Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: new york times

A Voice Of Hate, The Look Of Love

Eddie and Brenda McCaughey were married this fall. They registered at Target. On their list was a muffin tin, a fancy ice cube maker, and a sofa. Ms. McCaughey, 25, was worried about Antifa bashing up the ceremony. Weddings are hard enough to plan for when your fiancé is not an avowed white nationalist.

They sat shoulder-to-shoulder in an Applebee’s outside of Dayton and finished each other’s sentences. He was in a tee-shirt, and she was in a sleeveless jean jacket, and they were in love. They decided on the boneless chicken wings.

“Nigger dinner,” Eddie told this reporter, who did not follow up on that assertion and instead asked him about his tattoos. One was of a piece of pie, which symbolized his love for the cult television program Twin Peaks, and another was a swastika.

“Tell me about the pie tattoo,” this reporter said.

The rolling hills of Ohio flatten into lumpy brown plains covered with Steak & Shakes outside, but inside the Applebee’s is a young couple that could live next door to you. Some Americans might take umbrage to Eddie’s beliefs, statements, actions, and plans, but the Times decided to give him a chance to explain himself.

“I want every kike dead,” he explained himself.

Eddie’s face is lean and pale, with pointed eyebrows that make him look like Victor Mature. Everyone he comes across, he addresses as “Sir” or “Ma’am,” and he smells like sandalwood. He asked after this reporter’s family several times, about their health and careers and whether they were Filipino.  He and Brenda have two cats in their small, tidy house named Hitler and Hitler; they came in and out as Eddie prepared dinner, prowling under the couch and over the improvised explosive device that sat half-finished on the living room chair.

“That’s for a mosque a couple miles away,” Eddie said, motioning to the IED. Then he showed off how well he played the drums. Brenda arrived home from her job as a kindergarten teacher, and Eddie leapt from behind the kit to welcome her. When they kissed, it was like everyone in the world was in love all at once.

“That smells wonderful, honey,” she said.

“The Holocaust didn’t happen, but I wish it did,” he answered.

The stars were coming out in the Ohio sky, and a copy of Behold A Pale Rider sat next to the DVD’s from season 3 of Seinfeld, and two crazy kids tried to make it in this world against long odds.

 

(After this bullshit.)

I Sewed Shut My Asshole…And Now I Sorely Regret It

When I first heard of the idea of sewing my asshole shut, I, like most people, thought it was a foolish idea. A week later, though, I happened to see a TEDx talk on the benefits of a sewn asshole. I was riveted.

I supported the procedure in dozens of articles, radio, and teevee appearances, even as everyone in my life said that I had to be kidding. As early as 2015, I wrote “there cannot possibly be a downside to lacing up your sphincter” and that it was “the smartest elective surgery” one could undergo. I believed that the sheer audacity of the move would be both balm and succor for all in these divided times, which is why I started a quarterly magazine entitled Asshole Affairs dedicated to promoting and defending my decision.

It is now clear my optimism was unfounded, and I should not have sewn my asshole shut. I thoroughly regret my decision and would strongly urge others considering the decision not to continue along their path. Far from making America great again, my actions have instead damaged my internal organs possibly beyond repair. I feel like I’m dying.

What did I see in sewing my asshole shut? I must now admit that I paid attention only to what I wanted, and discounted the many warnings from doctors, nurses, colleagues, and every single other person I know. The surgery would, I believed, save me, a person who went to Harvard, valuable time previously wasted in the bathroom. Financially, it was a no-brainer: thanks to Obama’s job-killing over-regulation, toilet paper is now the most expensive it’s ever been. No stains on your underwear, a cessation of flatulence, the list of positives went on forever.

Immediately after having my pucker zipped, I noticed that life was not, in fact, becoming great. When friends and family inquired, I would tell them that “it was early,” and “I’ve lived with a wide-open asshole for so many years; the transition is going to be a little shaky.”

