Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: elvis presley (page 1 of 10)

Sketches Of Oklahoma

Goddamn, you look good, Mr. Davis.

“I know.”

What are those trousers made of?

“Masculinity. And some sort of reptile.”

You always were a snappy dresser.

“That’s what I hated about those fucking hillbilly bands I used to have to play with. Sloppy little white children. If they was my white children, I’d drown ’em in the fucking tub. What’s that ugly motherfucker’s name with the high voice?”

Geddy Lee.

“Nah.”

Steve Perry.

“Nah.”

Neil Young.

“That’s him. Big gawky motherfucker. Played with him in New York for that Jew who was always yelling and trying to steal from me.”

Bill Graham.

“That’s him. Neil Young. Yeah. Couldn’t bear to fucking look at him. Got sweat under his armpits, jeans all stained. Motherfucker looked like the bum the other bums use as a cautionary tale. Smelled like an asshole left in the sun. It angered me. I didn’t like it. And his band was worse. I slapped his bass player on principle.”

Of course you did.

“Keith Jarrett showed up for a gig looking like that once. I kicked him real hard in the chest. Man needs to be clean. Look his best. Cut his hair. Take a fucking shower now and then. Shape the fuck up.”

“HE’S RIGHT, MAN. EV’RYBODY’S ALL SLOPPY SUSIES NOWADAYS.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

Oh, shit. This won’t end well.

“WE ALL KNEW AH WOULD BE HERE EVENTUALLY, MAN.”

“This motherfucker?”

He just shows up. Sorry, Mr. Davis.

“COME AN’ ADMIRE MAH JEW’RY. AH HAVE BOTH A JEWISH STAR AND A JESUS CROSS. THIS HONORS ALL THE MAJOR FAITHS O’ SHOW BIZNESS.”

“He crazy?”

Yes. Oh, and he’s most likely gonna–

“MILES DAVIS, AH CHALLENGE YOU T’ KARATE!”

–challenge you to karate.

“Karate my dick, motherfucker.”

BANG!

“AH GOT GUNS, TOO, BOY!”

BANG!

“Who the fuck you calling ‘boy?'”

BANG!

Yeah, this was the only way this could end.

Red West Has Left The Building

Red West died today. He was the first among equals in the Memphis Mafia; he had defended the King from bullies in grade school. Red’s father died the same day that Elvis’ mother died, and they were best friends until Vernon fired half the Mafia in ’75. Red wrote a book, and Elvis never forgave him.

Red also wrote this song.

The Perfect Image Of A Priest

“Dearly beloved and Billy, we are gathered here today to witness these two folks join together in holy matrimony.

“I’m reminded of an old Percy Sledge single: When A Man Loves A Woman. More specifically, the b-side: When A Man Gets Too Old To Plow Groupies With Any Dignity.

“I’m also reminded that I can’t see a thing without my reading glasses. Has anyone seen my glasses?

“Everyone turn out your pockets. No one’s getting married ’til I find the thief.

“Pat down New Brent. Dunno what it is about keyboardists, but they can’t help themselves around shiny objects. They’re like bowerbirds.

“No one’s copping to it? That’s it: wedding’s off.”

“AW WILL MARRY THESE FINE AMERICANS!”

Oh, shit.

“GEN’RAL ELVIS PRESLEY REPORTIN’ FER DUTY!”

You were a private.

“AH PR’MOTED MAHSELF RAPIDLY.”

Get out of here. You’re everyone’s least favorite recurring character.

“BESIDES YOU?”

Ow.

“YOU COME AT TH’ KING, YOU BETTER NOT COME AT TH’ KING!”

Lesson learned. That’s a damned fine salute, Elvis.

“AH INST’NTLY LEARNED ALL THERE WAS ‘BOUT SOLDIERIN’! AH C’N TURN LEFT, AN’ RIGHT, AN’ ABOUT MAH FACE.”

Sure.

“NOT TOO FOND O’ TH’ HOURS.”

Army starts their days a bit earlier than you usually do, yeah.

“AW, MAN, YOU GOT ME ALL UNCOMBOBULATED. S’PPOSED T’ BE MARRYIN’ THEM FOLKS. WHERE THEY GO?”

