Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: jenkins (page 1 of 6)

Listen, My Enthusiasts, And You Shall Hear

A long time ago, in Boston…

“I’m only going to explain this one more time.”

“Paul, I’m thiiiiiis close to understanding it.”

“You’ve been saying that for twenty minutes, Jenkins.”

“It’s confusing!”

“It is truly not. If you see the British coming by land, then hang one lantern in the steeple of the Old North Church.”


“Oh, God, what?”

“Are we calling it the ‘Old’ North Church? From our perspective, it’s not that old.”

“I need you to concentrate.”

“Sure, okay.”

“One if by land. You got that?”


“And if they come by sea, then hang two lanterns.”

“What about the river?”


“The Charles. Big river here. What if the British come up the river?”

“That counts as the sea.”

“It’s freshwater!”

“Jenkins, you’re killing me. Land: one. Any variation of water whatsoever: two.”

“Gotcha. What about by air?”

“It’s 1775, jackass.”

“Surely we have hot air balloons.”

“Not for another ten years.”

“Huh. Gliders?”

“Jenkins, there will be no air assault.”

“If you say so, Paul. What if the British ride elephants over the Berkshires?”

“They won’t do that.”

“That’s the arrogance that led to Rome’s downfall.”

“There are no elephants in America.”

“You have literally no way of stating that as a fact. We’ve explored nothing of this continent. It could be elephant central.”

“Jenkins, there are no elephants here.”

“Are you saying we settled a non-elephant country? What’s the point?”


“What good is freedom without elephants?”

“Are you just trying to annoy me now?”


“Stop talking.”

“What if the Redcoats swoop in on the Eagles of Manwë?”

Lord of the Rings won’t be written for 150 years, man.”

“What a great surprise attack!”

“Jenkins, I need you to listen to me. Watch the harbor. Watch the fields. When you see the British, put either one or two lanterns in the steeple.”

“Should we be using the church?”

“What do you mean?”

“Separation of Church and State.”

“Not a thing yet.”

“Does anything exist now?”


“Anything good?”

“Sometimes someone you hate gets cholera.”

“The past sucks.”

“Regardless. One if by land. Two if by sea.”

“One if by land. Two if by sea. Got it.”

“And have you seen my apprentice anywhere?”

“Johnny Tremain? I think he’s boring grade schoolers.”

“Makes sense.”

Call Me By Putin’s Name

“Russian Jenkins!”

“Da, sir.”

“Vhat did Putin tell you about comedic Russian accents?”

“Only you get to have one, sir.”

“Da. Putin is star of dialogue.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So many phone calls.”

“Well, you have so many phones.”

“Putin has most phones in vorld. Very important person.”

“You’re a VIP, sir.”

“Do nyet do that. Acronyms are for degenerates and the veak.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“China call. Say vonderful things. They have gift to honor Putin.”

“A gift? That’s lovely. What are they sending?”

“Not sending. Doing. Remember the thing in Singapore?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now is nyet thing in Singapore.”

“That’s a great gift.”

“Is just Putin’s size. And I am tough to shop for!

“Finding your Christmas present is always a nightmare for me, sir.”

“Vhat do you get the man who has killed everyone?”

“True, sir.”

“Cuba sent cigars.”

“Cuba always sends cigars.”

“Is their thing.”

“Has Chancellor Merkel called yet, sir?”

“She text.”


“Is mean lady. But Putin is vaiting on best call.”


“Da. You stay. Put on speaker.”

“I’m gonna laugh, sir.”

“Do nyet laugh!”

“He’s just so–”


“It’s him, it’s him.”

“I’m so excited!”

“Do not make me judo you, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”


“Da. Is Putin.”


“Nyet. Is Putin.”

“General? Is this my General?”

“Goddammit, Mr. President, I’m standing right next to you.”

“I knew that and you know that I knew that, everyone says so. Who am I on the phone with? Tell me it’s not Mexico.”

“You’re on the phone with Vladimir Putin, sir.”

“Oh, he’s great.”

“Yes, sir. Now, please remember: don’t congratulate him.”

“Right, sure, congratulate him.”

