Looking back on yesterday’s lies, ideas verging on coherence, and shaky punctuation, I see that I couched one of my posts as an “open letter”. Notwithstanding the fact that it quickly degenerated into ill-conceived rantings about the penis sizes of a group of men (and Mrs. Donna Jean) who are now in their third decade of getting that AARP newsletter. Or, you know: long-dead.
Anyway, I was unaware of the whole open letter thing with the young naked person and the old crazy person until Amanda Palmer tried to make herself a part of it and cruelly denied by the entire internet.
What I’m saying is that I wasn’t trying to hop on the open letter bandwagon. I am, however, now jumping on the open letter bandwagon:
An Open Letter to the Grateful Dead:
Somebody wake up Keith, please. Thank you.
Hi, guys. Guys (and Mrs. Donna Jean)? Could you take your seats? Keyboardists, please don’t sit next to each other: touching might violate space-time protocols and then that whimsical British turd’ll come bursting in riding that stupid phone booth with his new attractive (for an English girl) sidekick and nobody needs that shit again.
Frankly, we’re going to need you all to let yourselves be pimped far, far more than now. As of now, there is no pimping. There is so little pimping that this is what you showed up to a photo shoot looking like:
Billy, look at you. It looks like everyone slept in your clothes. Jesus, guys (not Mrs. Donna Jean), you gotta stop wearing whatever was last given to you for free. It just doesn;t add up to a look for the band. And then there’s this:
WHAT THE FUCK IS T-SHIRT TUESDAY?
(to be continued…)