Bobby threw everyone out of the building while you were saluting.

“LEAVIN’ TH’ BUILDIN’ IS MAH TRICK!”

It’s a good trick.

His Truth Is Marching On

Americans have no king, and we never fucking will.

But we had a King. And we always fucking will.

Live Nudies

The Nudie Suit experiment has never been properly explained; this sounds like a job for Lost Live Dead. There’s not many pics of The Boys in their suits, and they only wore them for a few shows: one (or more) of the Winterland run in December ’72, and then again at New Year’s. The outfits came out again 2/19/73 in Chicago, and then made their final appearance on 3/19/73 at Nassau Coliseum. (And not even for the whole show: everyone changed during set break.)

Wait, you’re saying. Those sound suspiciously like facts, TotD. You don’t traffic in fact and research.

Stop talking, I’d say, or I’ll throw myself out the window and you’ll never find out how the Little Aleppo story ends.

Wow, you’d reply. That got dark real fast.

And then I’d start crying. Are you happy? Is that what you wanted?

Stop this.

They did it. It’s all their fault.

Who is “they?”

Them.

Just stop it.

Fine. The dates from Winterland and Chicago may be wrong–I’m just going on Archive comments–but the Nassau show is a confirmed event. There is, Enthusiasts, evidence.

Look:

Bobby says in an interview that Garcia had his first, in fact had his before April of ’72 because he brought it to Europe with him (even though he didn’t have the balls to wear it onstage.) After March of ’73, though, they were gone forever. Phil still has his…

…and it still fits. (Phil went a little low-key with his, which I disagree with. What’s the point of a Nudie Suit if it can’t be seen from space?)

Who has Garcia’s? Gotta be worth something, more if it hasn’t been laundered.

But let me start at the beginning: 1902 was a terrible time to be born Jewish in Kiev. There’s never been a good time, but 1902 was worse than usual.

“Izzy?”

“Yes, Schmuley?”

“We should go somewhere where there aren’t Cossacks.”

“What is it with those guys?”

“They just seem to like hitting us with sticks.”

“And kicking.”

“Kicking, too. Let’s go to America.”

“You mean the Land of the Free, a country built on immigration that would never turn away needy and desperate refugees?”

“No, America.”

“Oh, okay. At least there’ll be jobs.”

“Sure.”

And so on.

One of these newly-arrived Jews was a young man named Nuta Kotlyarenko, who renamed himself Nudie Cohn and became a tailor, first in Minnesota where he met his wife Bobbie; they opened a shop in New York selling underwear to showgirls, and then moved to Los Angeles in the 40’s to make Western Wear. Spangles and frills and themes, and the last one is the most important: the key to the Nudie Suit is the theme. Anyone can slap some rhinestones onto a jacket, but a Nudie has a raison d’etre.

Look at this bullshit:

That’s some down-home bullshit right there.

That’s Porter Wagoner (right), and he was the first Country star to start wearing Nudie Suits; in fact, Nudie gave him his first suit for free, thinking it would be good promotion. It was. Soon, every male Country star had to have a Nudie Suit.

Hank Williams had one:

The notes represented his love of music.

Gram Parsons had one, too:

The drugs represent his love of drugs.

Every artist has a masterpiece, and Nudie Cohn was certainly an artist. His greatest suit of all time may have been both his simplest and his flashiest. You’ve seen it before once or twice:

“AH’M BACK!”

No, you’re not. Shh.

Anyway, Nudie Cohn died in 1984, but you can still get “Nudie Suits;” they make periodic comebacks adorning roots-rockers or alt-country acts. (You really can’t wear a Nudie Suit anywhere other than the stage. If you walk into a Taco Bell dressed like this, you will get gorditas thrown at you.)

Circling back to the Dead (this is about the Grateful Dead, remember), we still have many questions. Why would Garcia have had one in the first place? A Nudie Suit wasn’t an impulse purchase, nor could it have been a gift: they were hand-made, so you have to visit Nudie for measurement and fittings, and very expensive. And recall that Garcia got his before everyone else did, so it wasn’t a group decision. Garcia–in an entirely out-of-character move–bought himself a Nudie Suit out of nowhere? None of this makes sense. Bobby was the one who thought he was a cowboy. Someone explain this to me.

