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

Tag: poster (Page 1 of 3)

Stop Dragon Eyeball Around

“Jenkins! Come in here!”

“Sir, for the seventh time now, I am not discussing whether or not you have–”

“Big Dick Energy.”

“–big dick energy. I will not submit to the conversation.”

“Big Dick Energy, Jenkins. Capitalize it. It’s important.”

“That’s not how English works, sir.”

“Damn your descriptivism! Damn it with shameful zest, Jenkins!”

“I shall, sir. As long as I’m here, we need to discuss the poster for Shoreline.”

“Poster! Never! Not again! What we’ll do instead is sell golden eagle chicks, and the Deadheads will raise the birds to know war and to love the hunt, and then when we come back to Shoreline next year, everyone will bring their eagles back and all the eagles will fight each other to the death during Black Muddy River. Isn’t that better than posters?”

“No, sir. That’s far worse.”

“Fine. Jenkins, let’s bear-bait.”

“That’s terrible, sir.”

“Moose-bait.”

“Terrible and racist against Canadians.”

“Rat-catching.”

“Where the terrier gets chucked in the ring with a sackful of rats, and everyone bets on how many it gets in a given time?”

“Yes.”

“No. Good God, no, sir. No animal involvement of any sort, especially direct abuse thereof.”

“A cute dog. We get a cute dog and it just sits there.”

“Sir, your idea is to substitute posters with ‘a cute dog and it just sits there?'”

“Am I in your office, or are you in my office?”

“The second one, sir.”

“Procure a dog.”

“Sir, which set of medications are you on? The good set the doctor gave you, or the other set you find yourself?”

“I’ve combined them.”

“Of course. Sir, we need to make a poster.”

“Poster! Jenkins, why don’t we use our powers for good? Instead of art, we’ll use the space to print up an infographic lesson about the Battle of Sevastopol. Or the History of the Neck. It was discovered by the Greeks, you know.”

“The neck?”

“Oh, yes. A guy figured it out with a stick and a shadow. Amazing minds, the Greeks. Boff each other like crazy. Amazing boffers, the Greeks.”

“The fans have grown accustomed to artwork, sir.”

“The fans have grown accustomed to it not being the Night Of The Hammer, too.”

“Please stop talking about that, sir.”

“Hammer to the face! Hammer to the face! Hey, there, brother: have a good show. And have a hammer to the face!”

“That is not a scenario to joke about, sir.”

“I would wear hammers in twin bandoliers, like John Popper’s harmonicas. In case a hammer got stuck in someone’s face, you see. You must assume you’re going to lose several hammers in people’s skulls. You could get the claw stuck in an eye-socket. Whatever. You need more than one hammer to pull off a Night Of The Hammers is my point.”

“The task we’re performing should not be this arduous, sir. We’re making all of our own work. There can be no deviation from the concept of ‘selling posters.’ We may not redefine either term.”

“I still say we accept trade. We’d have a Bartertown-type situation within hours. And we’d have all the posters, Jenkins. We’d be gods. Come sit on my shoulders and run Bartertown with me.”

“Let’s circle back to that after we discuss the content of the poster.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“A dragon. No. An eyeball. Wait.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“A bunch of Dead bullshit.”

“Look, I already wrote that down.”

NOTEBOOK SHOWING NOISE

“We’re such a team, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Join me in worship at the Fatal Altar. Speed along the world until the Night Of The Hammers come!”

“You gotta stop with that. Man to man on this one. Knock it off.”

“Only if you take me to the place with the disco fries. And you have to pay, and when I get disco fries on my face, you have to wipe them off.”

“Deal.”

“And your brother’s social security number.”

“No deal.”

“Just the fries.”

“Let’s go, sir.”

A New Low

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ve woken from my nap, but I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I had such a dream! I’ll tell you about it, and then open my eyes. Got it?”

“I understand the premise, sir.”

