not you’ve been reading TotD too much: if you saw the casters and the coil of haphazardly abandoned wire, and thought, “I know who set that up,” then you have been coming here too much.
and the time is right,
for Bobby’s tan capris.
Show’s going on in Queens. Listen here, or watch here, or look at Ned Lagin naked some more. It’s a free country.
There will always be a Mrs. Donna Jean.
Fillmore South will be a reef, corrupt and smoky and teeming with surly fish. The water is rising, and the lakes becoming brackish, and we will move to the mountains; buy real estate in Colorado right now.
Your ancestors, if there are any, will forget your name and all records will be lost after the Grand Mutilations of the Shallow King. When they dig up Las Vegas, they will surely think it religious.
There will still be a Mrs. Donna Jean.
Bobby posted this on his Facebook, and I think it’s sweet and it makes me happy and I wouldn’t dare make one single joke.
(I will get to the guitar.)
I’m not sure how I didn’t think of “Donnaroo.” It’s obvious. But, I didn’t.
Thank God for the Comment Section and their creative minds, generous natures and non-litigious temperaments.
(Speaking of which: I could make a bunch of GIFs from the show if you’d like, but I don’t know how to chop the video up into sub-15-minute chunks. If anyone knows how, then speak now or forever hold your Playin’ Wails.)
No lie: I cheered. And I’m still smiling.