Like I said, the rest of the band thought it was a spiffy idea, so they followed Garcia down to the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles, where Nudie’s of Hollywood was located, and fancied themselves right up. Bobby and Billy looked like this:

“I was gonna get skank on the legs, but I settled for pot.”

Quiet. This is not a dialogue post.

“Ah, suck my nuts.”

Great.

Even Keith had one, though there’s just this one black-and-white photo of him:

Poor Keith. He doesn’t want to be in a Nudie Suit. He knows he’s not pulling it off. Aw.

Much like the Farewell Shoes, Mrs. Donna Jean was not included. She did, however, wear a very fetching red number when the rest of the band payed dress-up. She looked like this:

Another alternate reality created, another unwritten future. What if they hadn’t learned to write songs? What if they buckled down and rehearsed and continued being the band they were in ’77? What if Brent didn’t die? And: What if they gave a shit about what they looked like?

Alas, it was not to be. The Nudie Suits were put in the closet, and the tee-shirts and jeans came out; in the 80’s, sweatpants and short shorts replaced the jeans. Never again would the Dead have “stage clothes.” But for a moment, they looked bitchin’.

He’s My Favorite Honky

See that guy behind Fancy Spanglestein? That, Enthusiasts, is Ronnie Tutt; he is a motherfucker. Do not bring your mother around Ronnie Tutt, unless you want her to be fucked. Ronnie Tutt was born in Dallas, Texas, and he might be one of the great American drummers. Ronnie played in Garcia’s best solo band, the short-lived Legion of Mary, and his second-best band, the one with Nicky Hopkins.

Ronnie Tutt also played sessions. You are intimately familiar with him even if this is the first time you’ve heard his name. Piano Man. You’ve heard it once or twice? Ronnie Tutt. He also played for the Carpenters, which breaks my heart because I thought Karen did the drumming. You lied to me, Carpenters. (Although that does make the story about John Bonham flying into a rage when she beat him in some “Best Drummer” poll even funnier.)

And he drummed for Elvis. Ronnie Tutt was in the King’s vast Vegas band from the first show in ’69 to the last tour in ’77, and Elvis keyed in on him throughout the show, and Ronnie Tutt watches Elvis right back so that when the King demonstrates karate, he has a proper soundtrack.

Here, watch:

When Elvis died, Ronnie Tutt went to work for Neil Diamond and hasn’t left since; from interviews with him, the job seems like a good fit. Ronnie Tutt appreciates professionalism, and one gets a sense that he was completely sick of Garcia’s hippie bullshit within weeks of forming the LoM. (When Ronnie Tutt asked John Kahn when band practice was, John Kahn responded with, “Practice? We’re talking about practice? Not a show. Not a show, but practice?) Neil also lets him sing, which Ronnie Tutt loves to do.

“WE TALKIN’ ‘BOUT HARD-WORKIN’ RONNIE TUTT?”

Oh, good. You’re back.

“AH AM WELCOMED EV’RYWHERE, AN’ SOMETIMES PEOPLE GIMME STUFF.”

Great.

“RONNIE TUTT WAS TH’ MOST POWERFULLEST DRUMMER EVER DONE COME OUTTA TEXAS. HE SOUNDED LIKE A FREIGHT TRAIN WITH A BONER, BOY.”

Lovely simile.

“AH WOULD OFTEN HAVE HIM SET UP HIS DRUMS IN MAH BOO-DWAH AT GRACELAND.”

Why?

“SO HE COULD MUSICALLY ACCOMPANY MAH LOVEMAKIN’. MADE IT SOUND REAL DRAMATIC. LIKE AH WAS SOME SORTA SEX DINOSAUR.”

You just popping in or are you back for a while?

“TH’ FUTURE GONNA DO WHAT TH’ FUTURE GONNA DO.”

True. Elvis, did Ronnie Tutt ever sing backup for you?