“No. No, sir. Do not congratulate him.”

“Sure, of course, do not forget to congratulate him.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Putin can hear you two.”


“Do nyet call me that.”

“President Putin!”

“Is better. Hello, Donald.”



“Spaceeba, Donald. This means ‘Thank you’ in Russian.”

“Beautiful language, just spectacular. There’s a lot of really, really gorgeous languages out there, but you can’t beat Russian. A lot of people would go with English, they’d say ‘The President is supposed to root for English,’ but I didn’t set the Electoral College on fire by listening to anyone. Mexican, not a great language. Whatever the hell that African thing is with the clicks and whatever, not great. I think they’re making it up! Fake language!”

“Da. Russian is tongue of poets.”

“Your election win was absolutely spectacular, President Putin. The people over there love you. Maybe even more than the American people love me, not that you’d know from the lying media who just want to report about chaos and gossip, and who don’t see–and so many people see this–that I’m getting things done for my country. We’re gonna start executing drug dealers.”

“Is good start. Must be strong, Donald.”

“Strong, sure, right, strong.”

“People vant strong hand to guide them. People are veak and foolish. Need powerful man to keep them safe.”

“I have some of the strongest hands anyone has ever seen.”


“Da, da. Such strong.”

“No one thought you could accomplish what you did in the election, but you proved them wrong.”

“Putin front on the haters.”

“True, great, true, sure. Listen, I gotta go. I got a bucket of KFC here and my show is on.”

“Sounds like you have busy day planned.”

“No President has ever worked harder than me. Maybe you, but I’m talking about Americans. None. Okay, it’s chicken time. I’ll call you later on the private line.”



“Two things, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Vun: I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

“You’re having a good run.”

“Two: now Putin vant fried chicken.”

“I’ll call the kitchen.”

Election Night In Moscow

“Russian Jenkins!”

“Da, sir?”

“Ve cannot both speak vith comic accent. Make conversation very annoying.”

“I gotcha, sir.”

“How is election for Putin?”

“Excellent, sir. The returns are coming in now.”

“Is New York Times doing needle? Makes evening so tense and fun. Putin love needle.”

“They’re not, sir.”

“Vhat about Tvitter? Are there memes?”

“Let’s stay off of Twitter, sir. That’s his thing.”

“Da, da.”

“Sir, Novgorad is reporting. They’re calling it for you with 96% of the vote.”

“They love me in Novgorad.”

“Murmansk is at 94%.”

“They love me in Murmansk.”

“Stavropol went for you 85-15.”

“Have Stavropol starved to death.”

“Yes, sir. Ooh, you got 100% in Krasnoyarsk.”

“All dozen voters?”

“Every single one, sir.”

“Hooray for Putin. Ve celebrate.”

“How, sir?”

“Send a hundred pizzas to Angela Merkel.”

“I’m on it, sir.”

“Have pizzas topped vith chunks of dead spy.”

“It’s a bit much, sir.”

“Da. Just the pizzas. And have some people killed in–




“Done, sir. Anyone in particular?”

“You choose this time.”

“Hmm. Ah. I noticed Krotov did not laugh at your hungry bear story at the last cookout.”

“He did nyet laugh at hungry bear? Is my best story!”

“I love that story, sir.”

“Bear is so hungry!”

“It’s not the story’s problem, sir. There’s something wrong with Krotov.”

“There vill not be for long. He is in Spain?”

“He can be dumped there.”

“Da, da. Is such good day.”

“Yes, sir. The Vladivostock returns are in.”

“Did I vin?”

“You did, sir.”

“Vonderful. Putin vorried about Vladivostock. Vas story going to come out in paper, very bad, very embarrassing.”

“Well, you won with 90% of the vote, so I don’t think it hurt you.”

“Da. Also, I have journalist murdered.”

“That helps.”

“Whole newspaper staff, actually. Putin got carried away.”

“You’re only human, sir.”

“For now.”

“Sir, Project: Robot Body for Putin is way behind schedule.”

“They vill figure it out. Putin brain vill be implanted into robot. Lead Russia forever.”