But we are out of the transition. It is no longer early, and it is now clear that I was deluding myself. The body-wracking pains and gut spasms will not stop; they are, indeed, intensifying. Any time I thought I would save by no longer needing to poop has been replaced in treble by seizures and vomiting. As it turns out, everything my critics said was true.

I have seen the errors of my ways, but, perhaps, a bit too late and now I am completely and totally full of shit.

 

(After this jamoke.)

Stop Being Democrats, Democrats

The path back to power for the Democratic Party today, as it was in the 1990s, is unquestionably to move to the center and reject the siren calls of the left, whose policies and ideas have weakened the party. – “Back to the Center, Democrats” by Mark Penn and Andrew Stein, New York Times, 7/6/17

By SOME INCOMPETENT ASSHOLE and HIS TRUMP-SUPPORTING SIDEKICK

The path back to power for the Democratic Party today, as it was in the 1840s, is unquestionably to support slavery. Failing that, they must reject the shrill, hysterical, high-pitched voices of the left, some of whom speak with accents or perhaps in “jive.”

Since the 90’s, the Democratic Party has increasingly turned to identity politics, which is a phrase that means “noticing some Americans aren’t straight and white” and this has clearly failed. The Dems must stop pandering to minorities and start catering to white men. You must also reject class warfare. America is a classless society, we have been told by many rich people, and this issue is a non-starter.

Central to the party’s failure has been the loss of support among working-class voters, which is not a euphemism. Instead of just throwing everyone in jail and letting cops shoot whomever they wanted, the Democrats became mired in political correctness, such as the so-called “bathroom bills,” which as we’ll all recall were the idea of the Democrats, and not that the Dems were just responding to acts of wanton and stupid cruelty.

The Democrats must stop trying to “help” people with their “social programs” and “healthcare,” and instead allow Milo Yioannopolis to speak at their convention, and begin praising those brave patriots who murder abortion doctors. It might not hurt to have a few prominent Democratic leaders shoot a few abortionists themselves.

By continuing to push for the leftist agenda of fair wages, affordable healthcare, and civil rights for all, the Democratic Party will continue to appeal only to the fringe whackadoodles who subscribe to those frankly Bolshevik ideas.

Opioids, Democrats. (Also not a euphemism, swear to God.) The road to the White House is paved with opioids.

If You Can’t Say Something Nice…

  • Hitler was a snappy dresser.
  • Pol Pot’s name is so easy to spell.
  • Yes, 700 young men died in the USS Arizona, but remember that shot from Michael Bay’s Pearl Harbor?
  • Stalin’s hair was gorgeous.
  • Many people in the burn ward forge lasting friendships with their fellow patients.
  • The Diary of Anne Frank has earned its publisher millions of dollars over the years, spurring job creation.
  • The Reverend Jim Jones had a very diverse congregation.
  • Mobuto Sese Seko could wear the fuck out of a leopard-skin pillbox hat; most people–hell, most dictators–couldn’t pull that off.
  • Mao was prolific.

And we close once again with the Big H:

  • No Hitler, no Bill Graham: if the Nazis don’t exist, than Wulf Grajonca stays in Berlin and grows up to manage Can.

This is a fun game, New York Times. Can we not play it anymore?

They’ll Give That Pulitzer To Just Anyone

For Nicholas Kristof

Brooklyn, New York — Rhonda Lynn is a kindergarten teacher and a Democrat who didn’t vote for Donald Trump. Now she’s wrestling with the consequences.

Lynn’s deep-seated exhaustion is matched only by passion for her students. Up to 70% of them utilize some sort of government assistance, from housing vouchers to free breakfast programs. She became teary as she described a student who never seemed to want to go home in the winter. Her family’s heat had been turned off. Mrs. Lynn reached out to the parents and connected them with a local program that provided relief from utility bills.

“They were sleeping by the open oven,” she said, her eyes liquid.

So she is not surprised in the slightest that one of Trump’s first proposals is to cut federal funds that help the organization.

“We told y’all this shit would happen!” she said.

