Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: rando (page 1 of 9)

Dead & Company 2049

“I’d like you to meet my secret, Mexican family.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. None of these people are secret or Mexican. These people are whiter than an envelope factory.

“You’re right. This is Team Mayer.”

You should make some trades. I think this team needs a rebuilding year.

“Nah. We’re a finely-tuned machine. All the way on the right there is Stubby Maybelline. He’s my personal croupier.”

Why do you have a personal croupier?

“Never know when the bones are gonna call.”


“Next to him is the Human Post-It.”

I don’t get it.

“Those aren’t tattoos; they’re, like, notes I wrote to myself. ‘Pick up milk, bang Demi Lovato’ that sort of thing. Sometimes, I just doodle on him while I’m on the phone.”

Doesn’t seem cost-efficient.

“And next to him, of course, is Pete Ulrich.”

Who’s that?

“Skeet’s younger, far less talented brother.”


“Jumpsuit Jean, the Jumpsuit Queen.”

Obviously. And her purpose is?


Right. What about the beardo?

“That’s Not Your Father’s Gorton’s Fisherman.”

I’ll say.

“No, that’s his name. Not Your Father’s Gorton’s Fisherman. Gorton’s did a rebrand of their corporate logo and they’re paying me a million bucks to cross-promote it.”

Nice work if you can get it.

“Plus a  truckful of fishsticks. You know the saying, ‘They’ll back the Brinks truck up to your door?’ Well, they did, but the truck was full of breaded cod or whatever the fuck it is.”

I’m going to go back to ignoring you until the next time you’re a Grateful Dead again.

“Cool. See you Friday in Boston.”


Weathered And Lace

You look happy.

“Well, you know, it’s been 63 straight years of being polite to randos. Loses its luster after a while.”

Sure. That lady looks like she drives a Mercedes SUV.

“Throw a rock in Marin and you hit, like, a dozen of her.”

Not a lot of diversity?

“No, there’s Diversitea.”

Tea shop?

“Yup. But, uh, only white people go there. And work there. I will say that Te-Nahisi Coates’ new book is the talk of the town.”

Oh, people are reading it?

“I didn’t say that. They’re talking about it.”

Makes sense.

Begun, These Rando Wars Have

Don’t you say–

“Rando War!”

–Rando War. Goddammit, Oteil. You’re above this.

“I’m not.”


“You would not believe how many more randos I attract since I started singing lead. They’re like moths, and I’m a bug zapper.”

Are you electrocuting randos to death?

“Not randos. Not plural.”

You’re really becoming a true Grateful Dead, Oteil.

“I’m settling in.”

“Oh, is Rando War back on?”


“BOOM, I just won Rando War.”

There are no winners in a Rando War, Jeff Chimenti. Just death. And randos.

“But look how many I have!”

Venture not down this path, Jeff Chimenti.

“Kiss my balls.”

Everyone’s a dick tonight.

“Quit whining, motherfucker. Don’t bring your bitch shit to a Rando War.”

Oh, not you, too.

“Rando War is over. I won. Tell all them white motherfuckers to go home and kiss on each other.”

That’s Wynton Marsalis.

“Motherfucker’s a rando to me.”


“I’m a cold motherfucker. You see my shirt?”

I do.

“That shit’s the truth.”

None of this makes any sense any longer.

“Whose fucking fault is that?”


“You can pick off my cheese plate if you want.”

Thank you, Mr. Davis.

“It’s the little moments of humanity that make Rando War such a fucking tragedy.”

If you say so.

The Gentlemen Compare Locks Of Hair

Hey, Phil. Rando?


He looks friendly.

“He actually smells friendly, too.”

What does friendly smell like?

“Stew simmering on a pot, maybe a little essence of vanilla.”

If you say so. Hey, you see Fogerty?

“I’ve been successfully avoiding John Fogerty since 1970. Got it down to a science by now. No one avoids John Fogerty like me.”

Not a fan?

“You ever hear him get interviewed?”


“Well, that’s when he’s on his best behavior. Just the most miserable son of a bitch you’ll ever meet. Only thing worse than him was that band of his.”

Creedence was bad?

“Imagine the Three Stooges, but malevolent. I think the bass player was only partly human. Looked like something that escaped from Dulce Base. Used to rub up on foreign cars. Unpleasant in every way.”