“I’m not saying I don’t want that to happen, sir.”

“Do not be hater, Jenkins.”

“No, sir. Leningrad precinct is reporting, President Putin.”



“Nyet. Make Leningrad vote again. Tell them 92%.”

“Yes, sir. Or we could just save the money of another election day, and say it was 92%.”

“But then the kulaks vould not have to stand in line. Russian soul needs to stand in line. Russian soul vas born in line.”

“I’ll cut down on the number of machines, sir.”

“Now you are using noodle, Jenkins. Enough vith this election. Ve now concentrate on our next one.”

“The 2018 Midterms?”

“Da. Putin have so many fun ideas.”

“I can’t wait, sir.”

Seriously, Why Is There An Exclamation Point?


“Don’t yell, sir. We’re on vacation.”

“Vacation is the place for yelling! How else will the natives understand me? BOY! BRING-O ME MORE BLACK-O LABEL! See? He’s scampering off for my cocktail.”

“Pretty sure he speaks English, sir.”

“High-volume English, Jenkins. If you just spoke to him like he was a real person, he’d blink at you and scuffle his be-sandalled feet. No, no. When it comes to foreigners, the only language they understand is shouting.”


“And bombing. Sometimes, you have to bomb foreigners.”


“It’s what they’re for.”

“Are you through?”

“Yes. With my scotch. Where’s that damned boy?”

“I’m sure he’s on his way back.”

“Service was better when you were allowed to beat the help. That’s just a fact.”

“Sir, we do have just a tiny bit of work to do.”

“I already delivered the note from that Zimmerman fellow.”

“Not that, sir. The poster.”

“Poster! Oh, God, not now. Also now ever, but especially not now.”

“Time is of the essence, sir.”

“I suppose we should give these stooges something to spend their money on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They did just spend seven grand to hear a tribute band.”

“True, sir.”

“It’s like they hate their money. We should start a pyramid scheme here.”

“No, sir.”

“Ponzi scheme?”

“No, sir.”

“Sunshine Dayscheme?”

“What is that, sir?”

“It’s a Ponzi scheme, but we name it after some Dead bullshit so these tie-dyed dum-dums give us more cash.”

“Let’s not defraud the audience, sir. That’s James Perse’s job.”

“Dammit, Jenkins! I get the punchlines!”

“Sorry, sir. The poster?”

“Poster! I suppose we need some Mexicana.”

“Yes, sir. How much?”

“Not too much. Less tacqueria, more Taco Bell.”

“Got it. Not very Mexican at all.”

“Big hat.”


“Have the bears be shoeless and selling Chiclets.”

“No, sir.”

“Plaid shirts with only the top button done.”

“No, sir.”

“Fine, fine. Just have them taking American bears’ jobs.”

“How about they just frolic in the sand, sir?”

“Fine, frolic, whatever. And then put the name of whatever this sun-soaked stroke-off is called at the bottom.”

“Playing in the Sand, sir.”

“And put an exclamation point after it.”


“So the natives will be able to read it.”

“You brought it back around, sir.”

“I did.”

Run, Don’t Walk!


“Yes, sir?”

“What the hell is this?”

“It is the poster for Phish’s New Year’s run at MSG.”

“What’s a Phosh?”

“Phish, sir. They’re four men who shouldn’t sing from Vermont. A boingy sort of sound.”





“It’s good.”

“I agree, sir. Colorful, playful.”

“All sorts of fuls.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve been looking at it for a minute and haven’t retched once. Not once!”

“No, sir.”

“Haven’t farted in disappointment.”

“That’s good, sir.”

“Jenkins, it looks like someone put some effort into this poster.”

“It does, sir.”

“Not just stuck his dick in a paint can and fucked a canvas.”

“No, sir.”

“Like our posters.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They’re making us like assholes here, Jenkins. Stinky assholes flecked with gas station toilet paper and several tenacious corn kernels. Gaping assholes that swallow up ships like the dreadful Charybdis. Sewn-up assholes that permit poop no passage.”

“Assholes, sir.”

“Assholes, Jenkins. And I don’t like it. I won’t stand for the assholification of this organization. I’m drawing a line in the taint.”

