Thoughts On The Dead

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

Weir On Our Way Home

bobby paul mccartney

“Bob, I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to tell me the truth, and also I desperately need you not to call me ‘Yoko’ anymore.”

“Sure, Ozzy.”

“Close enough. And I know you seem to view a conversation as some form of interpretive dance, but I must ask you that be straightforward with me.”

“Yup, okay.”

“Did you dose me?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I was too specific in me question, wasn’t I?”


“Have I been dosed?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And who was it that dosed me?”

“No one dosed you.”

“Who were they that dosed me?”

“Buncha guys.”


“Well, you know, in their defense: it’s a special occasion. Dead and the Beatles. Portentous.”

“I feel a bit strange, Bob.”

“What do you mean?”

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“I can’t truly describe it, but I don’t think I can play me bass like this.”

“You have no nose.”

“How will I smell?”

“Bloomin’ awful.”

“I need you to take this seriously, Bob. Help me. I’m a Beatle, and a Knight and a billionaire. Help me.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure.”

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“NO, BOB. NOT BETTER. I meant get me back to being a person, not join me here in toyland.”

“Ah. Well, I seem to recall a little lecture about being straightforward. That’s the pot telling the gander to heal thyself.”

“I actually understood that.”

“Yeah, well: you’re on a shitload of acid.”

“Right, right. How long does this last?”

“The acid or the storyline?”



1 Comment

  1. Playing with another Bass player who wants to be in charge, the cycle of abuse continues.

    Great storyline, I hope Andersoon Copper shows up.

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