Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: john mayer (page 2 of 31)

Bowl, Share

What the fuck?

“Go away,”


“Not now.”


“Fuck off.”


“Stop stealing jokes from Archer.

What the fuck is Tom wearing?

“I was confused about that myself. It’s almost a robe, and–”

Almost a kimono, but definitely not a coat, yeah yeah. It’s called a toppermost.

“That’s not a real thing.”

It is. Rich people have a whole set of garments that normal folks don’t have access to.

“Tom’s not rich. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be on a fucking Jam Cruise.”

Is that what this is?

“Yup. You know Phil’s restaurant?”

Of course.

“Well, imagine you couldn’t leave for five days and there was a 40% chance of contracting Legionnaire’s Disease.”


“And Turkuaz was there.”

Jesus. Y’know, it’s not too late to go back to grad school. What was your hat’s GPA?

“Okay, this was fun, but I’m busy.”

I wanna know where the fuck he got that toppermost.

“I don’t know. The store?”

Holly. Look at that garment. What store would you buy that in?

“Yeah, okay, you have a point.”

This is not good. I just hope–


–a certain social media star doesn’t find out. Heeeeeey, buddy.

“Dude, I’m steaming. Why does Brad Whitford–”

Tom Hamilton.

“–have one of my toppermosts!? He’s not even supposed to know they exist, let alone be wearing one.”

Got me.

“You know how much that cost?”

Too much?

“Waaaaay too fucking much. That’s a handcrafted piece by Sushi Sashimi.”

Not a real Japanese name.

“He’s not even wearing it right!”

How so?

“He’s fucking poor!”

John, this is an ugly side of you.

“Dude, I don’t have an ugly side. I mean, my right profile is slightly more handsome, but–”


“I am so pissed off. What the fuck is going on here, anyway? Who’s the chick in the hat?”

The very talented Holly Bowling. And this is the Jam Cruise.

“I don’t know what a ‘Jam Cruise’ is, and I refuse to learn.”

Good decision.

“Does that guy have his dick out?”

Tom? I hope not. Unless it’s part of the improv. Keith Jarrett used to do that if someone coughed.

“No, not Tim.”


“Don’t care. Not him. The guy on the left in the yellow shirt.”


“It can’t be.”

If it is, good for him.

“Is this what people do on the Jam Cruise? Wear hats and take their dicks out?”

Pretty much.

“Trump’s gonna win in 2020.”



Why are you here?

“Why are any of us here? Aren’t we all alone in a clearing, covered by blankets?”


“I think we are.”

You need a new stylist.

“This is my pivot to video.”

I think it’s gonna be about as successful as most organizations’ pivots.

“Look how deep I’m being.”

I don’t see it.

“Like Leo, man. You see that flick? The Ruminant? I’m gonna fuck a bear.”

Good for you, JT.

“People are gonna be into this new look, I promise you.”

“I’m into it.”


“That’s a great scrumptious, Justy.”

“You like her? Just made. Her name is Terrified Horse In The Casino. What about yours?”

“This scrumptious is from the 17th century. Use to belong to Anne Bonny.”

“The pirate queen?”

“The very one. I’m so glad to see you really stepping out with your fashion. After a while, you need to leave the normal clothing behind and go to the special stuff.”

“Thanks, John Boy. But, uh, shh.”

“Oh, it’s okay. We can talk about the secret garments only available to the rich and pretty in front of him.”

“He’s cool?”

“No. Not at all. But no one listens to him.”

“Wow. Everyone listens to us.”

“Our opinions are oddly valued, yeah. Did you see I started an internet trend the other day?”

“The Star Wars thing?”


“Dude? You brought sexy back.”

“Wow. Just…I mean…wow. That means so much coming from you.”

“Right? Cuz I’ve been there, brother. The sexy wants to run away, but you chase that shit down like Dog the Bounty Hunter. Gotta spray that sexy down with mace and let it smoke a cigarette in the SUV on the way to jail. Talk to the sexy about Jesus. And then?”