Here in Brooklyn, I’ve been interviewing many people like Mrs. Lynn: supporters of Mrs. Clinton, or a third party, or non-voters, who were ignored by the mass media as it went traipsing through Oklahoma to gently interview the stupidest white people in existence. And they’re upset.

“They’re surprised Trump’s a scumbag? I coulda told ’em,” asked Jesus Ortega, a reluctant Clinton supporter who is enrolled in a program called Brooklyn WorkAdvance that trains mostly unemployed workers to fill well-paying manufacturing jobs. Trump has proposed eliminating a budget pot that pays for the program. “My cousin Louis worked for him. Orange pendejo paid him 60 cents on the dollar.

“First damn words out of his mouth announcing his campaign was some racist bullshit,” Ortega’s friend Kermit Vance added.

We were in a diner, because in these types of articles you have to go to a diner. I came to Brooklyn to see how residents would react to the sadness and disappointment of Trump voters, who are now realizing that they may have been sold a bill of goods.

“No sympathy,” Vance said.

“You shitting me?” said Ortega.

I reminded them about rural voters’ economic anxiety. Vance was speechless; Ortega stabbed me with a fork. I left the diner to speak to the only other source acceptable to a New York Times columnist: a cab driver. Yousef Duallo is from Haiti, and has been in Brooklyn for three years. I told him that many Trump voters felt resentful for being mocked as dumb.

“Then tell them to stop doing dumb things! Do you speak to these people?”

I told him that I was flying to Kentucky that night to speak to Trump voters in a diner.

“Tell them!” He let me out of the cab, and I immediately hailed another one. Michel Dubois is also from Haiti, and has been a cab driver for six years. I tell him that Trump voters are surprised that his budget would cut programs they relied on. Mr. Dubois started laughing and didn’t stop until he dropped me off at home.

I remember something Mrs. Lynn, the kindergarten teacher, said to me.

“Why don’t you stop commiserating about being wet with the idiots who steered the ship onto the rocks?”

I went upstairs and flagellated myself with a whip for twenty minutes, then packed for Kentucky. There were coal miners waiting for me at a diner.

1977 and Bobby Jokes: You Know, The Usual

Why hasn’t Barton Hall been released commercially? Not that I’m looking for it, obviously: I can still remember the all-black Maxxell with 5/8/77!!! written on the tag in red ink. Since then, I’ve never not listened to this show. Even though the boys and I drifted apart during the first decade of the new millennium, that second set still called to me. “Just the first little bit,” I would tell myself. “Just the opening to Scarletdat dat dat–bom ba WHOOOM!” And then, of course, it would be seventy minutes later and the Dead would have destroyed and rebuilt the world with Morning Dew.

But no official release. They have the tapes, obviously, along with a fondness for releasing Spring/Fall ’77 shows–there have been 5 Dick’s Picks, one Road Trip, one Digital Download, To Terrapin, and the 10 CD Winterland ’77 box set. (Swear I did that by memory, so if I’m wrong, then…I don’t know: nothing, I guess. Carry on wasting time reading this nonsense.)

There’s a great book that came out last year, Love Goes to Buildings on Fire by Will Hermes. It might be the definitive history of one of the most fertile musical scenes in history, New York in the 70’s. The author is mugged taking the subway to the train for Cornell and loses not only his money, but also his Dead tickets. The New York Times wrote an article recently about the archive and the sheer volume of shows available nowadays and its effect on ranking shows and whether or not the band should be appreciated show-by-show or by tour. Quite honestly, I think the author of the article was assigned an article covering The Dead’s weary arrival into Manhattan and just couldn’t interview Bobby again. True, there had been no dickpunching since Billy went back to the ocean, but still, you try asking Bobby  any other question other than, “When did you start looking like Dad Wolf from Teen Wolf?

So, who was on Style’s Woof-mobile?

Anyway, what I’m saying is that 5/8/77 is kind of almost vaguely “out there.” And we’re coming up on the 35th anniversary, but no one’s talking advantage of it. New members, fresh blood. Think I haven’t seen hobbies die? I used to work in a comic book shop, man: Hell holds no terrors for me.

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