“Bobby, thanks for coming on the show.”
“Well, thanks for having me, Radio Randy.”
“No, I’m my father, Radio Randall.”
“That makes sense. It’s 1973.”
“Bobby, what’s next for the Grateful Dead?”
“Very traditional of you.”
“We were thinking about skipping right to 1983, but Keith was really against it.”
“You could tell by the way he passed out.”
“Sure. Can I ask about the glasses?”
“Thinking about getting into serial killing.”
“Interesting. Tell us more.”
“It’s on the back-burner right now. Dead comes first, and I’m working on an opera about Babe Ruth, and then the serial killing. But, you know: start with the specs.”
“Awesome. We have a call from a lonely weirdo in Florida.”
Hi, Radio Randall. Hey, Bobby. I have a question in relation to the serial killing?
“Go for it.”
I’ve long had a pet theory that people are either serial killers or spree killers. One day everybody finds out what’s buried in your garden, or you go to the food court with an Uzi one day for no specific reason.
“This is a metaphor, right?”
Almost all of the time.
“Ah. Yeah, sure, okay.”
Great. Here’s the question: which Grateful Dead is–
“Drummers are spree killers, everybody else is a serial killer. Especially all the keyboardists.”
You didn’t even have to think about that.
Wow. Great call. Thanks, Radio Randall.
“You’re welcome, racist.”
STOP THAT! You’re in 1973! The standards of racism are so much higher!
“They seem to be getting back up there where you are.”
Fuck you, Radio Randall.
“Ha ha, I live when gas is ten cents and the Grateful Dead is touring.”
FUCK YOU, RADIO RANDALL!
DIAL TONE BECAUSE PHONES DID THAT IN 1973
“Bob, I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
“Then I retract my apology.”