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

Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 2 of 1013)

Lawn Boy

Treyvon, what the fuck?

“Oh, hey. Can I jam for you, too?”

Oh, buddy.

“See, it’s summer.”

Right.

“And when it’s summer, I travel the country with my pals jamming for people.”

This year’s weird.

“It didn’t start well for me, and it’s gone downhill ever since.”

You got stuck in the rafters of MSG on New Year’s Eve.

“Yeah. My therapist says I might have gotten a touch of the PTSD from that.”

A touch?

“Full PTSD is for, like, soldiers. I don’t wanna be disrespectful.”

You’re very thoughtful. Can we get back to the fact that you’re accosting strangers in the park with your improvisatory boingy-type music?

“See, it’s summer. And when–”

Ah, dammit. You’ve lost your mind, too. Fuckin’ ronus.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I should take this. It might be the subconscious cue to wake up from this nightmare.”

Sure.

“Hey, it’s Trey.”

“WHO THIS, MAN? AH’M CALLIN’ F’R HAIRY GARCIA! PUT HIM ON TH’ LINE OR FACE SO MUCH KARATE YOU’LL END UP A LUMPY, BUMPY STUMP!”

“Elvis?”

“AN’ THE BANANA MAN!”

“Uh-huh.”

“DAMMIT, BOY: FETCH UP HAIRY GARCIA! WE GOT IMPORTANT MURDER HEIST-RELATED BIZNESS T’ DISCUSS!”

“Right, okay. Couple questions.”

“AH WILL PERMIT THIS, AS AH AM IN A FINE MOOD. ‘BOUT TEN MINUTES AGO, THE BANANA MAN KICKED JOE ESPOSITO IN TH’ NUTS. THAT BROUGHT JOY TO TH’ JUNGLE ROOM.”

“You’re in the Jungle Room?”

“IN MAH HEART, AH AM ALWAYS IN TH’ JUNGLE ROOM.”

“Great. I have three questions.”

“PRESENT THEM TO ME ALL AT ONCE, SO THAT AH MAY DECIDE WHICH TO IGNORE.”

“Okay: Who the heck is ‘Hairy Garcia?’; What the hell is a ‘Murder Heist?’; and How the fuck are you calling me?

“HAIRY GARCIA IS MAH FRIEND, WITH WHOM AH HAVE SHARED ADVENTURES AND SEAFOOD-INFUSED PASTA DISHES. THASS A MAN WHO DEMANDS SHRIMP IN HIS SCAMPI!”

“I’m already lost.”

“HE’S GOT A BEARD, AN’ HE’S IN CHARGE O’ TH’ GRATEFUL DEADS, AN’ AH ALSO THINK THERE’S TWO OF HIM AN’ ONE’S DEAD.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“YOU ARE A MAN O’ INTELLECT!”

“Thanks. And what is a Murder Heist?”

“FUN ‘TIL IT AIN’T!”

“That doesn’t help.”

“IT’S SOMETHIN’ T’ DO, MAN! CAN’T SPEND ALL DAY WATCHIN’ JOE ESPOSITO GET NUT-SHOTTED BAH A MONKEY! AH C’N SPEND ALL MORNIN’ LIKE THAT, BUT NOT ALL DAY. GOTTA MIX IT UP. LAST WEEK, AH RECORDED ‘NOTHER CHRISTMAS ALBUM. THIS WEEK, AH’M MURDER HEISTIN’.”

“That also doesn’t help.”

“WHERE ARE MAH MANNERS? WOULD YOU LIKE DR. NICK TO ATTEND T’YOU?”

“No. What? No.”

“Y’LOOK SICK, MAN. YOU PALER TH’N A BOILED HOG.”

“I’m fine.”

“YOU MAY BE FINE, BUT DR. NICK’LL SET YOU RIGHT. YOU SHOULD SEE HOW HE’S TENDIN’ T’ JOE ESPOSITO’S CASHEWS! TH’ MAN’S A HEALER!”

“Pass.”

“BOY, DON’T BE ACTIN’ TOUGH IN FRONT O’ TH’ KING. TH’ DOC GONNA GIVE YOU VARIOUS CURATIVES, AN’ THEN YOU AN’ ME AN’ THE BANANA MAN GONNA GET HUMPIN’ ON THIS MURDER HEIST.”

“I still don’t know what a Murder–”

“AH’M GONNA SEND SONNY OR RED T’ FETCH YOU UP! AH DUNNO WHICH ONE YET. IT’LL BE ONE O’ THEM GOOBERS.”

“–Heist is, and so–”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Excuse me?”

Treyvon?

“Can I opt out?”

You don’t wanna be a part of this?

“I don’t wanna be a part of any of this.”

No one does! Except Billy, I guess. And Elvis. And the intertrimensional sex pirates that ate Iron Maiden.

“The what now?”

You’ll meet them.

“I don’t want to.”

They’re fun.

Watergate Vs. All The Bullshit This Maniacal Shithead Has Pulled

Slapdicks and scrimpthoughts, Enthusiasts. Always recall this when dealing with the Pundit Class. They see a shiny object, and they fuck the shiny object. Today, that which glitters but is not gold is the comparison between Watergate and All The Bullshit This Maniacal Shithead Has Pulled. (Hereafter known as ATBTMSHP.) The analogy is, as one would expect, facile to the point of fallacious, and shoddily-constructed.

I prove my argument thusly:

IT’S EVERY FUCKING DAY WITH THIS GUY Watergate was just one crime. (Technically, it was several. Breaking & Entering and Wiretapping are separate offenses. What I’m saying is that all the individual felonies were parts of an overarching scheme.) Bunch of schmucks broke into an office. Whereas every day, Basketball Head commits at least four impeachable offenses.

THE CHEEKINESS Watergate was adorable, admit it. Idiots in black turtlenecks and ski caps crouch-sneaking into darkened offices. Security guards patrolling the halls with flashlights. Scotch tape on the latch to keep the door from locking. Cops are called, and it’s 1972 so the cops have mustaches and .38 service revolvers. I bet they said “Get your hands up!” Even better, this initial burst of criminality had ramifications of pure delight: meetings in shadowy parking lots; envelopes stuffed with hundos; dramatic revelations during televised hearings, code names. CODE NAMES!

Like I said: adorable.

But none of ATBTMSHP has been even cute. Where’s the panache in bribing the President of Ukraine for dirt on your political rivals? Funneling money to one’s own properties? Pedestrian, don’t you think? Common.

We don’t go to the moon anymore.

WATERGATE, NOT BOUNTYGATE Russkies didn’t pay for American scalps when Richard Fucking Nixon was in charge. There was respect, by God.

RED LIGHT BLUES This latest spate of “Is Nixon like Turnip” takes come because the Pundit Class saw “Bob Woodward + Tapes” and went ass-over-teakettle in a thousand uncontextual words. The tapes in consideration are not related, save by both featuring a sitting President. There is an chasmic difference between private recordings obtained using hidden microphones that the Supreme Court had to force Nixon to turn over, and Trump just ring-a-dinging Bobby Dubs in the middle of the night all hopped up on Fox News and Filet-O-Fish to confess crimes.

Say what you will about Richard Nixon, but the man never called up a reporter at the Washington Post and said, “I did it.”

THE KUSHNER FACTOR Nixon wouldn’t have stood for Prince Milkdick. Nixon would have had Haldeman and Ehrlichman kick him half-to-death in the Oval Office. “Keep the bleeding internal, boys,” Nixon would say. “He has to walk out of here.” They’d stomp his kidneys with the heels of their well-laced broughams. Good boys, H & E. Good listeners, and loyal.

SHAME AND ITS BENEFITS Nixon was smart enough to try covering up his crimes. That’s basic self-preservation. Whereas Trump, I remind you once again, called Bob Woodward 18 times for the sole purpose of admitting to shit.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Bob Woodward speaking.”

“Bob, it’s your favorite President. I’ve done crime.”

“I’ll be recording this.”

“Super. Record my crimes.”

And so on. That’s what the doofus did.

Actually, let’s have a thought experiment. Nixon was a savvy political operator, so he’d naturally know better than to call up a journalist and confess to impeachable offenses, but what about you? You’re no grizzled gladhander. You’re just some spaz. But what if–via some sort of topsy-turvydom–you were tomorrow morning to wake up in the Residence of the White House? What if you–dimbulb that you are–magically became the President?

You’d know better than to midnight-dial Bob Woodward and start spilling your guts, wouldn’t you? Or, failing that instinct, perhaps you’d have installed a staff that would talk you out of doing such a thing. Or maybe you’d call him once or twice. But not 18 times.

SPELLING BEE Nixon would ravage Trump in a spelling bee. It would be brutal.

Thusly, my argument has been proved.

Land Rover, Sea Ruler

“You’re a dick.”

What did I do now?

“All I wanted was to not be left out of the Murder Heist. You preyed upon my insecurity and sicced interdimensional–”

Trimensional.

“–sex pirates on me. They came to my ranch, man!”

Not good.

“Well, they didn’t ‘come’ to the ranch. They just appeared out of nowhere.”

Right. They have omniships.

“Gave ’em a hell of a strategic advantage.”

When done right, no defense.

“So I had to flee.”

It doesn’t look like you’re fleeing very hard.

“I had an idea for a song.”

About what?

“Chicks.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Really?”

Expand your material.

“What sells is what sells.”

Answer the phone.

“Is it the monsters?”

Maybe.

“You’re on with John. Please don’t be the aliens who ate Iron Maiden.”

“Eat Maiden? No eat Maiden. Love Maiden. Up irons.”

“Oh, thank God it’s you.”

“Hot Dog Dick finally warm up to Kim Jong-Un. Now is best friends.”

“No, it’s just that you’re better than the alternative. Which is fucked up.”

“Everything fucked up this year. No laws with Claws, broham.”

“Whatever. What do you want? And why are you in a boat?

“No in boat. On boat.”

“Same thing.”

“Kim Jong-Un’s English is no idiomatic. Preposition confuse.”

“Move past it. Why the boat?”

“Look your right.”

“Goddammit, this is not the time for your foolishness. Do not invade California right now.”

“Have letter from Dotard. He say it okay.”

“I assure you it’s not.”

“Is most beautiful letter! I send! You see!”

“Please don’t send it to me.”

“Follow on Twitter.”

“I’m not gonna follow you on Twitter.”

“My posts rule.”

“Not following you.”

“Father invent memes.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“What if I apologized?”

To me?

“Sure. Whoever. I’d like to be excused from this storyline, and I’ll debase myself to achieve that goal.”

Too late.

“What about cash?”

Cash might do it.

An Open Letter To The World

Dear The World:

First off: Fuck you. For the shit you did, the shit you’re doing, and the shit you’re gonna continue to do. Fuck you with friction.

Second: You are not respecting the candana*.

As loyal readers–or everyone in earshot because I won’t shut the fuck up about it–know, I am diseased. The treatment for my particular disease is a thorough poisoning. Now, the treatment for most diseases is poison–antibiotics are just cyanide pills for bacteria–but at a smaller scale; the shit they’re giving me would drop a herd of reindeer. It’s according-to-Hoyle toxic. Literally the only reason you would allow this biocidal swill access to your innards is “cuz otherwise you’ll be dead in three months.” It takes six hours to administer because they have to dilute the solution to the point where it won’t melt your veins.

You know: poison.

Those of you who have not had the good fortune to embark upon your Cancer Journey® may be asking, “Isn’t poisoning a sick person counter-productive?”

And I brush your cheek lovingly, with the grace of a drunken father, and then try to pick your nose.

“Stop it,” you say.

I don’t. I won’t! I’m digging for gold, muchacho!

Okay, okay, okay. This time you distracted yourself. You didn’t even have the courtesy to blame it on bold-faced guy or put your crazy thoughts in the mouth of a character. You just explicitly broke down.

I took my dick out at Foot Locker, didn’t I?

You’re having a rough year, pal, but its no reason to take it out on everyone else.

Counterpoint: Fuck them. How’d you get in here, anyway? I cast a Moat Spell around Open Letters.

STOP CAPITALIZING SHIT LIKE THAT.

Never.

If you have a point, you may get back to it. Otherwise, I’m locking the doors on this one.

My point is this: My candana is not inspiring the proper deference. You know what that schmata means, The World! I’m not wearing it for my health, I’m wearing it because of my health. Do you think I enjoy sporting this rag, The World? I look like the seventh-place finisher in a David Foster Wallace lookalike contest**. Of all the indignities that cancer has imposed, being forced from my aesthetic is the most painful.

I have gone chemocore.

And all I’m asking for is a bit of acknowledgement. Come up to me–without penetrating my now greatly-expanded Personal Health Radius, of course–and tell me how brave I am. You might also refer to me as a “warrior,” and throw the verb “battle” about willy-nilly. Maybe you could carry something for me, or bathe me in semi-sacred oils.

For example, the other day I was in Publix, flying the flag of flagging energy, and not one shopper offered to carry me through the aisles like a baby. I only needed a couple of things!

That’s it. Calling this one.

I’M FACING MAJOR REVERSALS OF FORTUNE HERE, MAN.

True. But you don’t have to take it out on everyone.

For the third time: Fuck them.

This post had a theme.

Well, I am America’s Greatest Semi-Discovered Writer.

What did I tell you about the capitalizing?

 

 

 

 

*Candana = Cancer Bandana. I’ve explained the portmanteau already, and even if I hadn’t, it’s easily decipherable via context clues and a general cultural awareness. Keep up.

 

 

 

 

 

**Footnote jokes, muchacho.

Who Is That Masked Man?

Hi, David Lemieux. Whatcha doing?

“Thirst trapping.”

The drip is fierce. When is GQ doing a style article about you?

“Grateful Mort actually slid into my DMs the other day. He called my aesthetic ‘Backyardcore.'”

Not incorrect. How’s life during plague time up in Canada?

“Not too shabby. We’ve been listening to the scientists, considering the needs of others, and making minor modifications to our personal behavior that provide great benefits to society. How about you?”

The opposite of that.

“Yeah. I know. I was just being polite.”

Thanks.

“It’s why we’ve had to posse up.”

What?

“Well, the main vector for new Canadian infections is visiting Americans. They say they’re driving to Alaska, but they’re fibbers. They’re damnable fibbers. Sorry about the language, but this has me hot.”

Don’t worry about it.

“I can understand the lure of the Great North. It’s not White now, but it’s still Great. The beauty of our land is surpassed solely by the kindness in our hearts.”

All true.

“But even the kindest Canadian can be pushed too far.”

You mentioned something about a posse?

“We’ve been hunting Americans.”

Aw, man. You were, like, the last sane man. Corona’s driven everyone else blitzoid, but you were keeping it together.

“I’m still even-keeled, man. We’re not bloodthirsty maniacs. No one’s gotten hurt.”

No one?

“No one’s gotten hurt on purpose. There’s been a mishap or two.”

Explain to me what you’re doing, Dave.

“David.”

Talk.

“Americans visiting Canada are required to self-quarantine for 14 days, at which point they’re issued a Certificate of Compliance. And they’re real nice certificates, too. Fancy paper, embossed printing, hologram.”

Not really the point.

“So we, the posse, patrol the streets and ask Americans to see their Certificates of Compliance.”

How do you know people are Americans?

“You can tell.”

Okay. What if they don’t have one?

“That’s when the mishaps occur.”

Uh-huh. David?

“David.”

That’s what I said.

“Oh, right, you did. Sorry about that. I assumed.”

David, is this posse a governmental body of any sort?

“A couple of the guys are fire fighters.”

You and your drunken buddies are rampaging through town attacking people you suspect of being Americans, aren’t you?

“That’s an uncharitable reading of the situation.”

Disappointed.

“I’ll never apologize for my patriotism.”

What about the stranger-beating?

“That falls under patriotism’s umbrella.”

You’re not David Lemieux, are you?

“DAMMIT.”

Get out of his body!

“Better?”

No, not really. Did you eat David Lemieux?

“How many times do I have to explain this: We don’t ‘eat’ people. It’s more like a corporate takeover, but with screaming.”

Dude.

“There’s a lot of screaming. Not gonna lie.”

Okay, start from the beginning. Who are you?

“Steve Harris.”

“NO, YOU’RE NOT.”

“Yeah, you got me. But it would be a lot easier for you to call me that.”

Lemme guess: I can’t pronounce your real name?

“Not without two or three more tongues.”

Fine.

