Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: poster (page 1 of 2)

This Is Not How Baseball Works

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“We’re back in 2017, aren’t we?”

“It appears so, sir.”

“The horror. The horror. I liked it back in 1973.”

“It was a simpler time.”

“Lot more bush.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Men, women, carpets: much bushier.”

“Grooming standards were different, sir.”

“Had to do a lot of poking around trying to find what you were looking for.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I got my hump on in ’73, Jenkins.”

“I know, sir. You made me watch.”

“Men, women, carpets: I was a boffing boy.”

“You boffed, sir.”

“I stuck it in there. Or up. Don’t forget up. Did quite a bit of sticking it up there. Sometimes I slapped it against there. It makes a dull, wet noise.”

“I can’t get it out of my head, sir.”

“My bell-bottoms were so flared you’d think them nostrils.”

“They were capacious, sir.”

“You’d think them nostrils!”

“Sir, we’re back in 2017 now. Let’s just deal with that.”

“Murder-suicide?”

“Definitely an option.”

“I would murder you.”

“I assumed, sir.”

“Just so that’s straight. In our relationship, you are the murder and I am the suicide.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“How was the last one we made?”

“Weirdly beautiful in a spare kind of way.”

“There you go, then. This one should be common, ugly, and cluttered. I am the decider!”

“You’re quick with your rulings, sir.”

“Dubya said that. The decider business. George W.”

“I recall, sir.”

“Let’s go back in time to 2004 and laugh at all the people calling him the worst president ever.”

“That sounds depressing, actually.”

“Murder-suicide?”

“Or we could go to the hibachi place.”

“Where they throw the shrimp in your mouth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have decided to go with your idea.”

Good decision, sir.”

Fabulous

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did reality just hiccup?”

“I think we may have had a Time Blip, sir.”

“Y’know, just because you capitalize a thing doesn’t make it a thing.”

“Regardless, sir.”

“When are we?”

“1973.”

“Nice. Let’s go get Quaaludes.”

“Maybe later, sir.”

“1973. Ooh, this is exciting. Jenkins, you have no idea how sexist I’m going to be.”

“I think I do, sir.”

“Probably. But I won’t be yelled at for my actions in ’73. Good God, am I going to honk some boobies. Also systemic oppression, but I’m more excited about the honking. Gonna lude up and grab strange titties, and if she gets mad, everyone will tell her to stop being hysterical.”

“I’m still not seeing a difference between the eras, sir.”

“Can’t get ludes any more.”

“I was talking about the sexism, sir.”

“No sexism anymore, Jenkins. We elected a black man, so therefore women are equal. That’s science.”

“No, sir.”

“Political science.”

“Sir, don’t honk strange women’s boobs.”

“How else will the women know they’re attractive?”

“Sir, despite the chrono-shift, we still have work to do.”

“Boob-honking isn’t work, Jenkins. Not how I do it.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Now, you’re sure we’re in ’73?”

“Do we have a newspaper?”

“WUXTRY! WUXTRY! Read all about it!”

“There’s a paperboy right there, Jenkins.”

“How fortuitous. One, please.”

“Here ya go, mister.”

“Thanks.”

BANG!

“Sir, you didn’t need to shoot the paperboy. I had the dime.”

“But now you have the paper and the dime.”

“Ahem. Yup, we’re in 1973. Just look at these stories: President of the United States is an amoral, dangerous lunatic in serious legal trouble; racial tensions are high; Prince Charles is sitting around waiting for his mom to die. Yup, 1973.”

“Such a different time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, as long as we’re not in 2017, the posters don’t have to be hideous, do they?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then. Hire an artist.”

“Gladly, sir. Any ideas?”

“Not ugly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And figure out a way to work the word ‘fabulous’ in there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cleveland, City of Light, City Of Magic

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“How’s the Cuyahoga fire coming?”

“It was put out 45 years ago, sir, and several federal agencies were created to make sure it didn’t happen again.”

“I don’t like that, Jenkins.”

“I’m shocked, sir.”

“Fedzilla stomping all over my right to set a river on fire.”

“Not a right, sir.”