“We were working for the Grateful Dead, sort of. Some of them, at least. And they went from one unpleasantly-named auditorium to the next all summer, and each show required a poster. That was our job, Jenkins. The posters. But we were shit, Jenkins. Just absymal at the task. Would have achieved better results had we ate a bunch of crayons and pinched off a loaf onto some oaktag. Terrible, Jenkins! We were terrible and what’s worse: lazy. Just the most half-assed, semi-professional bullshit you’ve ever seen. Ah, well. Dream’s over and now I shall open my eyes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“AAHHHHHHHH! IT WASN’T A DREAM!”

“Saw that coming.”

“What is this dreck, Jenkins? It’s dreadful dreck!”

“This is the poster from Saratoga, sir.”

“My ex-wife?”

“No, sir. Not Sara Toga.”

“Oh, good. Never marry a woman with a comedy name, Jenkins.”

“I’ll remember that. This is the poster from the city of Saratoga.”

“City? Hardly. Saratogans think Utica is a metropolis. It’s a racetrack, a Walmart, and some used syringes.”

“Even so, sir.”

“Gah! Look at this thing, Jenkins. It’s taking a shit on my soul.”

“That’s a bit harsh, sir.”

“Bears can’t ride horses! It’s in the Bible AND the Constitution!”

“I don’t know about that, sir.”

“It’s unnatural. Charlton Heston warned us about this very thing.”

“Those were apes, sir.”

“Apes are bears that live in Africa, Jenkins. Different words for the same thing.”

“No, sir.”

“Is the little eyeball in the race? That seems unfair. The eyeball has two tiny legs. How can it compete with a horse? Why doesn’t it use its wings like the other eyeball? Is this poster positing two separate specie of living eyeball, one be-winged and the other on walky-legs? Slapdashery! Unaesthetic and unsportsmanlike! I won’t have it.”

“You’re concentrating on odd details, sir.”

“No horses on bears!”

“And we’re back to that.”

“Natural enemies, the horse and bear. Like the cobra and the goose.”

“Mongoose, sir.”

“Oh, no. Any goose. Mon, Canadian, swan, whatever. You’ve seen geese before?”

“Of course, sir.”

“And when you were in the presence of these geese, did you ever see a cobra?”

“No, sir.”

“Case closed. Cobra and geese, bears and horses. There is an instinctual loathing. They go right at each other, and they go for the genitals first. Like Reese Witherspoon accusing the maid of stealing. Just not fun to watch.”

“There’s not much we can do about it, sir. The poster’s been printed.”

“Let’s set them on fire and collect the insurance money.”

“No, sir.”

“Let’s set Applebaum on fire and collect the insurance money. Applebaum!”

“Stay at your desk, Applebaum! No, sir. No arson. How about lunch?”

“Ooh, lunch. Underrated meal. You got Big Breakfast telling you it’s the most important meal of the day. Dinner might lead to sex. But who stands for lunch, Jenkins? Who proudly declares their allegiance to taking three or four hours in the middle of the day to get plastered on the company’s dime?”

“I think the Spanish still do, sir.”

“There’s a pride and wisdom to the Iberians, Jenkins.”

“Paella, sir?”

“I’ll eat raw hobo shit if it means I can stop looking at this poster.”

“Paella it is, sir.

The Next Logical Step

“AHHHHH!”

“Calm down, sir.”

“IT’S MADE OF TERROR!”

“It’s just a poster, sir.”

“That’s just a poster like Dorian Gray’s painting is just a selfie! It’s got bad juju, Jenk-Jenk!”

“Is it the teeth?”

“BY GOD AND DOW CHEMICALS, YES! Yes, it is the teeth, Jenkins! I think those are Martha Raye’s dentures!”

“Sir?”

“The older readers are laughing at the reference. Trust me.”

“I think this poster is interesting, sir. It’s colorful. It’s, uh, rectangular.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Nothing is misspelled on this one.”

“Point in our column. Still, though: this is just too frightening for us. Perhaps one of the heavier, metallic groups would like it.”