“Also, the fourth through ninth syllables are communicated telepathically.”

Got it.

“And there’s a concurrent scent.”

A what?

“My native language is partially odor-based.”

Strange.

“Bookstores can get a bit whiffy.”

We’re drifting from the main topic: Who are you and why are you here?

“As I told Oteil, I represent a group known as…well, you couldn’t say that, either. Which is a shame, because our name is super-cool. Anyway, we’re pirates, kind of. Pirates would be the closest approximation in your culture. Except instead of sailboats, we have omniships.”

Omniships?

“They go anywhere. Instantly.”

Sounds useful.

“Gamechanger. And we have rapebots.”

That sounds awful.

“It was literally the worst thing we could think of. Turns out the be one of the best investments we ever made.”

How so?

“Well, you only gotta use your rapebot army once or twice. Once everyone knows you have one, and that you’re willing to use it, life gets a lot easier. You hear ‘Yes’ a lot more after deploying the rapebots.”

Stop talking about rapebots. Why are you here?

“When the Murder Heist calls, you pick up the phone, braj.”

I don’t care what the Enthusiasts think; this is the worst storyline in a long time.

“It’s not as bad as the time Alex Jones demanded to take a shit in Josh Meyer’s RV.”

True.

The Future Is Murder Heist

“Why am I not part–”

I KNEW YOU WOULD BE LIKE THIS.

“–of the Murder Heist?”

You’re the worst.

“Well, screw me for having emotions. I feel very left-out here.”

You should be happy to be left out of this stupidity.

“I’m not. I cried myself to sleep three times yesterday.”

Three times?

“I took two naps.”

Oh.

“Everybody else is involved. Hell, you’ve been introducing new characters to participate. And my phone is not ringing.”

When your phone rings, it’s invariably Kim Jong-Un or Nixon.

“Sometimes it’s Miles Davis.”

Miles Davis sexually assaulted you on multiple occasions, and then shot you to death.

“Yeah, but at least I was included.”

Wow. Your brain is full of dead pigeons.

“I will not apologize for being a people person. Now, I demand to be a part of the Murder Heist.”

You demand?

GARMENT FETISHIST’S HEAD TURNING INSIDE-OUT, AND THEN BACK TO NORMAL, NOISE

“I truly do not like when you do that.”

Stop poking the bear.

“Oh, you’re the bear?”

I’m motherfucking Smokey the Bear. I got a hat, and I got pants, and I got lessons for the children.

“Wha?”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I’m gonna take this because you’re, like, half-a-Perc from complete incoherence.”

Don’t pill-shame me.

“Shh.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Johnny, me boy. Th’ lads an’ I have popped ’round to collect you. Up for some Murder Heistin’?”

“Finally! I’m in! I, uh, don’t recognize your voice, though.”

“I am speaking wiv Steve Harris’ voice.”

“Weird way to phrase that.”

“Nuffin weird about cosh an’ todgers.”

“Huh?”

“My grasp of the human language Designation: English/Subsign: East London Working Class is flawless.”

“Wha?”

“Dammit, I gotta get better at this secret identity thing.”

“This just went sideways.”

“Long story short: We are not Iron Maiden. Although we kind of are. Like, we have all their memories and, obviously, their bodies. But we’re really an intertrimensional criminal gang.”

“Trimensional?”

“Like a dimension, but more triangular.”

“Sure. Quick question.”

“Shoot.”

“Are you gonna give Iron Maiden their bodies back once you’re done with them?”

“That would be difficult.”

“Why?”

“Because we ingested them. No, wait. ‘Ingested’ is wrong. Let’s say ‘absorbed.'”

“You ate Iron Maiden?”

“No!”

“Kinda.”

“Dude, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Wait ’til you hear what we did to Judas Priest.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Jackass?”

Yup?

“I changed my mind.”

About being part of the Murder Heist?

“Yeah, that.”

Too late.

“I was afraid of that.”

Good instincts.

“Did they really eat Maiden?”

No.

Kinda.

“2020, huh?”

You said it, pal.

Run To The Hills

Oh, not Garcia’s guitars.

“What about them?”

Are they what’s being heisted?

“God, no. Dude. How could you even accuse me of being involved with that?”