“Can we move away from this metaphor, sir?”

“We must retaliate.”

“By improving the quality of Dead & Company’s posters?”

“By assassinating Phish.”

“Oh, no, sir. We can’t assassinate Phish.”

“Ah. Yes. You’re right. They’re not political figures. Can’t technically be assassinated. We’ll just murder them.”

“Sir, why is that always your first idea?”

“Because it’s always the best idea. Murder solves more problems than it causes, Jenkins.”

“It doesn’t, sir.”

“Oh, fine. We won’t kill Phish. What about Twiddle?”

“You can have Twiddle executed, sir.”

“Anyone could have Twiddle executed, Jenkins! The only reason that grouping of mammals hasn’t been killed is because no one could be bothered to do it.”

“Sir, can we get back to the poster?”

“Poster! Throw those bears on something!”

“No, sir. The Phish poster that has brought about a feeling of inadequacy in our offerings.”

“Who was the tiny negro that spoke so sassy to the white people?”

“Are we talking about real life, sir?”

“No, the teevee.”

“Oh. Oh, well then that kind of makes sense. There were two. Willis and Webster.”

“The white people stole the tiny negro from his nest and raised him as their own. Is that right?”

“Why are we discussing this, sir?”

“Imagine one of them. Willy or Webby or whatever their names were. Imagine one of them is tasked to make love to a mountain. And not a weak mountain, Jenkins. A proud and boastful mountain. Maybe it’s sprinkled with dead Sherpas. Real son-of-a-gun of a mountain.”

“I get it, sir.”

“And now that tiny negro–”

“Let’s make that the last time we use that phrase, sir.”

“–is issued an undeniable command: Son, go fuck that mountain ’til she loves you. You understand me, Jenkins? Not just flap around on a ridge and run away. The ol’ hump-n-jump. No, no. That sassy little half-pint of chocolate milk had to make the mountain cum.”


“I once brought a hill to orgasm, but never a mountain. It’s a feat, Jenkins!”

“What the hell are we talking about?”

“No idea. I thought you were keeping track. I’ve been free-associating for a few minutes.”

“Sir, the posters.”

“Posters! We could kidnap the person who did Phish’s!”

“Or hire him.”

“You’re no fun any more.”

“Kidnapping was never fun, sir.”

“It is if you’re drunk.”

Are You A Doughboy Or A Doughn’tboy?

“No, sir.”

“You look sexy in that, Jenkins.”

“I look exposed to enemy fire in this, sir.”

“Only if they’re firing off their love guns. Sticky, warm bullets from their love guns, Jenkins. All over you. That’s how you know the battle’s over.”

“You’re talking about pornography, sir.”

“War, porn. Enriching the old and morally debased through degrading the bodies of the young. All the same thing.”

“It’s not, sir. Besides, it’s World War I. There’s not really any pornography yet.”

“Pshaw. I’ve got a few decks of playing cards that would curl a Chinaman’s hair.”

“Yes, sir. You’ve shown them to me.”

“Oh, those French ladies. And such crisp photos! You can almost smell the muff.”

“Sir, can we talk about the mini-tank?”

“What’s to talk about?”

“The disastrous nature of its existence.”

“Nonsense! It’s a bulwark, Jenkins. A bulwark. Sucker could wark the living hell out of any bull it saw.”

“Possibly, sir. It could definitely stand a chance against an unarmed bovine. I’m talking about the Germans, though.”

“Curse the Hun!”

“I do, sir.”

“Pestilent and weak-kneed race. What have the Germans given the world, Jenkins?”

“Beethoven? Bach?”

“It’s just scales, Jenkins. They go up the piano, they go down the piano. Scales and sausages, Jenkins. All the German is good for. And taking bullets. Why won’t you shoot Germans in their face?”

“I’d like to, sir, but I fear that they might shoot me back in this contraption.”

“Your tomfoolery and malarkey is chapping my asshole, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Becoming rather sandpaperish back there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll need a salve. Where can we get some linseed oil and a gentle nurse?”