“I doubt it, sir.”

“Ah! I have an idea! Why are you crouching in a defensive position, Jenkins?”

“I’m familiar with your ideas, sir.”

“Stand on your wee hooves, you goat dressed like a man-baby.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s what you are, Jenkins. A secret goat.”

“If you insist, sir.”

“I was on to you when I noticed all my tin cans were missing.”

“I keep telling you, sir: I threw the cans away after you consumed their contents.”

“Lying goat bastard.”

“You had an idea, sir?”

“Idea!”

FASWOOSH!

“Oh, no, sir!”

“The Time Sheath!”

“I am begging you to put that down, sir.”

“All our problems can be solved, Jenkins.”

“And uncountably more created, sir. There’s no way to travel through time without creating paradoxes and causing glitches and breaking timestreams. We’re not qualified, sir.”

“Jenkins, we’re white American men. We’re qualified for everything.”

“No, sir. Not this.”

“First, I’m going to choose smarter, more attractive parents for you.”

“That won’t work, sir.”

“And, obviously, the usual land speculation and sports wagering.”

“Obviously.”

“And then we’ll go back to Austria in the 1890’s.”

“No. No, no, no. We cannot kill Baby Hitler. It’s a cliché at this point how bad an idea going back in time and killing Baby Hitler is, sir. No killing Baby Hitler, sir.”

“Oh, how I wish I could recycle you, Jenkins. Just toss you in a blue bin, feel good about myself, and then not think about what happens to you. We’re not killing Baby Hitler. How unimaginative do you think I am?”

“Oh, good.”

“We’re going to molest Child Hitler.”

“Oh, no.”

“We’ll diddle the self-confidence right out of him!”

“I think this is the kind of conversation you go to Hell for having, sir.”

“The world will view us as heroes, Jenkins.”

“It won’t, sir.”

“How is killing Baby Hitler better than molesting Child Hitler?”

“I don’t know, but it is.”

“You should argue in front of the Supreme Court with opinions as well-founded as that, Jenkins. Now, come on. Grab those candy bars and let’s get to messing this kid up.”

“Didn’t we start out talking about posters?”

“Life is a highway, Jenkins. Now let’s ride it to Child Hitler’s house and play the secret-keeping game.”

“I think I quit.”

“Resignation denied.”

“Goddammit.”

Pay No Attention To The Jenkins Behind The Curtain

“Sir, we need to–”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOT AGAIN WITH THIS BULLSHIT!”

“–talk about the poster. Oh, sir, it’s not that bad.”

“It will be when we’re done designing it, Jenkins.”

“Well, maybe we could try a little harder this tour, sir.”

“Trying’s not the problem, Jenkins. Drawing’s the problem. Or painting. Or dipping dongs in ink and slapping them against the paper. However we come up with our cursed images. We’re simply not good at this.”

“Oh, sir, don’t say that.”

“Let’s do something besides posters this tour. How about musk oxen?”

“No, sir.”

“What if we tie-dye the oxen?”

“Even then, sir.”

“Cobb salads.”

“Instead of posters, we sell Cobb salads?”

“And we’ll throw in a fork for an extra 30 bucks.”

“I don’t think that’s what the fans want, sir.”

“The fans are lumpy proles, Jenkins. Lumpy proles! That sounds better in the original German.”

“It sounds exactly the same in the original German.”

“Beautiful language, German. Reminds me of something Wagner once said: Fire that bassoonist; he looks like a Jew. Glorious language. Ah! I’ve an idea!”

“We cannot sell Jewish bassoonists at the merch table, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Health codes, for one.”

“Damn you, Upton Sinclair!”

“Sir, we’re locked into the poster concept. The Deadheads enjoy hanging them in their offices or basements or wherever.

“Let’s just cut out the middle man and sell them drywall.”

“I don’t think that will fly, sir.”

“Ooh, Jenkins, I have it!”

“We cannot sneak into fans’ homes, steal their possessions, and then sell them back to them.”