“SINGIN’ DRUMMERS? AIN’T GONNA BE NO SINGIN’ DRUMMERS AT TH’ KING’S SHOW, BOY. THERE’S TWO DOZEN SINGERS IN TH’ BAND ALREADY.”

Also true.

Prize Fight

“Putin love you, Kodo. Putin love you, Podo.”

“KLICKICKICKICK!”

“EEeeeKLICKeeeEEEEeee.”

“Da, Putin vill have trainer killed.”

What are you doing?

“Mastering beasts.”

You are not the Beastmaster.

“Putin is Beastmaster. Talk to animals. Dumb creatures. Foolish things. Useful brutes. You getting vhat Putin is laying down?”

Yeah. I do.

“If Russians laughed, Putin vould be laughing.”

Are you telling me that you used your psionic abilities to communicate with the animal kingdom to mesmerize Trump into doing your bidding?

“Da, vhy nyet? This makes as much sense as any other explanation for election.”

It’s been a weird time over here, man.

“Putin happy.”

“POOTER GONNA BE SLAPHAPPY!”

Dammit. What do you do, hang around right offstage waiting for your cue?

“MAH JUMPSUIT IS MADE FROM TH’ FIBERS O’ EXISTENCE ISSELF, MAN. AH C’N FEEL WHEN AH AM NEEDED.”

You’re not needed.

“No one need Elvis America.”

“YEAH, MAN? THEN WHY’D TH’ PEOPLE GIMME THIS?”

“That man has eye condition.”

“THASS MAH FURRIER, MAN. PROVIDES ME AN’ MAH GIRLFRIENDS WITH TH’ FINEST OF COATS. SABLE, MINK, CHINCHILLA. AH HAVE A HAT MADE O’ CAPYBARA.”

“This is rat. You have rat hat.”

“IT AIN’T NO RAT HAT, MAN! ISS EXOTIC!”

“Big rat. Small award.”

“THIS HERE A LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD, HOMBRE. YOU BES’ RECOGNIZE MAH ACHIEVMENTS! THIS HERE WHATCHAMACALLIT SAYS IT MAH ACHIEVEMENTS STRETCH MAH WHOLE LIFE. NOT MANY C’N SAY THAT.”

“Pssh.”

“Is so small.”

“IT AIN’T TH’ SIZE O’ TH’ AWARD, ISS HOW AWESOME Y’ARE! AN’ YOU AIN’T AWESOME.”

“Trophy says different.”

“WHASS ‘AT EVEN FOR?”

Потрясающие.”

“YOU SPEAK HEATHEN TONGUES ‘ROUND ME ONCE MORE, AN’ ISS GONNA BE A TIME WAR, BOY.”

“Nyetbody vant Time War.”

“MADE NO DANG SENSE. JUS’ A FLIPPITY-DIPPITY O’ A STORYLINE.”

“And alvays vith dinosaurs.”

“ISS LIKE A TIC WITH HIM, MAN.”

“Da.”

“BAM! HOW YOU LIKE THAT? AH GOT A BIG AWARD ‘AN SOME POLK SALAD. AN’ AH GOT ME A FAT GUY.”

“Guy is not so fat.”

“WHATCHOO TALKIN’ ‘BOUT, POOTER? ISS 1971. THIS SUMBITCH IS FAT AS SHIT F’R 1971.”

“Fat guy have face of Brezhnev.”

“YOU GOT A POINT, MAN.”

“Vhat is small shiny record for?”

“ISS F’R ME.”

“For doing vhat?”

“BEIN’ ME.”

“Is small.”

“BIGGER’N TH’ LAST ONE!”

“Da.”

“Putin have bigger one, too.”

“THASS RELATIVELY TH’ SAME SIZE.”

“No. Is bigger. Scroll back.”

“AH SAID RELATIVELY.”

“Veasel vord.”

“Y’KNOW, YOU SHOULD JUS’ MAKE A CONCERTED EFFORT T’ STAY AWAY FROM WORDS THAT START WITH W.”

“Then how could Putin call himself vinner?”

“YOU AIN’T WINNIN’, COMMIE. LOOKY HERE!”

“ONE, TWO…A LOT. MANY. AN’ AH’M A SHERIFF.”

