Was John Mayer not invited or did he have Celebrity Thanksgiving to attend?
Why is Oteil not sitting with the rest of the band? Is it because he wore sweatpants on Thursday?
Is Matt Busch wearing a fucking Islanders hoodie? Unacceptable, Matt Busch.
“Who’s the youngest here?”
“Thanks, Billy. Black Phil–”
“Oteil. My name is Oteil.”
“–will you read the Four Questions for us?”
“Wrong holiday, Bobby.”
Matt Busch watched. He stood and watched. Could not avert his eyes tho he begged to.
Move, feet. This is what Matt Busch told his feet and they did not listen. Turn, head.
There was a conspiracy against him. His body desired what his brain could not process.
A smell arose from the men. Lust and sweat and balls and ball powder. Close, nostrils. They would not. Small yips of pleasure came from the men. These intensified.
Matt Busch watched.
“You’re really getting in there.”
“I’m just so happy, Bob.”
“Because social media didn’t exist while we were doing whatever the hell we wanted.”
“Could you guys gesture at the guitars?”
“Just try it once.”
“GESTURE AT THE FUCKING GUITARS!”
Matt Busch, you are too skinny. Eat some potato chips and wash them down with melted butter.
“Hey, Garcia, here’s your new guitar.”
“Put some bullshit behind the bridge.”
“Um, what kind of–”
“PUT SOME BULLSHIT BEHIND THE BRIDGE!”
“And bring me some potato chips and melted butter.”
*Worst title ever? It’s up there. (Or down there, whichever.)
What do you think, Bobby? Best song with a man’s name in the title?
“Rhapsody Abramowitz. My publicist. Real tall fellow.”
Let’s move on. Whatcha doing?
“Paperwork. Being a fake priest is like being a cop: 95% paperwork.”
Why are you a fake priest now?
Bobby, you still have to pay taxes.
“Separation of fake church and state.”
Not a thing.
“My buddy Wesley Snipes says it is.”
Please do not take financial advice from Wesley Snipes. Why do you even know him?
“I was up for the part of Whistler in the Blade movies. Bastard Kristofferson snaked me out of the gig.”
You’d have killed it.
Tell Jeff Chimenti that I see him back there.
“Ah. Will do.”
“And what is, uh, this young lady here doing?”
“It’s called a job, Bob.”
“I’ve heard of those. Had a couple. Cowboy, rock star. Is she a cowboy or a rock star?”
“Then I have no frame of reference. Also, I notice her lyric-screen is not on a microphone stand, but on the desk in front of her. And there’s no lyrics.”
“That’s a computer, Bob.”
“Super-computer? I know one of those. Good guy. Well, not a guy. Wall.”
“Just a regular computer.”
“Ah. And what are we watching?”
“They’re scamps, kitties.”
Bobby has now reached the point in his career that when he shows up at places, he is led around the room to look at stuff. Like the Pope, or Kim Jong-Un.
Hey, Matt Busch. Whatcha doing?
“Sell your bullshit elsewhere, twinkletits.”
Can I steal “twinkletits?”
Allow me to preface my silly little jokes with this: hail to the road crew. First in, last out, first blamed.
In no particular order:
- If you asked someone to describe what this photo would look like before they saw it, they would have gotten it exactly right; nothing about this photo is a surprise.
- Oh, wait: there’s a bunch of ladies.
- They are hidden in the back.
- Maybe the photographer is a bear, and all the women are menstruating, and the men are being chivalrous.
- Beard guy.
- Bald guy.
- Bald guy who is maybe black.
- Lady in red cocktail dress.
- Matt Busch.
- Other beard guy.
- Harry Knowles.
- Y’know, I think Bald Maybe Black Guy and Handsome Dan back there are the drivers for some reason–the two guys by Mrs. Donna Jean in the Stealie button-downs–and now I am fascinated by them and am starting to make up stories about them.
- I will come up with better names, though.
- And speaking on behalf of Mrs. Donna Jean: same shit, different century.