Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: new zealand

Welcome To The Summer Of Allegra Didgeridoo

Allegra Didgeridoo’s tits walked into the Carlyle Hotel and the rest of her followed close behind. She admits to 26 years on the planet, but is a woman, and cannot be trusted to give her true age.

And what a woman. Tall, but only when standing on a box, or if you are asking a child; skinny, but not gross skinny, and certainly not skinny around the chest, where her tits are. Her skin glows like one of Wonka’s Golden Tickets, but you would never exchange her for a tour around a candy factory.  When she’s not wearing clothes–in the shower, perhaps, or when she’s been paid vast amounts to not wear clothes–she is naked. Allegra is not naked now, but I can imagine what she’s look like naked, because I have several screen-caps of her nude scenes on my phone.

“Have you ever seen naked pictures of yourself on a journalist’s phone?” I ask her as she slides into the booth. God, I wish I were that banquette.

“Wha?” she says, seductively.

I show her, scrolling through half-a-dozen shots. Ass. Titties. Whole package.

“Uh-huh. That’s, uh…yeah. Huh,” Allegra says, pretending to be creeped out. She looks just like Audrey Hepburn when she pretends to be creeped out.

I forgot to tell you: Allegra Didgeridoo is from New Zealand, which is a country off the coast of Australia. If Australia is Texas, then New Zealand is Austin. New Zealand is Australia 30 years ago, and Australia is America 50 years ago, so New Zealand is virtually prehistoric. Wallabies serve in their Parliament or Congress or Duma or whatever they have down there. (I did not do even the most basic of research for this piece, besides downloading all those naked pictures of Allegra.)

Life in New Zealand is slow, and small: they just got electricity in February, but then a sheep walked into a transformer, and now they do not have electricity again. They also do not have soap, but they do have soap operas, which is where Allegra–along with half of the Avengers–got her start. As New Zealand is so small, and Allegra so fuckable, she was famous before the second commercial break of her first show, which was of course live because of the backwardness and whatnot.

And why not? She is hot. So fucking hot. Eyes as blue as the balls of the men she refuses. Calves that a dairy farmer would take pride in. A hip-to-waist ratio that signifies health and fertility. Nipples that you could hang an umbrella off, and not one of those cheapy street-corner jobs – a golf umbrella with a corporate logo. Allegra’s legs go all the way from the floor to her vagina, which I have not seen but imagine looks like a Venus Flytrap covered in morning dew. Her mouth is too big for her face, but the right size for…well, you’ll just have to buy a ticket, won’t you?

Allegra and I ordered dinner: she asked for a salad, like a woman; I ordered a steak. We discussed her upcoming film projects–she has 31 films coming out this year–and I pretended to record the conversation while I thought about a discussion I had with a man.

“The thing about Allegra,” legendary producer Garry Weinberg told me at his palatial Beverly Hills home, “is that you need to fuck her. Do I want to hump Cate Blanchett? Sure. Would I like to shtup Scarlett Johansson? Okay. But Allegra? I’d do it all for that nookie.”

Garry’s butler took our dirty dishes wherever dirty dishes go.

“That’s why I knew she had to play Dale Arden in my Buck Rogers movie. I’ve been trying to get it off the ground for a decade.”

“That’s so odd, Garry,” I said. “Tarzan is such a modern idea that isn’t irretrivably based in centuries-old racism.”

“You mean Buck Rogers.”

“Oh right, sure.”

“I had to have her, and as soon as we had hired the male lead, we offered her 70% of his salary and the rest is history.”

Have I mentioned her tits? I feel like I should ask her about them.

“Allegra, if you only were able to save one of your tits from a house fire, which one would it be?”

“Excuse me?” She is kittenish and frisky.

“I notice you’re not wearing a bra,” I say.

“Is there a question?”


God, she’s got a perfect nose. I want to pick her nose; I would eat her boogers; I would wear clothes made exclusively from her used Kleenex. And her mouth, Jesus fucking Christ, her mouth. You know that thing where you put your finger in your mouth and it goes POP when you remove it? I want to do with that, except with her mouth and using my dick instead of a finger.

Our evening is over, and I cannot wait to go home and write about how much I want to fuck her, which is the best compliment you can give a woman, and only a real bitch would get offended by.

She looks great walking away, so I take a few pictures but forget to turn the flash off; she turns around and pretends to be disgusted and exhausted and bored, but I still want to fuck her.

G’Day To You, Old Southern Skies

The Dead never went to Australia. There were many reasons: the 85-hour plane flight, the visa requirements (Billy had bitten the last three doctors who tried to give him a booster shot, so Rakow had had to forge the paperwork for the insurance company and immigration tends to look at things more closely,) and the fact that Bobby was convinced he was “gonna fall off, man. Opposite Day’s one thing, but Upside-down Day? Not on my watch.”

The Dead down under? Silliness.

But it happened.

Once again, David Lemeuixxx (DL’s alter-ego who runs a Dead-themed webcam show in which he talks about the upcoming releases while removing up to three layers of fleece and/or goretex) has roused a TUMESCENT TERROR from the nether reaches where lies spawn and honor receives a bad haircut. A DEMON OF LIES, is he, out to ROGER US PROPERLY with his FIB-BONER!

I can’t even look at you right now.

The Dead did indeed visit Australia, and New Zealand too, in the Summer of ’77. Mickey’s car crash was a ruse, a shuck, a jive: twaddle, I calls it! Think about it: Mickey getting fucked up and doing something stupid that cost the organization a small fortune? Does that sound like Mickey?

The plane ride went poorly. Everything got covered in acid and then there was turbulence so everything got covered in vomit and there were still, like, 32 hours to go.

Their arrival went poorly, too. In Australia, they’re fond of a certain word, starts with a “C,” they use it constantly about everyone and everything. We don’t. So, when the custom official, in what he thought was friendly banter, called Betty Cantor that, she hauled off and socked the dumb cunt.

Nicely done. Subtle.

Luckily, the entire country–including everyone in authority–is made up of sunstroked lunatics of criminal stock, so they respect a good border-guard whalloping. They think it’s a way of asserting your home countries’ pride. Australians are like Klingons in flip-flops.

The shows went poorly, as could be guessed: there were too many distractions. Jon McIntire got eaten by a kangaroo, then fired by Billy for it. Keith, having accidentally taken too may uppers instead of his usual barbiturates, declared himself Cockodile Dundee and wandered around Perth stark naked and demanding strangers look at his Uluru. It was nice of him to use the traditional name for it, but still.

The disasters continued: Garcia was mistaken for a koala and forced to pose with tourists in a nature preserve: he didn’t much mind because they kept him tranquilized and he copped a lot of feels when good-looking ladies took a picture.

The last dates were in New Zealand, so the boys rented a boat to make the hop, except it’s about 900 miles between Australia and NZ, so they nearly died 9 or 10 times and when they got there, everyone realized that it was just hobbits and sheep and cliffs–New Zealand is basically warm Iceland–so they went home and when they rehired Jon McIntire, who had been brought back to life via Time Sheath technology, his first task was to hunt down all the tapes of the shows and destroy them. When he had burned the last tape, Billy fired him again for no discernible reason.

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