“Paris, sir. Let’s go there.”

“Oh, Jenkins, the lengths you’ll go to not get murdered by a stranger in a field full of corpses.”

“I am peculiar that way, sir.”

“No, no. We’ll hit Paris after the trials. Now: hup!”


“Get to it.”

“Get to what, sir?”

“The DMZ. The Bad Place. Tampa. What are we calling the bit in between the trenches?”

“No Man’s Land, sir.”

“No Mans Land? Then it should be your kind of place, Jenkins.”

“Because I’m–”

“A sweet little girl.”

“–a little girl? Yes, sir.”

“Now stop sliding down the bannister, Jenkins. Your mother and I know what you’re doing. Go and kill some Germans. Or Austrians. Hell, kill a Finn for all I care: just kill someone.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Don’t give me any of that conscientious objector crap, Jenkins.”

“No, sir. It’s not that. The engine on this nightmare has seized up.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know. Probably because engines were invented, like, five minutes ago and we don’t know what we’re doing yet.”


“No, sir.”

“Hup to it, boy.”


“You can do it; put your back into it.”

“Sir, the mini-tank weighs a ton and everything is muddy.”

“What if we strap a couple horses to the front of it?”

“A chariot, sir. You’re now describing a chariot.”

“Old school, Jenkins.”

“The horses would be immediately killed by machine gun fire, sir.”

“I have it!”

“We’re not putting cows in front of the horses, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because I see where this is going and a mile-long team of various animals–all dead from machine gun fire–is how it’s going to end, and that’s not going to work.”

“What about–”

“Nor can we strap ethnics to the front.”

“Oh, why not? What’s the point of being alive in 1918 if you don’t strap non-whites to the front of poorly-designed tanks?”

“I don’t know, sir, but we can’t.”

“Fine. We’ll just do Plan B.”

“Plan B, sir?”

“Unscrew that rifle and run straight at the German trenches.”

“I’m gonna monkey around with the engine a bit, sir.”

“I knew you’d see things my way.”

What’s Beneath Bush League?


“Yes, sir?”

“Call me French cuisine, ’cause I’m feeling saucy.”

“Wonderful, sir.”

“It’s as though life itself were tickling my bottom.”

“Good for you, sir.”

“And the balls. Gentle tickling of the balls. Just enough to know you’re loved.”

“May I ask what’s led to this optimistic mood, sir?”

“Cocaine, Jenkins.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Call me Lane Sniffen.”

“No, sir.”

“King Tootankhamun.”

“No, sir.”

“Chief of Surgery at the Yeyo Clinic.”

“Sir, what have we said about cocaine?”

“Positive things, I hope. Mustn’t insult the cocaine. Get over here, Jenkins. Put your snoot in this.”

“I don’t need any, sir.”

“Snoot up.”


“You a narc, Jenkins?”


“Where’d you get the gun from, sir?”

“It came with the cocaine. What’s the point of doing blow unless you have a gun to wave around?”

“Give me the gun, sir.”

“Let’s go shoot a mailman, Jenkins.”

“The gun, sir.”


“You can have it back at the end of the day.”

“That’s what you said about my Slinky.”

“Sir, we really need to work.”

“You really need to snoot up.”

“No, sir.”

“More for me.”



“Sir, the poster.”


“The band will be playing Washington, D.C., so I thought a patriotic theme would do.”

“No, no. Trump. Put our president on the poster. Give him muscles and a cock like a felled log. Show him using that cock to fuck America back into shape. And I want a lot of detail on America’s butthole. That cock’s gonna do some damage.”

“I have no response to your suggestion, sir.”

“It’s trolling, Jenkins. I learned about this recently. You act in a way to anger a stranger.”

“What does that accomplish, sir?”

“You anger a stranger.”

“Why would you want to do that, sir?”

“Because fuck that guy.”

“Sir, let’s not troll.”

“Oh, fine. I truly don’t care. Call the artist that did the last one.”

“He has been accused of sexual harassment, sir.”

“Bad news for Johnny Drawsalot. What about the artist that did the one before that?”

“Also been accused of sexual harassment.”