“Elvis is nyet sheriff.”

“GOT A BADGE. GONNA ARREST YER RED ASS. FROG-MARCH YA DOWN T’ TH’ HOOSEGOW WITH ALL TH’ BOOTY BANDITS!”

“Putin’s English is nyet idiomatic enough for these terms.”

“AH DO TEND T’ COLLOQUIALIZE.”

“This is not vord.”

“ISS A DANG NEOLOGISM! AMERICANS C’N MAKE UP THEIR OWN WORDS, OR HAVE CHARLIE HODGE DO IT F’R THEM!”

“Charlie Hodge cannot come up vith vords. Charlie Hodge is simpleton.”

“YEAH, OKAY, YOU GOT ANOTHER POINT.”

“Putin is vinning.”

“HOW YOU WINNIN’? SHOW ME?’

“How do Putin’s balls taste?”

“AH AIN’T TASTIN’ YER BALLS!”

“Do you lack taste buds? Balls are in mouth.”

“NAW, MAN! THIS HERE’S A BALL-FREE MOUTH.”

“Barely room for teeth, is so much ball.”

“MAH TEETH GOT ROOM! THEY COULD PUT THEIR FEET UP!”

Elvis!

“WHATCHOO WANT, BOY?”

Can I talk to you over here?

“AH GRANT THIS.”

THEME FROM 2001 NOISE

Does that happen whenever you walk?

‘UH-HUH.”

Awesome. King, listen: you’re taking a beating out there.

“AH HAVE SEV’RAL COMEBACKS IN ME.”

You were always good at those. Just get it together. Please don’t let Putin kick your ass.

“AH AM VERY SYMBOLIC.”

Right.

An Escalation Of Force

Hey, Your Holiness. Whatcha doing?

“I’m-a callin’ da Jesus.”

The phone’s not plugged into anything.

“He’s-a da Jesus! He wanna pick up-a da phone, He pick up-a da phone.”

Sure. You know why I like Jesus, Pope Francis?

“Why?”

Because you capitalize His pronouns, so He’s always so easy to find in a paragraph.

“I like-a da love He-a had for us, so that-a we could share in His-a resurrection.”

That, too.

POPE PHONE NOISE

“Is that-a you or me?”

I’m not a Pope. My phone doesn’t make that noise.

“Si, si. Only one-a Pope.”

Except for that one time in the 1400’s there were two.

“No, no. That was-a da Anti-Pope.”

Oh, right. The Pope of Rome declared the Pope of Avignon the Anti-Pope. The Middle Ages were like a dumb comic book.

“Si, si.”

POPE PHONE NOISE

“I should-a get that.”

It’s not plugged in.

“Maybe it’s-a Jesus.”

Sure.

“I’m-a da Pope-a, what’s-a da dope-a?”

“Putin catch more fish.”

“Hello, Vladimir.”

“Vhat happen to Chico Marx accent?”

“Shut it, you permafrosted fuckhead. What do you want?”

“Putin vill buy Vatican.”

“Fuck you.”

“Putin vill invade Vatican. Vatican always part of Russia.”

“Suck my infalliballs, Ivan. You know better than to fuck with the Church.”

“How many divisions you have”

“Cute.”

“AH’LL SAVE YOU, MISTER POPE!”

“THIS HERE’S MAH NEMESIS POOTER, AN’ AH’M AWFUL SORRY HE’S INNERUPTIN’ SOME O’ YER WITCHCRAFT OR WHATNOT.”

“You are-a not a Catholic, my-a son?”

“Is fake accent, Elvis America. Is lying Pope. Fake Pope.”

“YOU SHUT YER MOUTH WHEN YOU’RE SPEAKIN’ T’ THE KING OF ITALIANS!”

“”No, no. Is-a no fake.”

“AH BELIEVE YOU, YOUR FRIENDLINESS. AH TAKE CARE THIS COMMIE HERE, YOU THINK YOU C’N RUSTLE ME UP A BADGE ‘R TWO?”

“Si, si. We got-a like three, four building here that’s-a nothin’ but-a da badges.”