“Then you bring it back.”

“My man.”


“I notice you don’t have a dog, Timber Wolf.”

“Animals pull focus from my face.”

“Sure, sure.”

The Other Order

Was no one paying attention to you for a minute?

“Kylo Ren challenge, bro.”

Not a thing. You made up a challenge so you would have an excuse to take your shirt off. Or, at least, the top of your shirt.

“Totally a thing. Sweeping social media.”

Uh-huh. You want a soda?

“I’m good.”

Iced tea?

“No, thanks.”

La Croix sparkling water?

“Why are you offering me drinks?”

You look so thirsty.


Like, absolutely parched. Thirsty as fuck.

“Stop it.”


“Fuck off.”

Wait, don’t go.

“You want to apologize?”

No, I want Garcia to see you like this. Garcia?

“What, man?”

“What the hell is with him, man?”

No one knows.

“I mean, this is my replacement?”

Preaching to the choir, buddy.

“It’s simply beyond the pale.”

I dunno. He’s pretty pale.

“He is, man. Hey, Jimmy.”

“It’s Josh–DAMMIT–John.”

“Get a little sun. Or put a shirt on. Y’know what? Forget the first thing, man. You need a shirt? I got a crate full of ’em at home.”

“I have shirts.”

“Great. Problem solved.”

An Open Letter To The Non-Matt Damon Men

Dear Men Who Are Not Matt Damon, But Might As Well Be:

Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up as hard as you can. I know that your great big famous brains are full of opinions on this #METOO thing, but you must–for the love of God–shut the fuck up. There are two groups of notable men right now: those waiting for the story to drop, and those who haven’t been pussygrabbing their entire lives. Both categories of men need to shut the fuck up.

If you’re thinking about invoking your female relatives, shut the fuck up. If you’d like to place this historic moment in proper context, shut the fuck up. And for fuck’s sake, if the phrase “witch hunt” is marching with undeserved confidence out of your mouth, triple-dog shut the fuck up.

No one needs your take on this, Matthew McConaughey. Pipe down, Jeremy Renner. Do not help, Michael Bublé. And if you think I’m not talking to you, John Mayer, then you’ve got another think coming, mister. I know it’s been said, many times, many ways: stay out of this, John Mayer.



After this.

Set A Course For Adventure

Too cold for a toppermost?

“Far too cold. Toppermost is a temperate piece. Never winter. Now, this young Japanese designer named Toyota Toyota–”


“–is doing incredible work in that streetwear thing they do. What he did is translate the toppermost’s feel into a halfcock.”


“Halfcock. What I’ve got on.”

That’s a coat, Josh.

“Don’t call me that. It’s a halfcock. See the collar? Halfcock.”

How much secret rich-person clothing is there?

“Closets worth, dude.”

Wow. Do all rich people know about this stuff? What about Warren Buffet?

“He would have access to the information. I don’t know if he’d care to investigate.”

Probably not. Why are you recuperating in Montana? It’s cold there. Don’t you have a yacht?

“I don’t have a yacht.”

You should get a yacht. Fuckboat.

“I’m not getting a fuckboat.”

Do you not realize the rich-guy trajectory you’re on? You started on guitars, and then the watches, and the cars, and now you have to buy a fuckboat.

“Stop it. I’m not getting a fuck boat.”


“Goddammit, he got a fuckboat, didn’t he?”

Oh, yeah.

“Jesus. Hello?”


“Don’t call me that.”

“I bought a fuckboat! You paid for it, but I bought it, so we each own half of it.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“We’re gonna make money on this deal renting it out when we’re not using it, but we’re gonna use it so much! It’s great, man. Y’know what you do on a fuckboat?”


“Fuck! So much fucking. I was sticking myself in nooks and crannies, man. It’s just non-stop from the moment you get onboard, and it’s classy, too. Captain pipes you aboard, real nice. You can fuck the captain if you want.”

“I don’t want to fuck the captain, Benj.”

“He can fuck you, too. Don’t get to be the captain of a fuckboat without doing some heavy fucking. Captain Harvoldson. Big guy with a beard. That guy fucks.”

“A captain came with it? How big is this thing?”

“Not huge. But, you know, it’s not a Sunfish from summer camp.”

“How big is the boat I just paid for, Benjy?”

“Not enormous. 90 meters.”

“I have no idea how big that is.”

“Not big.”



“How big is 90 meters?”

“300 feet.”

“Thank you, Siri.”

“I love you, John Mayer.

“Wait, did your Siri just tell you she loved you?”

“Yes. Celebrities have a different Siri. Don’t worry about it. 300 feet long? Why would I need that? Jesus, how much did it cost?”

“I have no idea.”

“How could you not know what it cost?”

“I bought it in Bitcoin. What we paid is kinda fluctuating right now. We may have gotten a really good deal. Or not. I’m gonna be honest with you–”

“You don’t totally understand Bitcoin?”

“–I don’t totally…there you go.”

“No one does. Benjy, why did you buy me a floating tub of syphilis the size of a mall?”

“That’s not the question. The question is: why didn’t I do it sooner? I cannot overstate how spectacular the fucking is. Something about the sea air and the motion of the boat. Opens up your sinuses. And your butthole. Tons of butt play on the fuckboat.”


“On the fuckboat, the butthole is seen as an equivalent genital. That’s inclusion, buddy. That’s the progressive future we’re working towards.”


“The butthole must have a seat at the table.”

“Buddy, you’re gonna love it. 300 feet of fuck.”

“I have a question.”


“Whom are we fucking, Benjy?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Everybody’s hot. Very hot. Top shelf for both genders and also individuals who are flowing back and forth between. All kinds of everything. But hot.”


“And into it.”


“If you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“I mean fucking.”

“Benjy, where did these hot people come from?”

“All over the place. There’s every race and a lot of folks, you don’t know what the hell they are. Lot of accents, too. Sometimes, they yell at you in a foreign language while you’re fucking, and that’s all right by me. I like that.”

“I mean: why are they on the fuckboat? Are they being paid?”

“Only in sexual satisfaction.”

“Ew. So…they’re, like, party people?”

“Not really.”

“Benjy, who’s on the fuckboat?”

“They’re called veeslafs. You know what a golem is, right? Make ’em out of clay, stick a prayer in ’em, they come to life?”


“These are like golems, but made out of flesh.”




“Here’s the thing–”

“This won’t be good.”

“–when I tell you, you’re gonna be upset, but when I explain the reasoning behind it, you’ll understand. Okay?”


“The flesh comes from children.”


“You didn’t let me finish! I said I would explain!”

“Okay. Explain.”

“Not the good kids. Just the uggos and dummies. And fat kids. Not to fat shame or anything, but it’s just more efficient. Ten skinny kids or five fat ones: what’s easier? Fuckboat’s about smooth sailing through the water, buddy. That ethos applies everywhere.”

“Benjy, who’s harvesting these children to make sex zombies?”

“Oh, it’s not like that. The boat just erases a kid in Johannesburg or Rome or wherever and zipzops the flesh to itself by saying that it happened. Oh, also: the boat is sentient and versed in postmodernism and literary magick.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who the hell did you buy this from?”

“Y’know how I can die and come right back to life?”


“Well, you meet some interesting people like that. I’m not the only one who can do that. It’s a whole thing.”

“Get rid of it.”

“You haven’t even fucked on it yet!”

“Get rid of the boat, Benjy!”

“I don’t know, man. Boat’s pretty sweet.”

“Hey, Garcia.”

“Big Jer–”

“Don’t call me that.”

“–I don’t know if we’ve met. I’m Benjy Eisen. How you doing on managers?”

“I already got two or three, man.”

An Unhealthy Relationship



“Yes, you!”

Why are you back in the hospital?


Did your appendix and Miles–


–Davis hunt you down? Okay, no need to be so zesty about the situation. Lower your zest.

“Fuck you and fuck your zest! I had surgery at the beginning of the week and you PROMISED to not pull any stupid bullshit while I was recuperating.”

What happened?

“I went back to Montana to rest up. I have a little cabin there, 23,000 square feet, real cozy, next door to Harrison and Calista. All I wanted to do was take it easy and watch a little teevee and maybe fly a couple porn stars in. And–if I may remind you–I was promised that I’d be left alone.”

I did promise that.

“So what happened?”

My promises are not worth much.


What did your appendix and Miles Davis do to you?

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I won’t tell anyone.


Cross my heart.

“Miles Davis forcibly penetrated me using my own removed appendix as a dildo.”

Oh, that’s not right.



“I don’t wanna settle, asshole. All of this is bullshit.”

They let you wear your toppermost in the hospital.

“Yeah, that’s pretty cool, but it doesn’t make up for the organ-rape.”

Probably not. Hey, lemme talk to Miles. See if I can work this out.

“Just keep that lunatic away from me.”

Sure. Mr. Davis? You around?

“Don’t go calling for me, motherfucker. I ain’t your dog.”

Mr. Davis, did you sexually assault John Mayer with his own appendix?

“Yeah, I did that shit.”

Why are you smiling?

“That shit was some funny shit. Little bitch was squealing and squirming.”

None of this is funny. If you hadn’t died in 1995, you’d be criminally liable.

“Nah. Bitch liked it.”

He didn’t.

“Yeah, he did. Shot his load all over his toppermost.”


“Couldn’t have hated it too fucking much.”

I regret bringing you into this universe.

“You knew who the fuck I was.”

I thought you’d be cranky and maybe punch some people. I didn’t in my wildest dreams imagine you’d be molesting John Mayer with his own innards.

“That’s why I’m a fucking genius and you ain’t.”

This Fucking Guy Right Fucking Here

“This guy right here is the guy.”

“No, folks. Don’t listen to Bobby. He’s the guy.”

“Aw, no. Too kind. So much bliss. So, uh, Josh: I heard you went out with William Bendix.”

“Almost. I had my appendix taken out.”

“Oh, sure. Well, that’s better. I hear Bendy had quite the problem keeping his hands to himself.”


“You feeling all better?”

“Nearly at 100%. Another couple days and I’ll be right as rain.”

“Hey, at least you yoinked a pair of scrub pants out of the deal.”

“These are not scrubs, Bob.”

“Hey, hey, hey: I’m not calling you a scrub.”


“I would never accuse you of hanging out the passenger side of your best friend’s ride.”


“Would that be Andy Cohen? Or me? And, you know, if I’m gonna be your best friend, then you need to know I already have one.”

“My best friend is Jimi Hendrix.”

“They’re not scrub pants, Bobby. They’re Visvim, and they cost four grand.”

“Uh-huh. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you spend that much money on trousers? I don’t know if we’ve ever officially had ‘the talk,’ but you’re kinda the Bobby now. You don’t need to dress up to get laid.”

“It’s not about getting laid. I have an appreciation for fashion.”

“Y’know, if you added up the cost of every single piece of clothing the other five guys onstage are wearing, I don’t think you’d hit four grand. I don’t know if you’d hit four figures.”

“Oh, I’m sure that everyone’s outfits add up to a thousand bucks.”

“Nah. Every tee-shirt but yours was yoinked.”

“Yeah, true.”

“My pants are from Costco.”

“I thought I spied the world-famous Kirkland hem.”

“Billy stole his new hat from a scarecrow.”


“One of us, uh, doesn’t even own shoes.”

“You might be right.”

“Well, anyway, I’m just glad you’re all right.”

“Gee, thanks, Bobby.”

“Oh, and there’s a $50,000 deductible on the show-cancellation insurance, so that’s gonna be on you. Maybe you could sell some of your robe-thingies.”

“They’re called toppermosts.”

“I’m not saying that word, and you can’t make me.”

“Fair enough.”

Hospital, Johnny

Hey, Slugger.

