Thoughts On The Dead

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

Through The Lips, Past The Gums


“Hello, there. Am I speaking with Mr. on the Dead? This is the hospital.”

That’s me.

“I am calling with your schedule and instructions for your procedure tomorrow.”

Excellent, okay.


Yeah, just a little thing.

“That is a such a nice word for something so scary. People up and die on those tables every day.”

Have we spoken before?

“The death level is highly underreported: a lot of the times, the doctors will throw their mistakes into the dumpster.”

What about their families?

“Oh, I cannot tell you about their families, Mr. on the Dead. That would be raping a hippo.”


“Raping a hippo, sir. When you reveal information about a patient, that is called ‘raping a hippo.'”

Do you mean “violating HIPPA?

“I would thank you not to make fun of my accent, sir.”

Fine. Can we get on with this?

“You will need to be at the hospital by 8 a.m. There are many papers to be filled out.”


“You cannot eat anything after midnight. You are like a gremlin.”

Well, actually–

“Sir, if you are about to start in with some nerd bullshit about how it is mogwai that may not be fed after midnight, not gremlins, please save it for the girlfriend you do not have.”


“There is also to be no water after midnight.”

All right.

“Ditto no revolutionary thoughts.”

What now?

“Plotting to overthrow the establishment right before the type of procedure you’re having may cause your neck to explode.”

That can’t be right.

“Irregardless of the medical information neither you nor I possess, Mr. on the Dead, please do not begin research on any manifestos tonight.”


“Please shower.”

Yeah, okay.

“I mean it: do not stink this place up with your unwashed funkiness. We are practicing medicine in here; the least you can do is not smell like a foot with an asshole.”

I shower every single day.

“And spraying a shitload of Drakkar Noir down your shorts is not the same as a shower. That just makes your balls smell like a dying shopping mall.”

I won’t do that.

“You cannot wear cologne.”


“Cologne encompasses both the synthetic scents, such as Axe Body Spray, and the natural ones made out of animal testicles or melted whales.”

Why does this happen to me?

“Did you know they still made perfumes of melted whales? They call it ambergris, but that’s just Latin for melted whale.”

It is not. And: what?

“The hospital has a zero tolerance policy towards all whale products, as a matter of fact.”


“Oh, yes: guy walked in here last month with a piece of baleen under his arm and the security guards tazed him to death.”

I will avoid that fate, I assure you.

“Do you have any tattoos?”




“Would you like some put in while you’re under?”


“Smoking or non-smoking?”


“Simple question, sir: would you like the OR for sexy grown-ups or the one for widdle babies whose pweshuss wungs can’t handle a widdle smoke.”


“I was just pulling your leg, Mr. on the Dead; there are no smoking rooms.”

Oh, good.

“Everyone’s into vaping now.”

I’m hanging up.


  1. Thoughts and prayers, yer honor.

  2. Good luck!

  3. My apologies if this was handled elsewhere, but I’ll be buggered raw if I’m going to trawl through all these goddamn posts to find the answer when I can just demand you answer it for me once more. Are you going to be OK or not? Because if I need to find a new favorite blog, I should probably get on that shit.

    Seriously, though. Sending good thoughts your way.

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