“How many artists–”

“All of them, sir.”

“–have been accused…dammit! All the problems started when we gave women the vote, Jenkins. Nothing’s been right since.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do we have anyone left in the stable?”

“Blind Stumpy Forbrush.”

“Is he any good?”

“No, sir. As you may have divined from his name, Blind Stumpy is both blind and has stumps for hands.”

“Well, is he any good relatively?”

“No, sir. That’s the miraculous part. The art is actually worse than you’d expect given the insanely low expectations.”

“Outstanding. Hire him at once.”

“Yes, sir. Any notes on what he should draw?”

“A bear, terribly. A car, also terribly. Some photos of D.C. buildings stolen from google. And some other bullshit. I’m calling a Dealer’s Choice on the other bullshit. Just make sure it’s terrible.”

“Yes, sir. The color?”


“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Misspell the name of the venue.”

“On it, sir.”

“Get on this Scott Yayo.”

“No, sir.”

“Snoot some chachi, Jenkins.”

“You can have your gun back at the end of the day, sir.”

“I’ve got more.”

One If By Land, Two If By Seastones


“Yes, sir?”

“Do you remember laughter?”

“Of course, sir.”

“What about Vera Lynn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rock and roll radio?”

“Also a yes, sir.”

“Well, then, classic rock has no more unanswered questions. We’re heroes, Jenkins.”

“We could be.”

“Have I been accused of sexual harassment yet?”


“Not yet, sir.”

“Dammit, I’m tired of waiting. Get over here.”

“No, sir.”

“Watch me make love to myself.”

“No, sir.”


“Look at it!”

“I will not, sir.”

“No, there’s this growth I want you to see.”

“Oh, okay.”

“You should see a doctor, sir.”

“I did! He got mad at me for showing it to him!”

“Was it the–”

“It was the dentist, yes.”

“–dentist again? Oh, sir. I keep telling you: they’re just for teeth.”

“Then they shouldn’t be called doctor, dammit! If you want to be called doctor, then you need to be available to look at my penis. Those are the rules, Jenkins.”

“Can we discuss the poster, sir?”


“Yes, sir. This show is in Boston.”

“Foul burg. A dinky little place, Jenkins. And stinky. Boston dinks and stinks. And they’re pompous. ‘Legal Seafood.’ Seafood’s legal everywhere. They’re not special.”

“The town does have a high estimation of itself.”

“Have you heard what they do to the English language? The only thing Bostonians hate more than the letter R is the thought of negros learning math next to their Kevins and Margarets.”

“They did not take to busing, sir.”

“Do you know a Bostonian engaged in sexy talk would be speaking erotically and a-rhotically?”

“Well done, sir.”

“Shouldn’t mix Irishmen and college students, Jenkins. Or Irishmen and Italians. Or Irishmen and anyone. I guess that’s why God put them on an island.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Let’s do something different this time, Jenkins.”

“Create something beautiful?”

“No, steal all the petty cash and head to Mexico.”

“The petty cash won’t last that long, sir.”

“It will. I have a plan. We’re going to convert it into Zimdollars first. There’s like 600 bucks in petty cash, so that means we’ll have…”

“14 quintillion Zim.”

“We’ll be kings, Jenkins. No. I’ll be a king, Jenkins. And you’ll be my Jenkins. Imagine that. Being a king’s Jenkins. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Sir, you’re not quite grasping how currency exchange works.”

“And then we’ll trade in that massive amount of money for pesos and Mexico will open herself up to us. Like a slutty clam.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“I’m going to be a gentleman farmer. Grow refried beans. In the evenings, I will stroll through the plaza with Conchita and our young son Machismo.”

“You already have a family, sir.”

“They suck.”


“Poster! Let’s talk color. I’m thinking ‘If autumn could take a shit.'”

“Yes, sir. And the image?”

“Who’s that guy who got shot? Crispy Hatrack?”

“Crispus Attucks, sir.”

“He was no saint, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Him and Ted Williams doing it.”

“No, sir.”

“Doing it hard. Teddy Ballgame is calling his shots.”

“Absolutely not, sir.”


“No, sir. It is not homophobic to refrain from portraying Crispus Attucks and Ted Williams having sex on a Dead & Company poster.”

“You’re worse than Hitler, Hitler.”

“Stop that.”

“Fine. No humping. How about Mayor Menino’s speech impediment?”

“How do you draw that?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we hire an artist, Jenkins.”

“No, sir.”


“Yes, sir.”

“Call down to the front desk and ask them to look in the Lost & Found.”

“For what, sir?”

“My will to live. Fuck it. Do Paul Revere, but–”

“He’s a bear.”

“–he’s a bear, and then sprinkle–”

“Dead bullshit all over it.”

“–Dead bullshit all over it.”

“Yes, sir. On it.”

“Anything about the harassment?”


“Still no, sir.”

“The waiting is killing me.”

Hop In The Hack


“Yes, sir.”

“The time draws nigh.”

“It does, sir.”

“I can’t draw nigh. I can do a bunny, but not nigh.”

“I’ve seen your bunny, sir. You capture the ears quite well.”

“Could’ve been an artist, Jenkins. Painted. Sculpted. Or performance art. I could have thrown poop at people and had museums give me money for it.”

“You’d be a Downtown sensation, sir.”

“Giant racket, art. Only reason society tolerates art is that it gives homosexuals something to do in the afternoon.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I enjoyed pottery. It was a concrete task. You started out with a lump of clay and you ended up with a differently-shaped lump of clay. And the wheel. You could stick smaller children on it and spin them until they knew their place in the world. I had such fun in college, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much are kilns these days? It would fit in Carruthers’ office if I fired him.”

“Sir, we need to talk about the poster.”


“Yes, sir.”

“We just did this!”

“Oh, sir, we’re still at the very top of the hill. We’ve got some skiing to do before we make it to the lodge.”

“You paint a word picture, Jenkins.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We’re both artists.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We should wear smocks.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Jenkins, I had a brilliant idea.”

“Is the idea a boat that goes underwater? Because I’ve told you that that’s already been invented a dozen times.”

“No, for the poster.”

“Yes, sir.”


“Continue, sir.”



“Nothing. Nothing at all. Pure white. Less a poster than a poster-sized piece of glossy paper.”

“Uh-huh. Why, sir?”

“Because I think we have a fanbase dopey enough to buy it. Let’s do a social experiment.”

“No, sir.”

“And we’ll bet.”

“Sir, the relationship between the Grateful Dead and their fans is a sacred one. We’re not KISS.”

“If were in KISS, I’d make you be Peter.”

“That’s hurtful, sir.”

“I’d be the short one with the afro. Big Funky. Remember him? He used to have a parrot on his shoulder that would do cocaine with him? That was one rock ‘n roll parrot, Jenkins.”


“The parrot’s name was Little Funky.”


“Died in a whitewater rafting accident, I believe. Well, the cops said it was an accident.”

“The poster, sir.”


“We need to put something on it. Can’t do a blank poster, sir.”

“What about boobies? Are the kids still calling them boobies, Jenkins?”

“Yes. The kids are. The adults aren’t.”

“Let’s go with that. Glamour shot of some garbanzos. Big floppy ones.”

“I don’t think that’s really on message, sir.”

“Make ’em tie-dyed.”

“No, sir.”

“Jenkins, you know what I’m about to demand of you.”

“That I blast my eyes, sir?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How did that feel, Jenkins?”

“Awful, sir.”

“Good. I only wish that you were twins so I could make both of you blast your eyes.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Oh, I don’t care.”

“I thought you wouldn’t, sir, so I took the liberty of commissioning a student from a local art college to draw this one.”

“Which school?”

“The Throckmorton School for the Artistically Disinclined.”

“Delightful. Make sure he throws in a bear. And make sure the bear looks like Chewbacca with Downs syndrome.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And fire Carruthers.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Greatest Show on Ice


“Yes, sir.”

“I had a napmare! Bring my wibby!”

“By ‘wibby,’ you mean–”


“–scotch? Yes, sir.”


“Such a wonderful drink named after such mud-covered savages.”

“If we could get past the baseless racism, sir. You said you had a nightmare?”

“Dammit, Jenkins, do you have dicks in your ears? Little skinny dicks blocking up your eustachian tubes?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”

“Napmare. Much worse than a nightmare.”

“How so?”

“Shorter! All the horror has to be packed into 20 minutes instead of being spread out all night.”

“20 minutes? You’ve been asleep for three hours, sir.”

“And yet I’m still sleepy.”

“What was the dream about, sir?”

“Oh, Jenkins, it was terrible. Time looped in upon itself like a fat boy doing somersaults. We were stuck performing the same inane, useless tasks day after day after day. Nothing ever changed! My God, what an awful dream. Ah, well. Over now. Just a dream. So, what’s on the agenda.”

“Dead & Company’s back on tour and we need to make a poster.”


“Get away from the window, sir!”

“Why? I’ll just wake up again tomorrow, which will be today again!”

“Sir, no!”


“You’re awake, sir! You’re not in a time loop!”

“Then why do we keep doing the same shit over and over?”

“Life is both cyclical and progressive, sir.”

“I can’t take it, Jenkins. I’m very fragile. I feel as though I may snap at any second. Like Emily Dickinson at a Black Friday sale.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t do well that in that environment.”

“She is me, Jenkins! I am her! Look at my hand. It’s trembling.”

“That’s your penis, sir.”

“Oh, so it is. Hello there, Monsieur Floppy.”

“Sir, the poster.”


“Yes, sir. The band will be playing at MSG.”

“Ah, yes. The Mongolian Sex Gulch. My children had their Bar Mitzvahs there.”

“No, sir. Madison Square Garden.”

“Oh. I had Mongolian sex there.”

“I’ll regret asking this, sir, but what is Mongolian sex?”

“It’s semi-nomadic.”

“I’m moving on as though this conversation made sense. Do you have any ideas?”

“Child labor needs to make a comeback.”

“Ideas about the poster, sir.”


“Yes, sir.”

“Something that goes with the venue. Let me see, let me see. MSG. MSG. MSG. Ah! A Chinaman frying up a cat!”

“Sir, the racism needs to stop. It’s 2017.”

“Yes, I know. Have you looked around? Racism is getting a reboot. Like Star Wars, but less diverse.”

“Let’s concentrate, sir.”

“Yes, yes, How about a drop more concentration juice?”


“Yummy. Oh, by the way, how many of these posters are we going to have to do this time around?”

“About a dozen.”

“Just hand me the damn bottle.”


“Smooth. Jenkins, I might take up crack.”

“Oh, sir, no. Why?”

“No one’s doing it anymore. I feel bad for crack. Used to play the big rooms.”



“How about something related to sports?”

“Jeff Chimenti in a jockstrap.”

“No, sir. Sports that take place in Madison Square Garden.”

“Patrick Ewing’s sweaty dong.”

“No, sir.”

“You didn’t let me finish, damn you.”

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Patrick Ewing’s sweaty dong, and Billy and Mickey are his sweaty balls.”

“Ah. It’s still no, sir.”

“Is it too late to go to grad school, Jenkins? I could be a squirrel scientist. Sit outside with a notebook. ‘2:30 pm: squirrel ran up tree.’ ‘2:35: ran back down.’ I’d record the doings of squirrels and be happy. Do I deserve happiness, Jenkins?”

“Can we get back to the poster, sir?”

“Poster! Oh, fine, let’s plow through this. Heads is basketball, tails is hockey.”



“Hockey it is, sir.”

“Heads is bears, tails is turtles.”

“Oh, no, sir. That isn’t necessary. It has to be bears.”

“Why is this?”

“Turtles are cold-blooded. They can’t play hockey.”

“Excellent point, Jenkins. Deadheads demand scientific exactitude in their posters.”

“Thank you, sir. What about the colors?”

“Make it look like a TeleTubbie threw up.”

“Yes, sir. And the font?”

“Third-rate circus.”

“Yes, sir. Isn’t this exciting? Fall tour!”

“Go buy me some crack, Jenkins.”

“Oh, sir.”

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