Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
The important questions, Enthusiasts. We concern ourselves with only the most vital of the day’s issues. Let lesser sites finger their rosaries over peace, war, coffee cups left on tables, et cetera. These are trifles. No, we’ll not be spending our ever-shrinking lives boodling about in the intellectual shallow end. We’re gonna get down to what’s really real, you and me.
And, thus, we come to our question: Did Phil yoink Bobby’s BMW shirt?
I told you it was important.
Cricket’s complicated, and so is bridge, but no game’s got more rules than the Status Game.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Well, uh, you know Sammy.”
“WOO!”
Hey, Sammy.
“And, uh, this is some sort of handsome gentleman.”
That is Rick Springfield.
“Ah. Question.”
Shoot.
“Did he ever get Jesse’s girl?”
I don’t think so.
“Probably for the best. Bros before hos.”
What? Who taught you that?
“Sammy.”
“WOO!”
I should have guessed.
Many years ago, I made myself a set of rules concerning the use of opiates. To wit:
I believe they are good rules, Enthusiasts, and will keep you from robbing your relatives’ homes or blowing strangers. (Not to cast aspersions on those who enjoy blowing strangers. It’s a free country: gobble all the anonymous ding-dings you want. I’m saying that these rules will keep you from needing to blow strangers.)
One will, however, notice that rules say nothing at all about taking the pills as directed.
Is this your way of informing the readers that today’s posts may not make any sense?
DADDY’S GOT SOME VIKES!
I thought so.
Let’s list the perfection, shall we?
Marx Brothers First of all: not a trio. There were either four or five Marx Brothers, depending on whether you count Gummo. (You shouldn’t count Gummo, but you can’t not count Zeppo.) Also, no rendition of H>S>F contained a blackface number, whereas Day At The Races not only has one, but it’s really fucking long.
Ritz Brothers I must be honest with you, Enthusiasts: I know that the Ritz Brothers existed, but that’s it. In fact, I don’t even know if they were a trio. Point: H>S>F.
Napoleon Ice Cream C’mon. Which song is the strawberry? Are you calling Slipknot! the strawberry? Cuz I’ll blacken your eye if you say that in my presence. Another win for the Dead.
The Tri-State Area Same situation as the Napoleon ice cream, but Connecticut is the strawberry.
Holy Trinity Here’s a puzzler. Both are intensely Christian in concept–H>S>F, secretly; the Trinity, overtly–and the Holy Ghost, much like Slipknot!, is spooky and tough to pin down. Both have inspired the kind of dancing in which white people wave their arms over their heads in a langorous fashion. Both are difficult to explain to non-initiates. (They’re three songs that always get played together except when they don’t vs. They’re three beings but they’re also one.) I gotta call this one a tie.
Rush H>S>F is a heady, heady jam. One cannot deny this truth. But H>S>F has made no charitable contributions to museums dedicated to the Negro Leagues, so I’m giving this one to Geddy and Neil and the other one.
Tanned, Rested, and Ready I’m sorry, but H>S>F doesn’t stand a chance here. Sure, a good version will set your choogly soul aglow, but a man who’s tanned, rested, and ready can conquer the world.
Three Blind Mice They’re mice. And they’re blind. You wanna compare them to H>S>F? What are you, some kind of chowderhead?
Don’t insult the readers.
FUCK THEM.
Stop it.
I won’t abide foolishness in my dojo.
Stop calling the site your dojo.
May I go back to the post, please?
Do you really think there’s any juice left in this berry?
…
Yeah, okay.
This wasn’t your best, champ.
No.
Hey, Pope Francis! Haven’t seen you in a while. How you doing?
“Is all-a good. Woke up with-a da health. Said-a da prayers. Maybe gonna rain dis afternoon, but-a maybe not. I can’t-a complain.”
You have a good outlook on life, Your Holiness.
“Is all-a da Jesus. Bad day? That’s-a on me.”
Sure. That’s a nice Golden Knights jersey. Are you a hockey fan?
“Is-a jersey? Dis-a guy keeps-a calling it a sweater.”
That’s a hockey thing. Or a Canadian thing. Although, a “hockey thing” and a “Canadian thing” are kinda the same thing.
“They’re-a proud of their game.”
Oh, yeah.
“Is-a not for me. I-a grew up in-a da Argentina. Not-a da hotbed of winter sports.”
And I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to Las Vegas.
“No, no. Is-a da Sodom. Or-a da Gomorrah. Unlimited shrimp in-a da desert? Is unholy.”
I can’t argue with that.
“When-a da Jesus come back? Vegas is-a da first place to go.”
What’s second?
“Philly.”
They deserve it.
“Si, si.”
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Why must there always be pandemonium?
“Referring to?”
The stage. It looks like a woodworking shop had a baby with a Guitar Center, and then the baby exploded.
“Eh. Band liked it this way.”
How could anyone like this?
“Maybe ‘like’ is wrong. How about ‘The band didn’t give a shit if it looked this way?'”
That sounds right.
Demons are all about. Just like every day. Don’t let it get to you.
For all you mothers out there.
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