“AH DO BELIEVE YOU LIVE IN HEAVEN. AH’M GONNA CALL YOU HAPPY FRANK.”

“If-a you must.”

“AH DO. NOW BACK T’ POOTER.”

“Putin get crossbow vhile Elvis America chit-chat vith Fake Pope.”

“GODDAMN, BOY, YOU WORK FAST. SORRY ‘BOUT TH’ CURSIN’, PADRE.”

“I-a forgive you.”

“SWEET. HEY, POOTER! LOOK OVER THERE!”

“Vhere?

“HOWZAT COMMIE CROSSBOW LOOKIN’ NOW, SON? AH’M GONNA SHOOT YOU IN YER ASS!”

“You vill no shoot ass. Putin is quickest draw in Vest.”

“RUSSIA’S TH’ EAST, Y’ DANG CHILLY-WILLY!”

“Moscow is vest Russia.”

“NEED MORE ‘N A VEST IN RUSSIA, BOY. ISS COLD OVER THERE.”

“Not vest. Vest.”

“AH’M GONNA SHOOT TH’ FOREIGN OUTTA YER MOUTH!”

“No, you vill be eaten by bear behind you.”

“BEAR?”

“Now Putin has pistol.”

“DANG IT, AH FELL F’R TH’ OLDEST TRICK IN TH’ BOOK.”

“Vatican vill be Putin’s. Build mistress summer house. Maybe torture journalist there. Plans up in air.”

“YER GONNA BE UP IN TH’ AIR!”

“This nyet makes sense.”

“SURE, IT DOES. AH’M GONNA PUNT YA.”

“Vhat is punt?”

“A SHAMEFUL ACT, MAN! WORST THING YA C’N DO T’ A FOOTBALL!”

“Putin is nyet football. You vill not punt Putin.”

“GONNA GET ME A TIGHT SPIRAL ON YA.”

“No, I shoot Elvis.”

“MAN, THASS TH’ PRETTIEST BIRD AH EVER SAW.”

“Vhat? Vhere? Putin love animals.”

“YOU ONE DUMB BOLSHEVIK, BOY.”

“Putin let you do that.”

“NUH-UH.”

“Da.”

“NUH-UH.”

“Da. Bear is behind you again.”

“OH, NO!”

“Putin trick Elvis America again.”

“DAMMIT!”

“Putin has tommy gun.”

“THAT AIN’T NO TOMMY GUN, ISS A COMMIE GUN.”

“Putin see what you did there.”

“MAH WIT IS AS QUICK AS MAH FISTS AN’ FEET.”

“This is not quick.”

“IZZAT HENRY WINKLER BEHIND YOU?”

“The Fonz? Vhere?”

“Damn you, Elvis America. Putin loves Fonzie.”

“YOUR MISERY IS A BEAUTIFUL THING, MAN. NOW GO ON, GET.”

“Putin be back.”

“EVERYONE IS AWARE BY NOW OF TH’ REGENERATIVE NATURE O’ THIS HERE UNIVERSE.”

“Putin vill get revenge.”

“YEAH, YEAH. SUCK ON TH’ POPE’S BALLS, MAN.”

“Si, si, Suck on-a da balls.”

“OH, HEY. DIDN’T KNOW YOU WAS STILL HERE.”

“Si, si.”

“Putin vill not forget this. To the skies!”

“WHAT?”

“OH.”

“Elvis, da Pope-a supposed to love-a everyone.”

“UH-HUH.”

“That guy makes-a it tough.”

“THAT FELLA’S A REAL PRICKLY PEAR.”

“Si. You want-a da spaghetti?”

“YOU READ MAH MIND, HAPPY FRANK.”

From The Mixed-Up Files of Frank J. Russo

Hey, Garcia. Whatcha doing?

“Hanging out in the bathroom in a jacket.”

Cool, cool. Hey, lemme ask you a question.

“Yeah, man?”

You ever want to be in a storyline? You know: star in one?

“I dunno, man. Think I’ll stick with the cameos. Not really my shtick, right? Weir’s better at it, anyway.”

No, you’d be great. You’re a very dynamic character.

“The ladies call me the Human Dynamo.”

There you go. How about it?