Anything goes in a Murder Heist, Oteil.

“Well aware of the fact. But there’s some lines you don’t cross. Stealing Garcia’s guitars is like tugging on Superman’s cape, man.”

Okay, okay. What are they for, then?

“Funny twist in the Murder Heist: A large portion of the plan now takes place in a semi-adjacent trimension.”

Trimension?

“It’s like a dimension, but more triangular.”

Sure. Why the guitars?

“They contain Remnant Magicks. Combine that with a Time Sheath, and you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want.”

Uh-huh. And once you arrive in this new reality, you will…

“Meet my contact.”

Whose identity, I’m guessing, is as of now unknown to you.

“Good guess.”

I think you guys are taking the compartmentalization thing too far. None of you seems to know the overall goal.

“Nonsense.”

Who is to be murdered?

“Deserving subjects.”

And what is to be heisted?

“That which can be stolen.”

You have no idea.

“I have received a full situational briefing.”

Just admit it. Is there even a plan at all? For all I know, you nimrods are freelancing.

“There’s no need for name-calling.”

Y’know what? You’re right. I apologize.

“I can see you using that kind of language with Billy, but not me.”

Billy usually deserves it.

“Yeah.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I gotta take this. It might be someone calling to ask me to be on a podcast.”

You’ve been doing a lot of those.

“Dude, I’m so bored I could explode. Hold on.”

“This is Oteil, and you better keep it real.”

“Oi, we’re as real as an eel salad, me lad.”

“Are you my intertrimensional contacts?”

“That we are. We are roguish scoundrels ‘oo play fast an’ loose wiv th’ laws of man an’ th’ laws of physics.”

“Y’look a lot like Iron Maiden and Def Leppard in soccer uniforms.”

“No idea what that is, me lad.”

“They’re bands.”

“I haven’t th’ kippers what you’re on about. We are a scurvy crew of sexy brigands who go adventuring an’ get inta scrapes. We are not bound by the strictures of mathematics, and several o’ us can shoot poxy rays out their eyeballs.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I lead these men. You can call me Steve Harris.”

“Oh, come on.”

“What?”

“Are you telling me you’re not Iron Maiden?”

“We’re space pirates of time from beyond time and space.”

“And you just happen to look exactly like two of the biggest hard rock bands of the 80’s?”

“Young man, we still sell out arenas to this day.”

“What the fuck, man?”

“You caught us out. We was tryin’ t’ have a bit of a raspberry tart with you.”

“So you really are Maiden? You guys got a Time Sheath or something?”

“No. Double-twist: We actually a roving gang of reality-hopping troublemakers. But, uh, not the fun, heart-of-gold kind. We’re really into genocide. So we…well, I don’t wanna say ‘ate’ Iron Maiden and Def Leppard, because that would be technically wrong. And I also don’t wanna say we ‘assumed their forms’ because the process is so much more intricate than that phrase suggests. We’re them now. Let’s just leave it there: We’re them now.”

“I think I’d like to quit the Murder Heist and go home now.”

“Way too late. Wheels are in motion.”

“Shit.”

Hell In A Basket

Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?

“Murder Heisting!”

Looks like you’re playing drums.

“Yes. That’s my role in the plan.”

Fits you.

“I didn’t need any prep time at all. Jumped right in with both feet.”

Good job.

“Tough to pull off a Murder Heist without at least a 30-minute drum segment.”

That’s where you come in.

“That’s where I come in.”

Is the hat related–

“I just like the hat.”

–to the Murder Heist? Oh.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I gotta take this. It might be a member of the Zildjian family.”

Great cymbals.

“The best!”

“Hart here.”

“Kevin?”

“No, Mickey.”

“I meant to call Kevin Hart.”

“Very funny man. I like when he yells about being short.”

“That’s, like, 90% of his act.”

“Right! I’m a fan!”

“Okay. Are there any black celebrities you can hand the phone to?”

“Lemme look.”

“No.”

“All right, then. Let’s just pretend this was a butt-dial.”

“I have Branford Marsalis’ number, if that’ll help.”

“It will not.”

‘What about Merl Saunders?”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Well, if you meet him: Don’t call him Melvin. That pisses him right off.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Gotta go.”

“This is Dr. J, right?”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

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