Run Through The Jungle’s still a pretty kick-ass tune.


You should dye your hair like his.

“Pass. I think he uses house paint.”

I’d think about it. You go chestnut, it could take five years off.

“So I’d only look 72? Fuck off.”

I love our give-and-take.

“No, seriously: fuck off.”


In Which Sam Cutler Gets A Rando, And Meets A Friend

You are a sharp-dressed man, Sam Cutler.

“I cut a bella figura, I do.”

Got yourself a rando?

“‘E looks well enough. Big bloke.”

You dose him?

“I confess that I did.”

You’re going to see Phish?

“Me mates’ve been bothering me about it. Say the lads have a bit of th’ oul’ spark to ’em. Plus since ‘at movie th’ Hebrew geezer directed came out, everyone’s recognizing me.”

And you like it?

“I confess that I do.”

You deserve a little praise.

“Spot on. And some rumpy-pumpy.”

That, too. Wait. Your mates? Who are you meeting?


“Hey, Sam!”

“Oy, Sleepy Batman!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“When’s the showYAAAAAWNstart? I got time for a catnap?”

“Course, mate. Go kip out in the back of me van.”

I do not approve of this, and I’m sure–


–the other guy’ll hate it.

The Faster Weir Goes, The Rander Weir Gets

“Look what I got.”


“The randiest. Although, this guy to my left keeps telling me go home and get my shinebox.”

Yeah, don’t murder him. It comes back to bite you in the ass.

“I’ll try. But, you know, if he keeps disrespecting me my hand will be forced.”

Don’t do it.


Hey, Bobby.


Don’t make it obvious, but check out the piece on the guy to your far right.



“Garcia’s was better.”


“Jer wear a toupee. From about 1972 onward. Went to the same guy as Gene Simmons.”

This is not a fact.

“Oh, yeah. Real human hair, too. Parish used to get it for him. Sometimes, there’d be chunks of scalp still attached.”

“We doing group randos now? You got nothing, Weir.”

Not randos, Phil. That’s your band.

“This can’t be my band. Where are my children? I made my band with my own balls.”

Ew. And it is definitely your band. That’s Melvin Seals.

“Which one?”

The one that looks like his name should be Melvin Seals.

“I still think I’m winning Rando War.”

These aren’t randos!

“Agree to disagree.”

“They aren’t, Phil. Now this is a rando.”

No, Amir Bar-Lev. That is Michael Moore.

“He smells.”

I would imagine.

“And he won’t stop talking about Bernie.”

I would also imagine. You should get away from him before he rubs off on you.

“His bad luck?”

No, he physically rubs off on people. On the other hand, you might want to stand next to this fucker forever.

“It’s a good contrast, right?’

Totally. Your face has, like, bones in it.

“He just asked if I had any candy.”

Okay. Abort, abort. Get away from Michael Moore. The man makes awful movies and his voice makes me envy the Deafheads.

“But I look so good.”

Find an ugly fucker who makes good movies.

“Hmmm. Wait, I got it.”


Dude, you killed it.

“I rocked this shit.”

Why wasn’t the ’81 European tour covered in Long Strange Trip?

“Al Franken made me cut it.”


There Are No Conscientious Observors In Rando War

Hey, Parish. Rando War?

“Fuck, yeah. Gonna smoke this joint, take a piss, and break this fucker’s arm.”


“Prostate’s the size of a volleyball. I go every 20 minutes.”

Not the pissing. Why are you gonna break the rando’s arm?

“Old time’s sake. I don’t get to hit anyone anymore.”

Y’know, you’re overstating the Dead crew’s violence just a bit. You guys weren’t Led Zeppelin.

“Nah, shit no. We weren’t just goons. We didn’t hit people for no reason.”


“It’s just that people were always giving us reasons to hit them.”

Well, this rando hasn’t.

“Give him a minute.”

Please don’t hurt randos, Parish.

“It’s a Rando War. Gonna be some deaths.”


“Injuries, injuries.”

“Not true, love. There have been and always will be a great deal of mortality in Rando War, innit? Nature of the gimmick, right?”

Oh, I know that accent.

“‘Ello, love.”

What is happening here, Sam Cutler?