“Ehh. What was this last one about? I mean, they’re all a bit loosey-goosey for my taste. Never liked the scatterbrained art films.”

There’s absolutely nothing artistic whatsoever about what I do.

“Still, man.”

Last one was fun.

“Numerous iterations of myself got blowdarts to the neck, man. That’s not fun.”

It was funny.

“Ha. The Russian guy? Elvis? Seemed like you just had everyone chase each other around for no reason so they could tell jokes.”

Nooooooo.

“Right, man.”

So much fun! Look what you’re missing!

“Putin still alive.”

“YOU GONNA TIRE OUT SOON, BOY! CAN’T NOBODY KEEP UP TH’ BUTTERFLY F’R LONG!”

“Putin is like fish vith huge penis.”

“NEITHER O’ THOSE THINGS!”

“Both!”

“NEITHER!”

“If you in boat, how come you nyet catch me yet?”

“THASS AN EXCELLENT QUESTION, POOTER. DON’T MAKE A LICK O’ SENSE.”

“Putin show dumb American trick.”

RUSSIAN DIVING NOISE

RUSSIAN RESURFACING NOISE

“Ptoo. Is fish.”

“DIDJOO JUS’ CATCH THAT GROUPER WITH YER MOUTH?”

“Da.”

“GIVE TH’ DEVIL HIS DUE, MAN. THASS SOME GOOD FISHIN’.”

“Spaceeba.”

thwip

sploosh

“Ha. Blowdart miss Putin.”

“WASN’T AIMIN’ FOR YOU, MAN.”

ENRAGED SHARK NOISE

“JUS’ TRYIN’ T’ PISS OFF JABBERJAW THERE.”

“Shitski.”

Garcia?

Garciiiiia?

“What, man?’

Weren’t you paying attention?”

“I got busy.”

Put that down.

“Fuck off.”

Don’t do lines, do storylines.

“Pass.”

It’s very rude of you to have an opiate addiction.

BATHROOM DOOR SLAM

I was done talking to you, too.

Rising From The Depths

Remember when there were stone-cold foxes in the front row?

“Uh, actually, the front row has always looked like this. Just, you know: younger.”

This looks like a fire hazard.

“It’s perfectly safe. Just as long as there’s no fire.”

Sure. Phil?

“What?”

Did you see Putin’s corpse?

“His what?”

His corpse. When he drowned, did you fish him out of the canal and make sure he was dead?

“No, it was time for the second set.”

Sure.

“Elvis killed him. Don’t worry about it.”

“You should vorry. Putin alive.”

Dammit. How?

“KGB dolphins.”

Shit.

“Putin name them Kodo and Podo.”

Don’t name them that.

“Putin is Beastmaster now.”

You are not the Beastmaster! Marc Singer is the Beastmaster! I was on a plane with him once.

“How he look?”

Great. Real tall. No carry-on, just had a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets in his hand.

“Vhat?”

I’ve been trying to figure it out for years.

“This is vild story. Now I vill get revenge on Elvis America.”

Aren’t you a little busy getting your revenge on the actual America?

“Putin kicking your ass.”

Y’know? In an entirely “don’t hate the player, hate the game” kind of way: I salute you, you murderous fuck. You are killing 2017.

“Putin having good year.”

Sure. But here’s the thing: can’t you have a good year without everyone else having a bad year?”

“Nyet. How could Putin be happy if vorld is not suffer?”

Wow.

“Except for Kodo and Podo. They vill never suffer. Be avarded Order of Lenin. Give them pension, dacha by Black Sea.”

Great. Could you play with your dolphins for a second?

“They vork their blowholes to the bone for Mother Russia.”

Sure. Gimme a sec.

“Da.”

Phil?

“Whaaaat? Jesus, you’re a pest.”

Putin’s alive.

“Nah.

I just talked to him.

“Naaaaaah.”

Where’s Elvis?

“At the bar showing people his award.”

Why does he have an award?

“AH WON TRIVIA NIGHT!”

Great. Elvis, listen–”

“DON’T YOU NEVER TELL TH’ KING T’ LISTEN! AH LISTEN T’ JESUS AN’ MAH HEART. THASS IT, MAN.”