“Damn you, Obama!”

“Posters, sir. Let’s just think about the posters.”

“I’m thinking.”

“I’ve stopped thinking. What about a share in a World-O-Corp?”

“That sounds made up, sir.”

“It is! But we’re dealing with people who were dumb before they got high, Jenkins. I say we fleece ’em.”

“No, sir. If there’s fleecing to be done, then the band will reap the rewards. Rock and roll tradition, sir.”

“So was fingering teenagers in public, but times change. You and me, Jenkins: we’ll go scammin’.”

“No, sir.”

“A-scammin’ we will go.”

“No, sir.”

“Froggy went a-scammin’, he did ride.”

“Froggy went a-scammin’, he did ride.”

“I will punt your testicles from here to Vancouver, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Froggy went a-scammin’, he did ride.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Better. Don’t you ever leave me hanging on a Froggy.”

“Yes, sir. Can we talk about the poster?”

“Poster! Oh, Jenkins, I can’t do this the rest of my life.”

“What would you do, sir? Where would you go?”

“I got a cousin in Delaware. Got his own key to a small suburban library. Comes and goes as he pleases. Oh, that’s the life.”

“It doesn’t sound appealing, sir.”

“I could masturbate on detective novels.”

“Please let’s just do this.”

“You’re a pest, Jenkins. You’re a pestafazoo. I’m sorry I got so ethnic with you, but it’s the truth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Write this down: bunch of skeletons.”

“Skeletons.”

“Bear or two. Surprise me on the number of bears.”

“Player’s choice for the bears.”

“And a rabbit skeleton that still has fur.”

“Nightmare bunny. Yes, sir. Wasn’t that easy?”

“Bring me a Cobb salad.”

“Yes, sir.”

Seriously, Why Is There An Exclamation Point?

“Jenkins!”

“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.”

“Sir.”

“And bombing. Sometimes, you have to bomb foreigners.”

“Sir.”

“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.”

“Obviously.”

“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.”

“Why?”

“So the natives will be able to read it.”

“You brought it back around, sir.”

“I did.”

Run, Don’t Walk!

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“What the hell is this?”

“It is the poster for Phish’s New Year’s run at MSG.”

“What’s a Phosh?”

“Phish, sir. They’re four men who shouldn’t sing from Vermont. A boingy sort of sound.”

“It’s…”

“Yes?”

“It’s…”

“Sir?”

“It’s good.”

“I agree, sir. Colorful, playful.”

“All sorts of fuls.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve been looking at it for a minute and haven’t retched once. Not once!”

“No, sir.”

“Haven’t farted in disappointment.”

“That’s good, sir.”

“Jenkins, it looks like someone put some effort into this poster.”

“It does, sir.”

“Not just stuck his dick in a paint can and fucked a canvas.”

“No, sir.”

“Like our posters.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They’re making us like assholes here, Jenkins. Stinky assholes flecked with gas station toilet paper and several tenacious corn kernels. Gaping assholes that swallow up ships like the dreadful Charybdis. Sewn-up assholes that permit poop no passage.”

“Assholes, sir.”

“Assholes, Jenkins. And I don’t like it. I won’t stand for the assholification of this organization. I’m drawing a line in the taint.”

“Can we move away from this metaphor, sir?”

“We must retaliate.”

“By improving the quality of Dead & Company’s posters?”

“By assassinating Phish.”

“Oh, no, sir. We can’t assassinate Phish.”

“Ah. Yes. You’re right. They’re not political figures. Can’t technically be assassinated. We’ll just murder them.”

“Sir, why is that always your first idea?”

“Because it’s always the best idea. Murder solves more problems than it causes, Jenkins.”

“It doesn’t, sir.”

“Oh, fine. We won’t kill Phish. What about Twiddle?”

“You can have Twiddle executed, sir.”

“Anyone could have Twiddle executed, Jenkins! The only reason that grouping of mammals hasn’t been killed is because no one could be bothered to do it.”

“Sir, can we get back to the poster?”

“Poster! Throw those bears on something!”

“No, sir. The Phish poster that has brought about a feeling of inadequacy in our offerings.”

“Who was the tiny negro that spoke so sassy to the white people?”

“Are we talking about real life, sir?”

“No, the teevee.”

“Oh. Oh, well then that kind of makes sense. There were two. Willis and Webster.”

“The white people stole the tiny negro from his nest and raised him as their own. Is that right?”

“Why are we discussing this, sir?”

“Imagine one of them. Willy or Webby or whatever their names were. Imagine one of them is tasked to make love to a mountain. And not a weak mountain, Jenkins. A proud and boastful mountain. Maybe it’s sprinkled with dead Sherpas. Real son-of-a-gun of a mountain.”

“I get it, sir.”

“And now that tiny negro–”

“Let’s make that the last time we use that phrase, sir.”

“–is issued an undeniable command: Son, go fuck that mountain ’til she loves you. You understand me, Jenkins? Not just flap around on a ridge and run away. The ol’ hump-n-jump. No, no. That sassy little half-pint of chocolate milk had to make the mountain cum.”

“Sir.”

“I once brought a hill to orgasm, but never a mountain. It’s a feat, Jenkins!”

“What the hell are we talking about?”

“No idea. I thought you were keeping track. I’ve been free-associating for a few minutes.”

“Sir, the posters.”

“Posters! We could kidnap the person who did Phish’s!”

“Or hire him.”

“You’re no fun any more.”

“Kidnapping was never fun, sir.”

“It is if you’re drunk.”

What’s Beneath Bush League?

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Call me French cuisine, ’cause I’m feeling saucy.”

“Wonderful, sir.”

“It’s as though life itself were tickling my bottom.”

“Good for you, sir.”

“And the balls. Gentle tickling of the balls. Just enough to know you’re loved.”

“May I ask what’s led to this optimistic mood, sir?”

“Cocaine, Jenkins.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Call me Lane Sniffen.”

“No, sir.”

“King Tootankhamun.”

“No, sir.”

“Chief of Surgery at the Yeyo Clinic.”

“Sir, what have we said about cocaine?”

“Positive things, I hope. Mustn’t insult the cocaine. Get over here, Jenkins. Put your snoot in this.”

“I don’t need any, sir.”

“Snoot up.”

“Sir.”

“You a narc, Jenkins?”

PISTOL COCKING NOISE

“Where’d you get the gun from, sir?”

“It came with the cocaine. What’s the point of doing blow unless you have a gun to wave around?”

“Give me the gun, sir.”

“Let’s go shoot a mailman, Jenkins.”

“The gun, sir.”

GUN HANDING-OVER NOISE

“You can have it back at the end of the day.”

“That’s what you said about my Slinky.”

“Sir, we really need to work.”

“You really need to snoot up.”

“No, sir.”

“More for me.”

SCHNORF

“Tootski!”

“Sir, the poster.”

“Poster!”

“The band will be playing Washington, D.C., so I thought a patriotic theme would do.”

“No, no. Trump. Put our president on the poster. Give him muscles and a cock like a felled log. Show him using that cock to fuck America back into shape. And I want a lot of detail on America’s butthole. That cock’s gonna do some damage.”

“I have no response to your suggestion, sir.”

“It’s trolling, Jenkins. I learned about this recently. You act in a way to anger a stranger.”

“What does that accomplish, sir?”

“You anger a stranger.”

“Why would you want to do that, sir?”

“Because fuck that guy.”

“Sir, let’s not troll.”

“Oh, fine. I truly don’t care. Call the artist that did the last one.”

“He has been accused of sexual harassment, sir.”

“Bad news for Johnny Drawsalot. What about the artist that did the one before that?”

“Also been accused of sexual harassment.”

“How many artists–”

“All of them, sir.”

