Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: mexico (page 1 of 2)

Los Weirs

“I’d like you to meet my secret, Mexican family.”

No, Bobby.

“Please, uh, don’t tell my regular, American family.”

You are not related to these people.

“This lady here is my wife, Phlebitis.”

Are you all right?

“All the way on my right, which would be your left, is my brother-in-law Luis Agarraculo.”

Stop this.

“On the other side of the aisle is, well, we don’t exactly know. He kinda came with the house. There’s some sort of feudalism situation going on down here.”

There isn’t.

“And the remaining two are our strapping young sons, Primero and Segundo.”


“Primero is older.”

I got that. Bobby, none of what you’re saying is true. These people are not your family.

“Es this verdad, Papi?”

“Tell him that we are familia, Papi!”

“Settle down, boys. You, uh, you better go. You’ve riled them up.”

This whole site gets dumber every day.

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.”

It’s A Thousand Pages, Give Or Take A Few

Why are you wearing all-black. George R. R. Martin? You’re at a beach resort.

“Ah, my good sir! You’ve noted my ebon garb! It represents House Marghalis, who are–”

NO. No. No, no, no. I don’t care. Stop talking.

“You shan’t upbraid me with the all-too-cliched ‘Get back to writing, George,” shall you?”

Shit, no.

“A gentleman!”

It’s not that. I just don’t give a shit about The Dragonfucker Chronicles or whatever it is you write.

“You’re quite rude, you know.”

Shut up and go buy a bathing suit.

Right Behind You

You may make Hologram JPB. He would think it was funny.

And Those That Could Not Sink Or Swim Were Just Left There To Float

Hey, Bobby. Put your nipple away.

“He’s, uh, on vacation, too.”

True. Whatcha doing?

“Puzzling at this fellow’s choice of beach-footwear.”

I probably wouldn’t go with a loafer.

“Gotta let the dogs out when you’re on vacation.”

He’s not on vacation, Bobby. He’s at work.

“I kinda am, too.”

Not that you’d know it. What happened with the livestream?

“It’s better now. I started taking palmetto root.”

Not that stream. I’m talking about the webcast.

“Exterminators took care of that.”

The internet, Bobby. They usually play your shows on the internet.

“Do they now? Wow. 21st century, huh?”

The stream on Thursday night was shitty to the point of people complaining, and then canceled tonight’s ‘cast without much of an explanation.


Any idea what happened?



“Rebels in the hills?”

There are no rebels in the hills, Bobby. You’re on the Mayan Riviera.

“Weird how the Mayans named their coast something French.”

What I’m hearing is that you have no idea what happened.

“In my defense, there’s, like, eight layers of people that bullshit has to flow through before I get involved.”

True. Follow the rules of water safety.

“Always assume the boat is loaded, and keep your finger off the rudder.”

Close enough.

Tall And Tanned And Lovely

This bit again?

“Life is cyclical; it bounds back to its place of birth.”

Do the end justify the means?

“It depends. What are the means?”

Mass murder.

“Then, no.”

What if it’s a reeeeeeally good end?

“Still a no.”

You’re a woman with strong beliefs.

“Principle is no vice.”

Do you have any body hair?

“I have no body hair.”

Wanna buy some?

“Sticking with no.”

What should we know about Mexico?

“Far more Germanic than you think.”

What should we know about America?

“Same thing.”

Define art.

“Do I look like Samuel Johnson?”

You look like the opposite of Samuel Johnson.

“Then let art define itself.”

Why must we know of death?

“We couldn’t plan funerals, otherwise.”

I feel like I made a good decision bringing this bit back. You wanna tongue kiss?

“Even if you weren’t repulsive, I’m currently dating a Wookfight.”


 Ah. Wookfight.



No, I was wrong. Horrible idea to bring this back. Sorry, everyone.

Dar Un Paso Atrás

It was around the 75th time some gringo in a tie-dye requested Mexicali that Gustavo snapped and began beating him with his chubby guitar.


ATTENTION FOREIGNERS: please do not wear native garb at me. It makes me feel colonialistic. I’m glad you have the gig, but you can totally wear your normal clothes.


The three guys in the middle with the trumpets? They were the Dead’s horn section in the September ’73 shows that David Lemieux hates so much and I adore. (He’s right. I love those shows because they’re terrible.)




Second from the left. I love that move, the violin tucked in with no hands. I remember watching a special with Itzhak Perlman as a kid, a master class kind of thing. He would bring students up and work with them, and he gestured as much as you would assume a man named Itzhak Perlman would, and the fiddle bobbed around and swerved and swayed. It made me very nervous.


“Why do they cheer when we sing the line ‘Soy capitan, soy capitan?'”

“No idea, Gustavo. Just don’t hit any more of them.”

“I promise nada.”

First, I Look In The Perse

What is this?

“Oh, glad you’re here. This is the new party poncho from James Perse’s new Dead & Company line. It’s officially licensed!”

It’s a garbage bag, Mickey.

“You know nothing about fashion. It’s Polybutadiene prepared with a high-quality Ziegler–Natta catalyst.”

Uh-huh. Wait here while I google that.

“Sure. I’m gonna drum.”


It’s vinyl, Mickey.

“Officially licensed vinyl.”


“What our fans have told us is that they’d like higher-end merch. Also, what I’ve told the merch guys is that I’d like higher-end merch. A man cannot yoink on tee-shirts alone.”

How much is that?



“There’s a Stealie on it.”


“So you wouldn’t believe how many rich morons we have as fans.”

I totally would.