Sure, but–

“BOY, YOU GONNA LEMME TELL MAH STORY OF VICTORY AN’ MANLINESS NOW.”

Oh, fine.

“PEOPLE DON’T KNOW THIS ‘BOUT TH’ KING, BUT AH AM A TRIVIA BUFF. AH WAS GONNA BE ON JEOPARDY, BUT THEY WAS ONLY GONNA SHOOT ME FROM TH’ WAIST UP.”

Is that a joke?

“IT WAS, MAN. GOOD EYE. DAMN, ISS NICE HANGIN’ OUT WITH FOLKS WHAT AIN’T TH’ MEMPHIS MAFIA. DUMBER ‘N A COUCH IN A SWIMMIN’ POOL.  LOOKIT MAH AWARD AGAIN!”

Nice.

“MAN, TH’ STARS LINED UP F’R ME! ALL TH’ CATEGORIES WAS VERY FAMILIAR TO MAHSELF.”

Such as?

“KARATE.”

Sure.

“SPRITUALITY AN’ TH’ BROTHERHOOD O’ MAN.”

Okay.

“GRITS.”

Right.

“TH’ FANCIEST O’ JEW’RY.”

That was the name of the category?

“DON’T QUESTION MAH MEMORY, BOY.”

Okay. Excuse me one second.

“YOU ARE EXCUSED.”

Phil?

“Whaaaaaaaaaat?”

Did you rig Trivia Night so Elvis could win?

“Seemed like the nice thing to do.”

Is that one of your gold records?

“I don’t know whose it is. Might be mine. One of the busboys found it in the walk-in.”

That was nice of you, Phil. Elvis loves being presented with shiny things.

“Yeah, sure. Honestly, I just wanted to distract him for a couple minutes. Son of a bitch has gone through nine entrees already. Then he wanted a grilled cheese sandwich.”

I would imagine you could whip that up for him.

“Not his version. A deep-fried wheel of cheese with bagels stapled to it.”

Ew.

“Can’t eat that way for long. No idea how he’s still alive.”

He’s not, Phil.

“You know what I mean.”

Sort of, but not really.

“Hey, is Putin still outsi–”

KABOOM

“The bocce courts!”

Putin! Goddammit, did you blow up the bocce courts?

“Me? Noooooooo.”

I don’t believe you.

“Vhy not?”

The pistol you’re holding, for one.

“Putin love Second Amendment.”

You don’t have any amendments.

“Putin have all the amendments.

Why won’t you leave Terrapin Crossroads alone, Putin?

“Hitting metaphor on head a little hard.”

You think?

“Da.”

Regardless!

“Putin invade playground next. Then take gazebo. No more storytime with Phil Grateful.”

“DAMN YOU F’R RUININ’ TRIVIA NIGHT, COMMIE!”

“Finally. Elvis America vill fight Putin man to man.”

“MAN T’ MAN? NAH. KING T’ FINK. YER A FINK, MAN.”

“Putin does not understand ‘fink.'”

“LOOK IN TH’ MIRROR, MAN. ALL SHALL BE REVEALED.”

“Fight Putin.”

KARATE!

JUDO!

KARATE!

JUDO!

“Is shame readers can nyet have our fight described to them.”

“I TOL’ HIM ALREADY, MAN. ISS AN INNERESTIN’ CONCEIT, BUT IT LIMITS YER STORYTELLIN’ POSSIBILITIES.”

“Da. But makes reader use imagination. Like radio play.”

“DON’T BE STANDIN’ UP F’R HIM! ISS JUS’ PURE LAZINESS!”

“Da.”

KARATE!

JUDO!

“Ve are too evenly matched. Perhaps ve should join forces and rule Americ–”

thwip

“Again?”

flump

You blowdart him again?

“NAH, MAN. AH WAS PREPARED T’ DIE BY MAH KARATE.”

Phil?

Phil?

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?”

Did you blowdart Putin?

“No.”

Okay. So, who did?

“You never saw me.”

Yes, sir. Where’d you learn how to use a blowdart?

“Kenya.”

Right.

Older posts
%d bloggers like this: