Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: john mayer (page 4 of 29)

Basest Solos

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Taking a load off.”

I see that.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but the Grateful Dead rarely featured full-blown bass solos.”

No, they didn’t.

“For a reason.”


“But, you know, Branford loves doing ’em. Bless his heart.”

His name is Oteil.

“Agree to disagree.”

You don’t even want to comp behind him or anything?

“I’m not encouraging bass solos. Mickey used to toss used chewing gum into Phil’s hair when he did ’em. I’m not gonna go that far, but I won’t participate.”

You’re a man of principle.

“And I wanted to sit down.”

That, too.

He’s The Kind I Like To Flaunt, And Take To Dinner

Hey, John Mayer. You should’ve taken your Shrinky-Dink out of the oven sooner. I think you burned it.

“This is Tom Jones.”

No, boring novels are shaped differently.

“The singer.”

The Thunderball?

“The one and only.”

Wow, cool. Hey, John?



“Shut the fuck up, please.”


“I’m not asking to see his dick.”



It’s not gay.

“That’s not why I won’t do it. We’re at a bar.”

People take their dicks out in bars all the time.

“Not gonna happen.”

Follow him into the bathroom.

“This is why no one talks to you.”

Take a Snapchat with Tom Jones’ dick, John Mayer.

“Do you want to talk about y shirt, or do you want to talk about Tom Jones’ dick?”

The second thing.

“We’re done.”

Hey, That Guy Stole Josh Mayer’s Outfit

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Karate time.”

Oh, goddammit.

“He’s not here.”



Oh, sure. Can’t have a summer tour without Elvis showing up for some reason. Bobby?


Why does it look like you’re playing in a Sam Ash?

“The lack of presentation.”

I’m just saying that at this point, it’s almost a hassle to be this bush league.

“Well, you know: the fans expect a pretty high level of not-giving-a-fuck.”


“Deadheads come to the show and there’s not road cases strewn all over the place lazily, then they feel cheated.”

Give the people what they want.

“Unless they want money.”

Yeah, sure.

“It works the other way. They give us the money.”

And then someone steals it from you.

“Right. It’s a system.”

If it never quite worked in the first place, don’t fix it.


Billy’s Back, And There’s Gonna Be Trouble

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Hey, Billy.


You look happy.

“Course. Looking at the kid.”

Oh, that’s nice. You two have developed a friendship.

“Nah, fuck that. Every time I see him, I get an enormous check.”


“And usually a tugger. Not from him, but once from him. Didn’t like it. Kid’s got some paws on him. Made my drumstick look like a chopstick.”

I’m so glad tour has started.

“Here’s some advice: if you wanna think your cock is huge, get a midget to stroke you off.”

Can we talk about anything else?

“We’ve talked about money and skank. What else is there?”


“Hold on.”


“Okay. What?”

What was that?

“We’re in the middle of a song.”

I don’t get it.

“Tempos are so slow that I only have to hit my drums, like, once every 20 seconds.”


“Sometimes I run down to the casino between beats and make a bet or two.”

What game do you play?

“No game. The bet is how long I can wander around with my dick out before security tosses me.”

Do you win?

“Of course. Everyone has to look at my dick. That’s a solid victory.”

Nice to have you back, Billy.

“Yeah, I’m the shit.”

The Return Of Josh Meyers

Ah, Christ.

“Heeeey, buddy.”

Summer kinda snuck up on me. Thought I had at least another Mayer-free month.

“Nah. I’m in the house. Summer of Douche!”


“You have no idea how many celebrity friends I’m gonna take selfies with, and the ridiculous interviews I’m gonna do, and OH MY GOD am I gonna Snapchat the fuck out of this tour. Got my outfits lined up. You and me, buddy.”


“I hate you.”

Yeah, yeah.

“John Mayer here.”

“I got celebrity friend, too, Hot Dog Dick.”



“That is not President Obama.”

“You no recognize because he wear sunglasses. Is Obama.”

“I don’t want to go through another summer of this, and quite frankly I don’t think the readers want to, either.”

“Why you not in Jewish propaganda?”


“Movie. Very long. Band plays song for hours and do drugs and die. You in band. Why you not in Jewish movie?”

“I think you’re talking about Long Strange Trip, and I also think I’m just going to ignore this entire line of inquiry.”

“Was good movie for Jewish movie.”

“Please stop.”

“Hot Dog Dick getting wrinkles in forehead.”

“I could pass for 36.”

“Oh, nooooo. White people show age. Is like white car. See dirt faster.”

“I’m gonna hang up on you.”

“Is okay. I got Obama now.”

“Not Obama.”

“We have all summer.”



“What did I ever do to you?”

Besides the video with the pandas?

“Besides that.”

I’ll think of something. We got all summer, pretty boy.


Jealous Again

“Looky there, man. Little Josh suckin’ off the Dead nipple some more.”

Chris Robinson?

“Heeeey, brother.”

Don’t call me brother. I know how you treat your brother.

“It’s just shit, man. Legacy acts playing their old hits. Just sad, man.”

Sure. What are you doing this week?

“Playing a show from ’77 with Phil.”


“Where’s his beard?”



Don’t call him that. Only me and Bobby and everybody else gets to call him that.

“Still: where’s his beard?”

I don’t think he has a girlfriend at the moment.

“You think this is what Jerry would have wanted?”

He’s dead. He doesn’t get a vote, except maybe in Chicago.

“Whatever, man. Just sad Play your own songs!”

You’re very hard to handle, Chris Robinson.

“You suck, too.”

Nice of you to stop by. Call first next time.

Ain’t Nobody In The Bed But You


“Hello. I’m Paul Stanley, and this is my bedroom.”


“How about I play you an acoustic version of Tears Are Fallin’?”


“Kick off your shoes, and come on up. Lotta room.”

No, thank you.

“Have you eaten?”

What the fuck are you doing here?

“Carved out some quality time for you.”


“We’ve grown apart. Come up on the bed.”

Stop this, Paul Stanley.

“Such a big bed. Room for all sorts of things.”

I don’t understand what’s happening.

“I’ve joined Dead & Company.”

You haven’t.

“Sure. Me and Robby–”


“–were talking and we decided that our fanbases overlap so much that it’s a no-brainer.”

Your fanbases do not overlap.

“What about you?”

I’m an outlier.

“Come lie on the bed.”

This is odd.

“It’s happening.”

Which part? Where you join the Dead or where you molest me?



“Half has already come true. Josh is here.”


Is that still your bedroom?

“I have a very fancy bedroom.”

Wow. Is that Kevin Bacon?

“I have very fancy friends.”

Wow. John?

“Yeah? Oh, hey.”

What happened to Barbra?

“Cheating on her.”

Sure. Is Paul Stanley in Dead & Company?”


Did you set this all up just to be in a storyline?

“I really felt like you didn’t give my album enough attention.”




“I didn’t know he could leave.”

You Don’t Bring Me Scarlet Begonias

“I’ve gotten over Katy.”

I see.

“Barbra gives me everything I need. The sex is great.”


“Down there? She’s like butter.”


“Plus, she’s got a shopping mall in her basement.”

Yeah, Babs is rich as shit.

“She calls me her Johnentashen.”

Again: ew.

A Panda All Seasons

Are you still doing this?

“I heard you got my song in your head.”

Not talking to you, John.

“I hate this site.”

I am nicer to you than any other site on the internet that’s not a John Mayer fan page.

“Yeah, okay.”

Now, shh. Hey, Brent.

“Hey, man. How’m I doing?”



You are dancing just like a panda. Hey, did you see that your daughter made her debut performance the other night?

“Of course I saw. I was there.”

Dammit, Brent.

“No one noticed me. I was in a Gruff the Crime Dog costume.”

Yeah, no one noticed you.

“What else could I do?”

Shave your beard. Literally no one on the planet would recognize you without your beard.

“I can’t.”

It’ll grow back.

“No, I can’t. There’s nothing under there. The entire lower half of my face is made of beard. It would be like sweeping a dirt floor.”

How would you know you were done?


What about a fake beard over your beard?

“That’s just silly.”

Right. Whereas wearing mascot costumes is serious business.

“In the Furry community it is.”

Don’t talk to me about that nonsense.

“You’re a bigot.”


“Y’know, us Osaphiles get enough bullshit, and I won’t take it.”



Don’t bring Greek into your perversions.

“Hey, fuck you, man!”

Where you going?

“I’m going to ruin a stranger’s day!”

Don’t do that, Brent.


Why did you do that, Brent?

“I don’t get any respect at all around here!”

That’s not true, buddy.

“You treat me like a joke!”

I do not.


Let it out, buddy.

Still Feel Like Your Keyboardist

What are you doing?

“Oh, hey. This is the video for my new single Still Feel Like–”

Not you.


I’m not talking to you.

“Who are you talking to, then?’


“Hey, buddy.”

I am NOT kidding any more. I’m taking that damn Time Sheath away from all of you.

“No one knows it’s me!”

Not the point. I’m not judging you for being a Furry, man, but do it in the 80’s. Stop wandering around the 21st century in mascot costumes.

“There are no Furries in the 80’s except for the Phillie Phanatic and the San Diego Chicken, and neither of them are talking to me.”

Why not?

“I fuck too hard.”

Oh, God, that was the worst sentence I’ve ever heard.

“Well, I didn’t want to lie. Hey, man. You think John likes me?”

I think he shouldn’t know you.

“It’s just that the other panda has been here a while, and I don’t know if I’m fitting in.”

You need to work on this self-esteem thing, buddy. You’re a great panda.

“Thanks, man. You wanna hear a song?”

No. But that doesn’t mean you’re not a great panda.

“So, John likes what I’m doing?”

Have you talked to him?

“Yeah. I said ‘Hi,’ and then he told me how he flies in his lettuce from Romania. For, like, a half-hour.”

He does that.


(With thanks to Cascadia’s champion, Mr. Completely, for recognizing Brent.)

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