Esteemed Commentator Tor Haxson brings to the table an important question, and because I am currently avoiding writing several vital e-mails, I shall attempt to answer this most ponderous of mysteries.
Which Grateful Dead would you want as a parent?
See, I told you it was an important question.
We must start out by noting that none of the Grateful Dead’s children have rampaged through a Burger King, nor been indicted on racketeering charges. Not a one of them has ever been arrested for pissing on a stewardess while yelling “DO YOU KNOW WHO MY FATHER IS!?” They’re all presentable. Any honest reading of the situation must led to the conclusion that the Dead were, at least, decent parents.
But who would be preferred? All members of the band have their pros and cons. To have Phil as a parent means that you would be tall, and have a beard. If that’s how you’d prefer to look, then you should choose Phil. If, on the other hand, you would rather be a hot chick, then Bobby is your best bet. If you’d like a wholesome, hard-working, American name such as Stacy or Justin, then you need to go with Billy; for a hippy-dippy, godless, communist name like Taro or Raya, then Mickey is your man.
Mickey is also an excellent choice because he’s so easy to buy presents for.
“You got me a drum! How did you know what I wanted?”
“Just guessed, Pop.”
Are you going anywhere with this?
So why did you write this?
If I stop writing, I’ll die.
Even it’s complete shit?
History will decide its worth.
Go put your head in the stove.
Put a gun in your mouth in your head in the stove.
Suicide by syntactical recursion. I like it.