“Oh, not you. Not today.”

I’m just here to check up on my guy. Nothing but positive vibes and cheerful words.

“Uh-huh. Are my disembodied appendix and Miles Davis coming to kill me?”

Not until you get better.


I swear. And no one’s gonna call you and start talking foolishness at you, and Katy Perry isn’t going to launch cruise missiles at your house, and you’re gonna be left to recuperate in peace. Even the semi-fictional version of you has earned some bed rest.

“Thank you.”

Did they give you ice cream?

“That’s when you get your tonsils out.”

The tonsils and the appendix are very similar organs.

“They’re not.”

So, what happened? Give TotD the exclusive story so I can sell it to Relix and make a fortune.

“You know you’re not actually talking to me, right?”

Shut up and tell me what happened.

“I was in my hotel room in New Orleans. Wasn’t gonna go out, so I had so many options. Should I solo? Buy stuff online? Laundry? The night lay before me like a highway.”


“And then imagine a fat guy.”


“A fat guy made of knives with barbed wire for hair.”

Pubes, too?



“And now imagine that fat guy made of knives and barbed wire is dancing in your abdomen.”

What kind of dancing?


Oh, that sounds terrible.

“It wasn’t good. I was, like, doing this cry/yell thing for a couple minutes and Bobby heard and came in the room.”

How did Bobby get in your room?

“We always have adjoining suites and leave the door unlocked in case there’s thunder.”

Makes sense.

“Dude, Bobby was awesome. That wonderful man literally picked me up and carried me down to the lobby.”

He did?

“He fucking did, man. Course, he threw his back out and now he’s in the next room.”

“Is that jackass bothering you while you’re in the hospital, Josh!?”

“Don’t worry about it, Bobby!”

I know when I’m not wanted.

“You don’t. But whatever, there’s one more thing you have to do.”


“Get Billy and Mickey out of here.”

They visited you at the hospital? That’s sweet.

“They stole half the pharmacy and crashed an ambulance into the gerontology department.”

What floor is that on?


I’ll see what I can do. Go lay down, buddy.

“Okay. No bullshit for a while, promise me.”

I promise. But you gotta promise me one thing.

“You must be joking. What?”

Think about keeping the mustache.

“You like it?”

It’s awesome. Just shave the shit off your chin. Give the ‘stache pride of place.

“I’ll think about it. Fuck off.”


You Had To See It Coming


“Yeah, yeah. Like you’re such a prize.”

Who the hell are you?

“I’m John Mayer’s appendix.”

Oh, COME ON. It’s not bad enough I chat with abstract concepts, dead famous animals, and stools; I gotta talk to pop stars’ internal organs now?

“Hey, I’m not internal anymore.”

Same difference.

“I’m getting a lot of visceraphobia here.”

Not a thing.


Whatever. So what’s your deal, anyway? 40 years of doing absolutely nothing and you explode?

“But I didn’t explode. Didn’t even get a chance to fulfill my destiny.”

Your destiny?

“Murdering John Mayer.”


“Me and his spleen have been talking about it for years. Fuck that guy.”


“Ever hear his songs?”

Yes, but that’s no reason to murder the guy.

“No, no. Who does he talk about in his songs? The heart. Eyes. Ears. Lungs. Hands. Every fucking body part gets a song, but me? What do I get? Bupkiss, that’s what I get. Fuck that guy.”


“I will not be ignored.”

You will be now. You’ve almost certainly been thrown away.

“Oh, no. I got rescued. Someone came and got me, and then plan’s still on. John Mayer will pay for how he treated us.”

Someone? Us? Who is “someone?” Who is “us?”

“You know who, motherfucker.”


“Me and the bitch’s appendix won’t be treated this fucking way.”

I hate everything about this universe.

“Appendix, get in the fucking car.”

“Can I drive?”

“You ain’t got no hands, motherfucker. No, you can’t drive.”


Get Well, John

I don’t want to
Die before my time
Already used
Eight of my lives

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