“Turning the children into wieners, Jenkins. Soft little wieners. Does a youngster good to see a flaming river every once in a while. Teaches them that life is a battle. Where I grew up, there was a lake that used to coldcock passers-by. Town pool robbed several banks. Bodies of water were tougher back then.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A water fountain touched my sitting-button, Jenkins.”

“Sitting-button, sir?”

“My asshole.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It was pretty much just a bidet, though. Never felt so fresh back there. Ah, nostalgia.”

“Sir, the poster?”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s just do words. Why don’t we print John Mayer’s latest interview?”

“Has he just done one?”

“The answer to that question is always ‘yes.’ John Mayer has always just done an interview.”

“He’s voluble, sir.”

“Mm.”

“Garrulous.”

“Ah.”

“Loquacious?”

“One more college word, and I slice you in twain, Jenkins. I will twain you.”

“I don’t know if an all-text poster would work, sir.”

“Fine. No text.”

“We do need to mention the name of the band, sir.”

“Why? The metric shit-ton of bears, roses, turtles, and skeletons we’ve been slathering these things with doesn’t let everyone know?”

“Legal purposes, sir.”

“I went to law school, Jenkins.”

“I didn’t know that, sir.”

“With a rifle. Most productive afternoon of my life.”

“Yes, sir. The poster.”

“Poster! Jenkins, tell me: have we made any posters this go-round that are even slightly attractive?”

“No, sir.”

“Then here is where we shall make our stand.”

“Yes, sir.”

Steal Your Base

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Backman flies out to left.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Hernandez flies out to center.”

“Please don’t tell your Game 6 story, sir.”

“I had 30,000 on the Mets, and I was smoking a lot of crack. This was when I was a cop.”

“No, sir. This is the plot to Bad Lieutenant, sort of.”

“I was going to murder Mookie.”

“None of this happened, sir.”

“Make it look like an accident. Maybe a tiger would eat him, I don’t know. Luckily, he won the game for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why are you here?”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s not do a poster, Jenkins. Rude to the blind. Let’s do a smell for this show.”

“A what, sir?”

“A signature smell. One-time only. That’s how we’ll advertise the show.”

“Sir, posters aren’t for advertising any more. We just sell them for $60 a pop.”

“Then we’ll make it a very fancy smell. Money mixed with not being afraid of the cops.”

“Maybe for next year, sir. I think we should stick with the sense of sight for this one.”

“Sight. Pish-tosh. Overrated sense.”

“Be that as it may, sir.”

“Why don’t we go somewhere cold and cut the cables on a ski lift, Jenkins?”

“After the poster, sir.”

“Promise?”

“Sure.”

“I imagine it would sound like this: TWANG! AAAAAAaaaaaah! PLOOMPF!”

“Yes, sir.”

“The ‘PLOOMPF’ was them hitting the snow, Jenkins.”

“I figured that out from context clues, sir.”

“Don’t you get all high and mighty with me, Jenkins. Figuring things out like a smarty-pants.”

“No, sir.”

“In fact: give me your pants.”

“Poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, just put some bullshit on a piece of paper.”

“Same as always,. Yes, sir.”

“Wait, Jenkins. Let’s do something different.”

“I told you that we can’t do a poster made out of smells, sir.”

“No, not that. Let’s have the poster be…I don’t know the word for it.”

“Vaguely attractive?”

“That’s it.”

“So, not the same as always.”

“And put the bears in it.”

“Mostly the same as always. Yes, sir.”

“Not kidding about that ski lift plan.”

“I didn’t think you were, sir.”

There’s Plenty Of Room At The Bottom

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ve come to a decision.”

“About lunch?”

“I’ve come to two decisions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Korean barbecue.”

“Was that the lunch decision, sir?”

“Bim bam bang on the money, Jenkins.”

“Thank you, sir. The second?”

“I’m going to blow my goddamned brains out if I have to spend one more second thinking about these posters.”

“Both are understandable decisions, sir.”

“I could have solved something with that time, Jenkins. World peace. Hunger. Rubik’s Cube.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could have experimented with homosexuality.”

“Experimented, sir?”

“Lab coat, test tubes, that sort of thing. Goggles. Some of their activities require goggles.”

“I don’t know about that, sir.”

“And you can’t surface too quickly, Jenkins. When you’re down there, the nitrogen builds up in your blood. You can only rise as fast as your slowest boner.”

“You’re talking about scuba diving, sir.”

“Scuba diving, homosexuality: what’s the difference?”

“Quite a bit.”

“I’m trapped here, Jenkins! I could have been something great. I could have been president, Jenkins.”

“Sir, you’re a borderline-insane bigot with no control over your mouth whose mind wanders like a coked-up Border Collie.”

“And?”

“I was halfway through the sentence when I realized the irony, sir, but I didn’t want to trail off.”

“Work ethic. Good.”

“But we really do need to get to the poster, sir.”

“Poster! Oh, God, the poster. I’m going to make a sound now, Jenkins.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

“HARABlarbleblarbleblarble.”

“Wonderful sound, sir.”

“I was improvising.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“It was the sound of my soul leaving my body, Jenkins. I stand by my earlier decision.”

“That you want Korean barbecue for lunch?”

“I stand by both of my previous decisions.”

“That you’ll blow your brains out if you have to spend one more second thinking about the posters?”

“That’s the one.

“Well, sir, what if we created a poster BUT but absolutely no thought into it at all?”

“Half-ass it?’

“Sir we’ve been half-assing the whole tour. I say we cut the percentage of ass dramatically.”

“Quarter-ass?”

“Farther.”

“Deka-ass?”

“Farther, sir.”

“Do we dare?’

“I believe in you, sir.”

“So do I. Deci-ass? A hundredth of an ass?”

“Sir, sit down.”

FLUMP

BLAAAAAAAPHH

“Did you fart when you sat down, sir?”

“Quite robustly.”

“Excellent, sir.”

“I’m prepared for your statement, Jenkins.”

“Micro-ass, sir.”

“A millionth of an ass? My sweet Lord.”

“Hallelujah.”

“Ballsy, Jenkins. Ballsier than a man with elephantiasis of the testicles in a sporting goods store.”

“Are you ready, sir?”

“Will I need my goggles?”

“No.”

“Then, I’m ready. Let’s make a poster.”

“Bears and tie-dye.”

“DONE! And put no effort into it beyond that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now let’s go try Korean homosexuality.”

“Why not?”

The Bus Came By And I Threw Up

“Jenkins!”

“I’m sitting on your lap, sir.”

“Oh, yes. Why are you doing that?”

“You call it ‘Santa Practice,’ sir.”

“Ah. How am I doing?”

“You have an erection, sir.”

“Well you must have been naughty.”

“I’m going to stand up.”

“I’m not. I’ve got a boner.”

“Yes, sir. What did you want to discuss?”

“I had a dream last night, Jenkins. I dreamt that I ate an entire box of crayons and then projectile vomited onto some glossy paper. What do you think that means?”

“No idea, sir.”

“So many colors that nothing at all made sense. Have you heard of minimalism, Jenkins?”

“Of course, sir.”

“This was the opposite.”

“Maximilism.”

“Stop making up words, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there were bears and skeletons and buses and roses and flying eyeballs and you were there, Jenkins. And you two farmhands.”

“Who are you talking to, sir?”

“The farmhands.”

“Hello.”

“Howdy.”

BANG!

BANG!

“You shot the farmhands, sir.”

“Their existence was only required for that one joke, Jenkins. Let’s get back to the poster.”

“Is that what we were talking about?”

“Let’s see: first, I sexually harassed you, then I told you my dreams, and then I shot two farmhands. Yes, we’re talking about the poster.”

“Excellent, sir.”

“Bring me some paper, a box of crayons, and a bottle of Ipecac.”

“What if we just let an artist do it?”

“But then I wouldn’t get to vomit up rainbows.”

“Yes, sir.”

Help On The Fenway

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Boston, Jenkins.”

“Beantown, sir.”

“Oliver Wendell Holmes called it the Hub. Do you know why?”

“No, sir.”