I See The Gulf Of Mexico

Summer’s here, Enthusiasts, but winter is coming and that can mean only one thing: time for Bobby to get Montezuma’s Revenge again. Mexico! Our hermano to the south; Bizarro Canada; the neighbor no one threatened to move to if Trump got elected. Oh, beautiful Mexico with your proud history that I know absolutely nothing of, and your tacos, which I enjoy, and your music, which if I’m honest I could live without. Who told you a trumpet went with an accordion, Mexico? Did Germany tell you that? What else did Germany tell you, Mexico? Have you and Germany been passing notes again?

Stop being–

Mexican’s not a race.

incoherent and weird. And racist.

I’ll give you the first two, but hating a foreign culture’s traditional music is natural. I don’t like Canadian traditional music, either.

What is Canadian traditional music?


Just tell everyone about the Mexico shows.

We should crowd-fund a ticket for Sam Cutler and he could do broadcasts from the resort about how awful everything was.

I would chip in a couple bucks for that.

We should get Steve Wozniak to give us a half-million dollars.

Totally. Tell the nice people about Mexico.

Several years ago, a rock band looked out into the audience and thought, “I bet a bunch of these fuckers are rich.” Thus was born the Mexican Resort Run. The Phishes have been doing it for a while, and the legacy acts team to play Classic Rock weekends, and Bobby and Billy went down there last year with Widespread String Cheese or whoever.

Now it’s Dead & Company’s turn to rock the Mayan Riviera at a cautious, stately pace; there are several tiers of accommodations available, but I know that Enthusiasts are only the best kind of people and that demand a certain quality in their surroundings. I would wager that most of you are in tuxedos while you read this. I wouldn’t disgust you by telling you where the poor will be sleeping; I will share with you the specs of the ultra-luxury, super-elite, supposed-to-be-secret package known as the Praetor’s Suite.

In the Mayan language, Makayano means “Of course we’ll dispose of the dead prostitute” and the Makayano Sunkisser Hotel lives up the name with a standard of service unparalleled throughout the world, or at least better than that shithole Hard Rock across the bay.

Packages include:

  • Four days and nights at the Mayakano Sunkisser.
  • Hand-crafted, carbon-neutral tickets to all three Dead & Company shows.
  • Private transportation to and from the shows in literally whatever car you prefer. Just ask. Bentley? Lambo? ’92 Mazda RX7? We’ll make it happen.
  • Private jet to and from your local airport.
  • Private helicopter to take you from your house to the airport.
  • If you like a bellhop, you can take him home.
  • Four dinners at our 5-star restaurant, Guy Fieri’s Villa de Flavór.
  • All the fucking shrimp you can eat.
  • Seriously: if you ask us to, we will feed you shrimp as you sleep.
  • Personal security for the shows. (Available: large trained man, or tiny crazy fucker who will tackle strangers to make you laugh.)
  • Backstage access.
  • Backdoor access (to the bellhops).

Ask about our trips into town to run over locals!

Guys, You’re In The Wrong Chairs

“It’s your turn to call him, Senor Prime Minister.”

“No, Mister President. I called him this afternoon.”

“How many times did you explain NAFTA to him?”



“I counted.”

“Justin, I can’t take another conversation with this baboso. I got problems of my own.”

“Your people are not fond of you.”

“They truly despise me. How you doing?”

“The internet loves me.”

“How about Canada?”


“What if we both call him?”

“At the same time?”

“Double-team him.”



“Not a great image.”

“Not like the last guy.”

“Peña, I’m not gay but I would totally have gotten my three-way on with the two of you.”

“We were the hottest continent.”

“Dude, by faaaaaar we were the hottest. You seen some of the scrubs running Asian countries?”

“Muy feo. So: we both call him. Good cop, bad cop.”

“Yeah, maybe. Who’s the bad cop?”

“We’re talking to Donald Trump, man. Obviously, the guys with the Mexican accent is gonna play the bad cop.”


“Head in the game, Trudeau.”

“You’re right, you’re right. I got my mind on the playoffs.”

“What is it with you people and hockey?”

“You people?”

“Justin, mi amigo.”

“Peña, my friend.”

“Let’s not fight.”

“We need to stick together.”

“Si. We just need to weather this storm. Okay, so when we call, you’ll talk about the proud and long history of the Canadian/American relationship, and I’ll threaten him with nationalizing the Ford plant in Chihuahua.”

“Don’t say Chihuahua.”


“He’ll start thinking about dogs and we’ll lose him.”

“Si, si.”

“And I don’t know if the history approach will work. The president doesn’t know any history.”

“You think he knows who fought the War of 1812?”

“I don’t think he knows when it happened.”

“You got a plan?”

“You still got El Chapo wrangled or did he get away again?”

“We got him in one of those all-plastic numbers like where they keep Magneto.”

“Super. Give him to Trump.”

“I’m not handing a Mexican national, no matter how big of a criminal, to that jackass. Or any president, for that matter. Out of the question.”


“Besides, El Chapo just escaped again.”

“He’s good.”


“Peña, listen: every leader has burdens. Our predecessors have faced wars, depressions, droughts. Trump is our burden. He’s our World War II.”

“I am not up to this task.”

“Probably me neither, buddy, but here we are.”

“Si. Okay. But it’s your turn to call him.”

“I got an idea.”

“I’m open to anything.”

“What if I FaceTime him? And when I explain NAFTA again, I use a whiteboard and markers and visual aids?”

“That’s not bad. But call soon.”


“Almost teevee time.”

“Oh, right, yeah. I’ll talk to you afterwards.”

“Bueno suerte.”

“You, too, ehh?”

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