Fuck your Tahoe Tweezer: gimme a 25-minute acoustic version of I Can’t Drive 55 any day.
You know you’ve been listening to too much Dead when…
- Last Tuesday, you were in the supermarket buying pudding and for no reason at all, you went up to this tiny raisin of a woman and screamed, “Tiger jam! What WHAT?!” real loud at her and then you grabbed her head and rubbed it in your crotch until the manager came and now you can’t shop there anymore and you’re pretty sure the cops are looking for you.
- That dream about Mrs. Donna Jean stops giving you a boner.
- That dream about Billy starts giving you a boner.
- You’ve said, “We don’t have to listen to the Dead: we can listen to Jerry Band,” and meant it.
- Your hard drive contains more than one photo of Bobby with Sammy Hagar.
- There are at least 23 metrics available to you to place an unlabelled show or picture: keyboardist, drummer, which ridiculously over-built guitars were they wielding, do said guitars sound like guitars or are they making bloopy noises, facial hair, was Mrs. Donna Jean giving birth, is Healy being a dick to Bobby, etc.
- You’ve described your morning routine as coffee>pooping>oatmeal>pooping reprise.
Ain’t no party like a Sammy Hagar party, cuz a Sammy Hagar party don’t stop.
No matter how much you beg, a Sammy Hagar party don’t stop.
Get Ringo on the phone: I smell a supergroup.
The fucked up thing is that they both had forgotten it was Halloween; these were just the outfits they showed up at the Olive Garden in.
Every night is Mardi Gras when you’re Sammy Hagar.