“Terrible speech impediment. Couldn’t pronounce ‘Boston.'”

“Ah.”

“I am excited, Jenkins! Let’s get in the Boston spirit.”

“How, sir?”

“Segregate the office.”

“No, sir.”

“Sell off Babe Ruth.”

“We can’t, sir.”

“Strangle someone.”

“Lots of towns have had stranglers, sir.”

“Yes, but the Tulsa Strangler didn’t get a Rolling Stones song written about him, did he?”

“No, sir.”

“Bring me your neck, Jenkins.”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“They say it’s the most intimate way to murder someone.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Any ideas, sir?’

“What about a toothbrush for your asshole? That’d stick it to Big Toilet Paper.”

“Let’s table that, sir.”

“You don’t get to table anything, Jenkins. I’m the chair.”

“Perhaps I didn’t couch my statement properly.”

“Floor.”

“Yes, sir. Floor. Now, the poster?”

“Bear.”

“Bear, check.”

“One of those tank-lizards.”

“Turtles, sir. They’re called turtles.”

“They wear their ribs on the outside, Jenkins! Preposterous rib placement.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jenkins?”

“Do you want ribs for lunch, sir?”

“You read my mind.”

“Anything else for the poster?”

“Bucky Dent refusing to make way for ducklings.”

“No, sir.”

“Whitey Bulger running over Tom Brady in a duck boat.”

“No, sir. No duck-related trolling at all.”

“What? We can’t make fun of Boston? Next, you’ll tell me we can’t make fun of homosexuals or the poor!”

“I shouldn’t need to tell you that, sir.”

“Oh, fine. Just throw the bear and the turtle and some skulls and whatnot in there.”

“So, same as usual?”

“Precisely. Rib time?”

“Rack ’em up, sir.”

I Wish I Was A Great Big Creepy Bear And Some Fucking Turtles And Whatnot On A Northbound Train

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?’

“It’s Ice Cube’s birthday.”

“I didn’t know that, sir.”

“I hope he has a good day.”

“Well done, sir.”

“Not his real name, you know. Ice Cube.”

“I did know that, sir.”

“He was born MC Fiddle Faddle.”

“No, sir.”

“He was born into this hip-hop game, Jenkins.”

“If you say so, sir. Can we get to the poster?”

“No.”

“We must, sir.”

“Oh, damn the poster. Damn it to Hell!”

“The poster’s already for Pittsburgh, sir. Hell’s not much of a drop-off.”

“Pittsburgh. Ugh. Nothing but rivers you can’t spell and improperly-placed french fries.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They don’t go in the sandwich. Fries go next to the sandwich.”

“I agree, sir.”

“Are they still flashdancing in Pittsburgh?”

“Not since the 80’s, sir.”

“A fine dance, Jenkins. My favorite, at least since the lambada got itself forbidden.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lambada with me, Jenkins!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Let’s dance dirtily!”

“No.”

“I’ll put my baby in your corner.”

“Pass, sir.”

“When I said ‘baby,’ I meant ‘penis.'”

“Yes, sir.”

“And by ‘corner,’ I meant–”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir. We need to concentrate.”

“We should get a famous artist. Is Chuck Close available?”

“Yes, but our office is on the second floor.”

“Ah. How about that fellow who draws those flattering cartoons of the president?”

“Ben Garrison? No, sir. He’d draw a bear and then write BEAR on it.

“That’s not a necessarily bad thing, Jenkins. Many Deadheads are utter morons.”

“True, sir, but it’s just not the aesthetic we go for.”

“You’re right, you’re right. Okay, here’s what we do: put the happiest bullshit we have on the poster, but make it somehow ominous.”

“Yes, sir. Color scheme?’

“Imagine you just vomited up a peach cobbler.”

“I’m on it, sir.”

“Watch out for that Goodyear blimp, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fire, Fire On The Metaphor

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?’

“Is Taco Tuesday cultural appropriation of Mexicans or the Norse?”

“The Norse, sir?”

“Tiw, Jenkins. He’s who Tuesday’s named after. Norse god of law and justice and table manners.”

“The Norse had table manners?”

“Of course. They stole them from the Angles in 842. It’s like you don’t know history.”

“Just like that, sir.”

“We’ll deal with the taco conundrum later. Let’s get on this poster, Jenkins.”

“The show was yesterday, sir.”

“It’s Colorado, Jenkins. There’s no oxygen and everyone’s on dope. Yesterday, tomorrow, next week. Makes no difference to those people.”

“‘Those people,’ sir?”

“Yes, I’m racist against Coloradans.”

“Wow. New one.”

“I like to be on the vanguard of bigotry. Blaze new trails of irrational hatreds.”

“Yes, sir. Who’s next?”

“People who live on the fourth floor. Violent monsters. Not even human.”

“Which fourth floor?”

“All of them. Anyone who puts their head down to sleep in between floors three and five. Fuck ’em.”

“Yes, sir.

“Lefties.”

“Lefties, sir? What did lefties ever do to you?’

“‘Do to me?’ What does that have to with racism, Jenkins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now: the poster.”

“If we must.”

“You know how Colorado burns down every summer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put that on the poster.”

“People die in those fires, sir.”

“No, just Coloradans.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And add some drowning children. Everything’s on fire and there are dead, wet children everywhere.”

“No drowning children, sir.”

“Oh, fine. Child. Put a drowning child in the poster.”

“No amount of children, sir.”

“Well, what would Colorado love more than an out-of-control fire? Ah!”

“Please don’t say–”

“Columbine High!”

“–Columbine…sir, no.”

“Mindy stabbing Mork.”

“No.”

“Elway getting sodomized.”

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

“Elway getting sodomized by a can of Coors Banquet beer in Joker makeup.”

“I’m leaving, sir.”

“Oh, fine. Just make the door slamming noise so everyone knows the bit’s over.”

“Yes, sir.”

SLAM!

Sell That Silver Mine

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“I had an idea! Uber, but for Dead & Company posters.”

“That’s not an idea, sir.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a sentence, kinda.”

“Jenkins, I’m tired of this poster business. Let’s sell dope.”

“You want to get into the cannabis industry, sir?”

“Industry? God, no. I want to go to the bus station and deal crystal meth.”

“Why, sir?”

“I’m beginning to find respectability irksome, Jenkins. Let’s be scum.”

“I was an Eagle Scout, sir.”

“Wonderful. You’ll wear your uniform, and I can get more money for you.”

“Sir, you cannot sell meth and pimp me out at the bus station.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, because the bus station is Pretty Cleon’s territory.”

“Oh, good point. He’s a bad mother–”

“Shut your mouth, sir.”

“I’m just talking about Pretty Cleon.”

“And two: we need to get this poster done.”

“Where are they now? Butte?”

“No, sir.”

“Lake Titicaca?”

“No, sir”

“Sloppy Pussy, Georgia?’

“Not a place, sir. Dead & Company will be playing Boulder, Colorado.”

“Not much scenery in Colorado.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“Nothing but hippies and doomsday preppers. Lot of overlap between the two groups, honestly.”

“Yes, sir. The poster?”

“Jenkins, I want you to open up your mind as wide as possible.”

“Okay.”

“Wider.”

“How’s this?”

“Wider.”

“Now?”

“Too wide. I can see your childhood.”

“Sir, just get on with it.”

“An experiment, Jenkins! We shall engage in a grand experiment!”

“And that is?”

“Let’s see how much bullshit we can cram into the poster. Stuff everything we got in there, and then stuff in some more. Those bears should be pressed up against each other like soccer fans against a chain link fence.”

“I formally repudiate that last simile, sir.”

“Nope, you’re complicit.”

“Thank you, sir. What about perspectives?”

“I don’t trust the perspectives of ethnic people.”

“No, sir. On the poster.”

“Oh, every single perspective there is. It should be tough for your brain to process fully.”

“Fonts?”

“All of them.”

“Colors?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call the boys in the art department.”

“Rather sexist of you, Jenkins.”

“You won’t hire any women, sir.”

“Oh, then that’s sexist of me. Carry on.”

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