“–have been accused…dammit! All the problems started when we gave women the vote, Jenkins. Nothing’s been right since.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do we have anyone left in the stable?”

“Blind Stumpy Forbrush.”

“Is he any good?”

“No, sir. As you may have divined from his name, Blind Stumpy is both blind and has stumps for hands.”

“Well, is he any good relatively?”

“No, sir. That’s the miraculous part. The art is actually worse than you’d expect given the insanely low expectations.”

“Outstanding. Hire him at once.”

“Yes, sir. Any notes on what he should draw?”

“A bear, terribly. A car, also terribly. Some photos of D.C. buildings stolen from google. And some other bullshit. I’m calling a Dealer’s Choice on the other bullshit. Just make sure it’s terrible.”

“Yes, sir. The color?”

“Blurple.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Misspell the name of the venue.”

“On it, sir.”

“Get on this Scott Yayo.”

“No, sir.”

“Snoot some chachi, Jenkins.”

“You can have your gun back at the end of the day, sir.”

“I’ve got more.”

One If By Land, Two If By Seastones

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you remember laughter?”

“Of course, sir.”

“What about Vera Lynn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rock and roll radio?”

“Also a yes, sir.”

“Well, then, classic rock has no more unanswered questions. We’re heroes, Jenkins.”

“We could be.”

“Have I been accused of sexual harassment yet?”

CHECKING TWITTER NOISE

“Not yet, sir.”

“Dammit, I’m tired of waiting. Get over here.”

“No, sir.”

“Watch me make love to myself.”

“No, sir.”

UNZIPPING NOISE

“Look at it!”

“I will not, sir.”

“No, there’s this growth I want you to see.”

“Oh, okay.”

“You should see a doctor, sir.”

“I did! He got mad at me for showing it to him!”

“Was it the–”

“It was the dentist, yes.”

“–dentist again? Oh, sir. I keep telling you: they’re just for teeth.”

“Then they shouldn’t be called doctor, dammit! If you want to be called doctor, then you need to be available to look at my penis. Those are the rules, Jenkins.”

“Can we discuss the poster, sir?”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir. This show is in Boston.”

“Foul burg. A dinky little place, Jenkins. And stinky. Boston dinks and stinks. And they’re pompous. ‘Legal Seafood.’ Seafood’s legal everywhere. They’re not special.”

“The town does have a high estimation of itself.”

“Have you heard what they do to the English language? The only thing Bostonians hate more than the letter R is the thought of negros learning math next to their Kevins and Margarets.”

“They did not take to busing, sir.”

“Do you know a Bostonian engaged in sexy talk would be speaking erotically and a-rhotically?”

“Well done, sir.”

“Shouldn’t mix Irishmen and college students, Jenkins. Or Irishmen and Italians. Or Irishmen and anyone. I guess that’s why God put them on an island.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Let’s do something different this time, Jenkins.”

“Create something beautiful?”

“No, steal all the petty cash and head to Mexico.”

“The petty cash won’t last that long, sir.”

“It will. I have a plan. We’re going to convert it into Zimdollars first. There’s like 600 bucks in petty cash, so that means we’ll have…”

“14 quintillion Zim.”

“We’ll be kings, Jenkins. No. I’ll be a king, Jenkins. And you’ll be my Jenkins. Imagine that. Being a king’s Jenkins. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Sir, you’re not quite grasping how currency exchange works.”

“And then we’ll trade in that massive amount of money for pesos and Mexico will open herself up to us. Like a slutty clam.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“I’m going to be a gentleman farmer. Grow refried beans. In the evenings, I will stroll through the plaza with Conchita and our young son Machismo.”

“You already have a family, sir.”

“They suck.”

“Poster.”

“Poster! Let’s talk color. I’m thinking ‘If autumn could take a shit.'”

“Yes, sir. And the image?”

“Who’s that guy who got shot? Crispy Hatrack?”

“Crispus Attucks, sir.”

“He was no saint, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Him and Ted Williams doing it.”

“No, sir.”

“Doing it hard. Teddy Ballgame is calling his shots.”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“Homophobe.”

“No, sir. It is not homophobic to refrain from portraying Crispus Attucks and Ted Williams having sex on a Dead & Company poster.”

“You’re worse than Hitler, Hitler.”

“Stop that.”

“Fine. No humping. How about Mayor Menino’s speech impediment?”

“How do you draw that?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we hire an artist, Jenkins.”

“No, sir.”

“Jenkins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call down to the front desk and ask them to look in the Lost & Found.”

“For what, sir?”

“My will to live. Fuck it. Do Paul Revere, but–”

“He’s a bear.”

“–he’s a bear, and then sprinkle–”

“Dead bullshit all over it.”

“–Dead bullshit all over it.”

“Yes, sir. On it.”

“Anything about the harassment?”

TWITTER CHECKING NOISE

“Still no, sir.”

“The waiting is killing me.”

Hop In The Hack

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir.”

“The time draws nigh.”

“It does, sir.”

“I can’t draw nigh. I can do a bunny, but not nigh.”

“I’ve seen your bunny, sir. You capture the ears quite well.”

“Could’ve been an artist, Jenkins. Painted. Sculpted. Or performance art. I could have thrown poop at people and had museums give me money for it.”

“You’d be a Downtown sensation, sir.”

“Giant racket, art. Only reason society tolerates art is that it gives homosexuals something to do in the afternoon.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I enjoyed pottery. It was a concrete task. You started out with a lump of clay and you ended up with a differently-shaped lump of clay. And the wheel. You could stick smaller children on it and spin them until they knew their place in the world. I had such fun in college, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much are kilns these days? It would fit in Carruthers’ office if I fired him.”

“Sir, we need to talk about the poster.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“We just did this!”

“Oh, sir, we’re still at the very top of the hill. We’ve got some skiing to do before we make it to the lodge.”

“You paint a word picture, Jenkins.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We’re both artists.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We should wear smocks.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Jenkins, I had a brilliant idea.”

“Is the idea a boat that goes underwater? Because I’ve told you that that’s already been invented a dozen times.”

“No, for the poster.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Chucklehead.”

“Continue, sir.”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Pure white. Less a poster than a poster-sized piece of glossy paper.”

“Uh-huh. Why, sir?”

“Because I think we have a fanbase dopey enough to buy it. Let’s do a social experiment.”

“No, sir.”

“And we’ll bet.”

“Sir, the relationship between the Grateful Dead and their fans is a sacred one. We’re not KISS.”

“If were in KISS, I’d make you be Peter.”

“That’s hurtful, sir.”

“I’d be the short one with the afro. Big Funky. Remember him? He used to have a parrot on his shoulder that would do cocaine with him? That was one rock ‘n roll parrot, Jenkins.”

“Sir.”

“The parrot’s name was Little Funky.”

“Sir.”

“Died in a whitewater rafting accident, I believe. Well, the cops said it was an accident.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“We need to put something on it. Can’t do a blank poster, sir.”

“What about boobies? Are the kids still calling them boobies, Jenkins?”

“Yes. The kids are. The adults aren’t.”

“Let’s go with that. Glamour shot of some garbanzos. Big floppy ones.”

“I don’t think that’s really on message, sir.”

“Make ’em tie-dyed.”

“No, sir.”

“Jenkins, you know what I’m about to demand of you.”

“That I blast my eyes, sir?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How did that feel, Jenkins?”

“Awful, sir.”

“Good. I only wish that you were twins so I could make both of you blast your eyes.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Oh, I don’t care.”

“I thought you wouldn’t, sir, so I took the liberty of commissioning a student from a local art college to draw this one.”

“Which school?”

“The Throckmorton School for the Artistically Disinclined.”

“Delightful. Make sure he throws in a bear. And make sure the bear looks like Chewbacca with Downs syndrome.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And fire Carruthers.”

“Yes, sir.”

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