Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: ray charles

God Bless Texas

And America, too. And all us goddamned sinners and the ones that didn’t stop us from sinning out of love. And the mornings and the evenings and all the funerals and parades. And the hatred and lies and the piles of donations and the water which will rise of its own accord. All those broken soldiers and the park benches with the initials of young love carved into their faces. And the history books and the gallows and the Colt .45 that tamed the west. Jesus, too. And the misfits and the coders and drunks in hallways who could not make it to their beds.

Shallow graves and deep pockets; God bless you, America. The Wampanoag and the Clovis and Vinnie from Bayside. Fishermen and widows and no-longer-Nazi rocket scientists and shortstops. Hitchhikers and serial killers, and cops and whores, and oilmen and trappers. And all these motherfucking rivers with their motherfucking gamblers. Beer and whiskey and hatchets and war and all of it America.

God bless us all, all us sinners.

Ray of Pigs

WE’RE SORRY, SIR!

“Stop, er, yelling at me. I can hear you. What are you sorry for?”

Literally everything.

“You all have, er, botched things up, haven’t you?”

We have, yes.

“Jap destroyer ran over my boat. I swam through the ocean four miles towing an injured man with my teeth. I, er, did that for my country. Could have gone to Wall Street. Gotten rich. I entered pubic service. I did that for my country. Do you know how much gonorrhea I’ve gotten for my country?”

So much.

“Jack’s a pussy man, son.”

Ew.

“I am, er, the President of Pussy.”

You’re not.

“I am.”

Okay, you kind of are.

“What have you done with the America I left you, son? Have you finished what I started?”

What did you start?

“Moon.”

We went there.

“Excellent. Is it now, er, some sort of colony?”

No, we stopped going because everyone got bored with it.

“What? What about Mars? How long have we been going to Mars?”

We sent robots to mars. And we have a space station.

“Wonderful. How many people live there? Has the first generation of Space Americans been born?’

It’s not like that. The International Space Station is basically a half-dozen tin cans lashed together.

“What you’re describing sounds like the definition of ‘the least you could do.'”

Kinda.

“Cuba?”

Castro died!

“Great news, great. When?”

Four months ago.

“You’re shitting me.”

That guy was the Michael Jordan of not dying.

“How is Gina Lollabrigida?”

Either dead or very old.

“Me and Bobby made a bridge out of Gina.”

Wonderful joke, Mr. President.

“Good times. Bobby would often join Peter Lawton, Frank, myself for a little hanky-panky. Then, after the hanky-panky, we would start fucking.”

That’s a lovely story.

“Peter Lawton never paid for a whore in his life. Not a meal, not a whore. I learned that very early in life: always, er, pay your whores.”

Good advice.

“Now tell me what’s going on in the White House, son. This is an untenable situation you have here. There is, er, chaos. There is, er, confusion. There is, er, nepotism.”

Well, maybe you’re not the best one to accuse people of nepotism.

“I appointed Bobby as Attorney General because he was the most qualified member of my family.”

Another wonderful joke, sir.

“I am, er, very charming.”

You are.

“My brother Bobby was a United States Senator. He was approved by the Senate. Once in office, he took on the Mafia, and the Teamsters, and he fought for civil rights.”

Jared owns hotels and Ivanka sells shoes.

“Right, right. And the fellow is just unpleasant looking. Like a dog’s balls that someone took a cheese grater to.

True.

“Look at me. Look at how handsome I am.”

You’re very handsome.

“Admire my vigor.”

I like the way you say that in your accent.

“Admire my vigor!”

Yes, sir. Nice vigor.

“Who was the last one? The negro fellow?”

Not a negro.

“Son, I’ve seen negroes before. I know what they look like.”

Black. Negros are black now.

“Good for them. Anyway, the tall one. Dignified. That’s what a president should look like.”

I agree.

“What was his name?”

Barack Obama.

“Googa magooga.”

Please stop being from 1961. His name was Barack Obama. Perfectly normal name.

“Middle name?”

Didn’t have one.

“I bet that Obama’s a pussy man, too.”

He is not. You’re worse than Nixon in many ways.

“What’s he doing now? I should call him. Presidents’ orgy time.”

He will not do that.

“I have orgied with many negroes.”

I would honestly rather talk to Nixon.

“Well, Nixon is busy right now, young man. Come back after Mr. Charles is gone.”

Mr. Charles?

“You talking to the pretty boy?”

Yes, sir.

“Well, go make your gaga eyes at him. Nixon will, uh, be here with Mr. Charles, whom I am informed is referred to as Brother Ray.”

“You know it, baby.”

“Go back to Harvard Boy.”

Aw.

I Do Believe I’m Going To Drown

Come back, Ray. We didn’t listen. We never fucking listen.

And All The Ships At Sea

O beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife,
Who more than self their country loved
And mercy more than life!
America! America!
May God thy gold refine,
Till all success be nobleness,
And every gain divine!

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

I have nothing to say but that I love you.

Listen To Brother Ray

More timely advice has never been offered.

%d bloggers like this: