Thoughts On The Dead

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

We Got You, Bill

billy palms up fenway

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Hey, Billy. How’s the tour going?

“So much skank, so many checks.”

You’ve got your eyes on the prize.

“Summer of skank, man. Strippers who’ve been fired from every joint in town, heiresses with Yelp accounts so they can review rehabs, moms with their kids in the car: skank!”

Jesus, man.

“What should I do? I got to get another book’s worth of stories together. I blew my wad on the first one, so the second one’s gonna be about blowing my wad.”

Ew.

“A Billdungsroman.”

I see what you did there.

“Actually, the book will be a bit of a multi-generational epic.”

How so?

“I used to scoop up Bobby’s leftovers, but now I go for Josh’s.”

Ah.

“It’s like passing the torch.”

It’s not like that at all.

“Most certainly is. Plus I did a grandma, mom, and daughter at once in Pittsburgh. That’s called a Family Tree.”

How was that?

“Awkward.”

I would imagine. Besides your perversions, how has the tour been for you?

“You gotta see these hotels. Make the Burj Khalifa look like the Chelsea. Last place we stayed at left a mint on your pillow at night.”

Most hotels do that.

“Not a candy. A mint that makes money.”

Oh, that’s better.

“That’s a hotel, man. You know how they fold up towels into shapes? Animals and whatever?”

Yeah.

“Places we stay at fold the towels into historical tableau. Virginia was the Battle of Salamis.”

Wow.

“The washcloth was Themistocles.”

Wow.

“And the butlers! I don’t know how I lived without one. There’s a new one at every hotel. I’ve been putting them in my suitcase before I check out.”

What?

“Well, actually I have them pack themselves, cuz what’s the point of a butler, y’know?”

You can’t steal the butlers, Billy. Butlers are people.

“Butlers are servants.”

Regardless. And you can’t put them in your suitcase.

“I put Benjy in my suitcase all the time.”

And it killed him. Luckily, he turned out to be immortal.

“Whatever. Live butlers, dead butlers. Same thing.”

Nope.

“I might bring Benj back to write this next book. I been keeping notes. Call it the Skank Bank.”

Of course you do.

“A short description, plus a thought or two. Also some pictures of buttholes.”

Ew.

“But I took the pictures with that Snapchat thing Josh showed me and the butthole looks like a cute dog and a tongue is coming out of it.”

I’ll stay with my ‘ew.’

“Lemme read some to you. Ooh, this one’s from Hartford. Special Ed teacher who got fired for drinking on the job. She gave me a Schnitzel.”

“She gave me a Schnitzel.”

“She gave–”

What’s a Schnitzel?

“She pounded my German meat.”

This is why we don’t talk more.

“Banged an entire drum circle in Alpine Valley. Just went round and round lifting up peasant skirts. Mickey joined in.”

The banging?

“The drum circle.”

Sounds right.

“Cher.”

What?

“Cher.”

What do you mean ‘Cher?’

“You know what I mean. Cher. She came out to Boulder. She knows Black Phil–”

His name is Oteil, dammit.

“–and she came out to Boulder to see us. Cher.”

No. This didn’t happen in the real world or in this universe or anywhere. No. It did not happen, no. No.

“Cher.”

Stop it.

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