Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: poster (page 1 of 2)

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.”

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.”

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