“Oi am making Rando Love, not Rando War.”

None of this makes sense.

“Also, Oi just dosed you. Ta.”


Rando War: The Push Zoom

Please don’t–

“Rando War on the bocce courts!”

–join the Rando…dammit. Hasn’t there been enough tragedy on those courts?

“Why do you think I built them?”

Oh, God, you’re burying bodies in there, aren’t you?


Are the busboys?

“Yes. Sometimes, Grahame does it.”


“If he doesn’t do his chores, he doesn’t get his allowance.”

Sure. Are you blessing that rando?

“Swatting a horsefly.”


What is this, theme night?

“The, uh, framing of the pictures?”


“Huh. Looks like it. Little bit of randian synchronicity.”

You having a press covfefe?

“Yeah, apparently.”

What’s Mickey doing there?

“Not much. He’s gonna slap Branford’s flip-flops together for a while soon.”

So, the usual?

“About that, yeah.”

A Remarkably Civil War


“Rando War marches on.”

Okay, y’know what? Fine. Fine, we’re in a Rando War. I accept it. Fine. Just tell me one thing.



“I thought you were gonna ask my favorite Wright brother.”

I wasn’t.

“Well you know: it’s out there now.”

Awesome. Bobby?


What are the rules of Rando War?

“Oh, there’s a bunch. Every rando for himself.”


“Take a rando, leave a rando.”


“Always separate your whites from your coloreds.”

I’m not talking about laundry.

“Neither am I. Truman forgot to desegregate Rando War.”

“Don’t listen to that guy. He makes no sense.”

Okay, now I’m confused.

“Civil Rando War.”


“Bobby against Bobby.”


“There is, uh, a certain amount of internecinity to Rando War.”

I’m positive “internecine” doesn’t turn into a noun that way.

“Spiritual gangsters reject prescriptivism.”

I’ve heard that.

Bring The Boys Back Home

“None of these boys know how to properly fight a Rando War.”


“Coach Wooden taught me everything I know about Rando Wars.”

Which is what?

“Number one: try not to touch the randos.”

Good rule.

“Number two: watch your wallet; some randos are actually pickpockets in disguise.”


“And I’m especially susceptible to pickpockets. My eyes are 22 feet away from my pockets.”

You’re Comey-sized.

“Number three: hands up on defense.”

Bill Walton, I have a question.


Was there a situation for which Coach Wooden didn’t say to put your hands up on defense?



“Hands at ten at two. Coach was a stickler. Sometimes, he would hide in the backseats of our cars to make sure we were doing it right. Used to scare the bejeezus out of me.”

“Can anyone get in on Rando War?”

Who is that?

No, Andy Cohen from Bravo, you cannot be a part of Rando War.

“But, I have a rando.”

You’re not a Grateful Dead.

“Neither is Walton.”

Walton has two championship rings.

“I have tons of rings.”

Andy, you’re out. Not happening. I let you in Rando War, and every loose screw and nutjob out there is gonna want in.

“Bullshit. I want in. And when Andy Cohen wants something, just watch what happens.”

I see what you did there.

“I’m quick on my feet.”

“I have a rando! Are we doing Rando War?”

Okay, first of all, Amir Bar-Lev: you cannot participate in Rando War. Second: that is not a rando. That’s Greg Gumbel.

“This is anti-Semitism.”

How!? Andy Cohen’s not allowed in, either!

“And homophobia.”

You stop accusing me of things, dammit.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

This is not a negotiation.

“12-hour long Director’s Cut.”

Don’t you lie to me, Amir Bar-Lev.

“Three hours is the Englishtown show.”

There is no Director’s Cut. There’s just wackadoos and speculists making shit up on the internet.

“If you say so.”

“The Senator from Minnesota rises to enter Rando War.”

Oh, no.

Again: not a rando. That’s a Senator.

“How many Senators could you pick out of a lineup?”

I could pick Elizabeth Warren out, Al.

“Senator Franken.”

Your lapels are too narrow.

“I want in Rando War, and I’m prepared to shut down the government or do my Mick Jagger impression until it happens.”

I truly hate this bit.

“It’s not as bad as the one with the Burning Man girls and then the picture of the weird guy.”

True. That one’s dreadful.

“Wanna talk Althea?’


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