Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: mexico

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?”


  • Better than China’s.
  • WiFi, but just on the U.S. side.
  • Maybe a big mural of Trump and Jesus and a gun and Jesus again.
  • Difficult to phase or teleport through, in case there is a team of Mexican X-Men. (Bad X-Hombres!)
  • Should not topple over if leaned against by fat guy, even if he is very fat.
  • Alligators taped to Mexican side.
  • So thick that Sir Mix-A-Lot would hit that shit.
  • Embedded invisible fence within wall, and we put shock collars on all the Mexicans and also we make the Mexicans pay for their own shock collars.
  • Really, really, really mean dogs everywhere.
  • Every third sentry tower has a pitching machine cranked up to 90 mph hooked up a Raspberry Pi with pattern recognition software, and if you’re shaped like a Mexican then you get a fastball to the face.
  • Put the whole thing on wheels so we can move it a couple feet south every night; in a few years, we’ll be halfway to Durango.
  • Moat made out of:
    • Lava.
    • Used hypodermic needles.
    • All the shit from the alligators we taped to the Mexican side.
    • Boiling oil. (Estimated cost of keeping a a 2,000 mile-long, 20’x10′ river of oil at 400 degrees: all-the-money-in-the-world a month.)
    • C.H.U.D.s

Rock And Ruin


Hey, Billy.

“Look at this shit! Got some pyramids, a rando, my lucky red hat: life’s good.”

You look happy.

“Gotta tell ya, though: these Mayans couldn’t build for shit. Half these suckers don’t even have roofs.”

They’re ruins, Billy. They didn’t look like that a thousand years ago.

“We don’t know that.”

You think they built them that way? Crumbling?

“The fuck do I know? I’m not a Mayan. Shit, I’m not even a Mexican. You should ask Garcia.”

Garcia’s not Mexican, either.

“Sure he was. Is. Whatever. Mexican as shit.”

No he isn’t. Wasn’t. Whatever.

“I’m pretty sure Garcia was Mexican. If he wasn’t, then why’d we pick him up for band practice outside the Home Depot?”

Jesus, Billy.

“How many kids he have?”

Please stop talking.

“A Mexican amount! What is it: seven, eight? There’s Tricky.”




“Gypsy Danger.”

That’s a giant robot.

“Good kids. Love those kids, but they’re Mexican. You should see ’em get over a wall.”

We’re done.

“We haven’t even talked about skank!”

Your racism and lies have ruined the skank. Are you happy?

“A little.”

Madman Across The Border

Hey, Bobby. Look at you.

“Went where the weather suited my trousers.”

If there’s any place in the world those pants are appropriate, it’s a Mexican resort.

“You bet.”

Do this again next year?

“Might be a problem. New Brent didn’t get back across the border.”

Jeff Chimenti is his name.

“There’s no ‘J’ sound in Spanish, so he’s probably gonna have to change it.”

Why can’t he come back?

“He’s been classified as both a drug kingpin and a Syrian.”

Wow. I didn’t know you could be declared a Syrian.

“We’re learning a lot about civics lately.”

Hey, Garcia Tee-Shirt.

“Hey, man.”

Mighty Wind Is Gonna Be My Name

You look like the Maxell guy.

“That’s a powerful consumer audiotape right there.”

Industry standard. How you feeling?

“With my hands.”

I meant physically.

“Me, too. I grab stuff.”

I think you’re just messing with me.

“Yeah, yeah I’m, uh, just full of beans today. Being full of beans, ironically, is why you’re asking me how I’m feeling.”


“Here’s the thing: if you finish it in 20 minutes, then it’s free.”

Oh, no. Don’t take those challenges, Bob.

“I’m a competitive guy.”

How big was the thing?

“Three pounds.”

No one should eat three pounds of anything at one time, let alone foreign meat.

“Panda eats 40 pounds of bamboo a day.”

Are you a panda, Bobby?


There ya go. Wait, was this at the resort?


Bobby, you eat for free at the resort.

“It wasn’t the money. It was the principle.”


“Billy did it for the money. Put down two of the suckers and made the restaurant give him ten bucks.”

That’s not how that works.

“It is when Billy does it.”


Bobby Is Okay


“Bobcommandante Marcos, please.”

No. Bobby, take that thing off and stop leading Zapatistas.

“They are my people.”

They’re not. Do you even speak Spanish?

“I understand it fluently.”

Bob, don’t defend the indigenous peoples of Chiapas?

“If not me, who?”

Literally anyone. Take that thing off your head and go back to the resort.

“Yeah. Gonna liberate it.”

Don’t liberate anything, Bobby. Go play guitar.

“The guitar of freedom.”



Packed House

Billy just tweeted this out and said it was the crowd in Mexico; this alternative fact thing simply has to stop.

So Long, And Thanks For All The Phish

“Hey! Legs!”


“Yeah. I got some cartilage to pick with you.”

I don’t think that joke makes any sense. Dolphins have bones.

“Never took marine biology.”

Wouldn’t you just call it “biology?”

“We’re getting off the point.”

What is the point?

“Tell Weir to suck my dick. Or whatever it is I have.”

A cloaca?

“I honestly don’t know.”

What’s your problem with Bobby?

“That loudmouth sister-in-law of his–”

Lilian Monster.

“–got in his ear about how the dolphins were being abused, and he fucked my shit up. I got no gigs this weekend because of him.”

Wait. You like interacting with tourists all day?

“Like it? LOVE it.”

I am shocked.

“The best. First the little ones stick their hands in my blowhole, and then their fat fuck parents ride me around like I’m a carnival pony, and then they toss me fish like I’m their inferior.”

I see.

“And, ohhhh, do I love posing for Instagram pictures.”


“Really feel like I’m fulfilling my purpose.”

Dolphins have discovered sarcasm, have they?

“Well, first we tried to discover explosives.”

What happened?

“Fuses got wet.”


“Honestly, thank Bobby. Weekend off is nice. Listen to some tunes, catch up on my sleep. Still haven’t seen Stranger Things.”

It’s a must.

“Tell Billy he can totally break in here and hang out with us.”

He doesn’t need any approval on that one; I can almost guarantee you’ll see him.

“Awesome. Uncle fuckin’ Billy. Oh, hey, I figured out what our dicks look like.”

I don’t need to–

–GAAAH. Jesus.

“Ahhh, yeah.”

Is it giving the finger?


Fuck, yeah. If my dick could give people the finger, I’d be a millionaire.

“That’s a good gimmick.

It is.

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