There’s folks who like knowing how the trick is done, and there’s folks who don’t. Neither position is the morally superior one.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Category: Uncategorized (Page 144 of 1031)
Goddammit, Josh Meyers, you slaphead: did you use the Time Sheath to go back to the 90’s and perpetrate a literary hoax?
…
…
…
“How could you tell?”
Jawline. What the fuck, chief?
“Don’t call me ‘chief.'”
Fuck you, slugger. I can’t believe JT LeRoy was actually you.
“The pop singer is deceitful above all things.”
Seriously, this is weird even for this universe.
“Hey, man: I had fiction in me. And, for some reason, all of that fiction was about blowing truckers in West Virginia.”
I feel like I’ve lost control.
“‘Lost’ implies you ever had control.”
True.
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Saw that coming.”
Oh, yeah. You’re being a dick.
“A little, sure.”
…
“You’re on with John.”
“Ah, Christ. I knew you were a goddamned queer.”
“Offensive and incorrect, Mr. President.”
“Beyond the sodomy, which there is quite a bit of, they love dressing up. That’s how you can tell, and you can always tell. A lime-green pocket square. Fanciful socks. They always give themselves away. As if they wanted to be caught out.”
“Can we change the sub–”
“New York does it right, as far as that goes. San Francisco, too. Put all the queers in one neighborhood. Everyone’s happy that way. The fags can tug each other off on the sidewalk, and the rest of us–people with families, women, children–can avoid it. That’s a win/win. Life isn’t always zero-sum, son. You have to remember that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Los Angeles, too. Wonderful police force out there. The homosexual who, uh, resides in Los Angeles knows that there are certain establishments–bars, restaurants, that sort of thing–that he will be beaten for entering. And that keeps the peace. Everyone knows where he stands. This does not, however, stop Hollywood from being full of them. Just full of them. And, you know, they don’t know how to shake hands properly. It’s like you’re cradling a baby bird. The handshakes might be worse than the buggery.”
“Sir.”
“They’re compelled to do that foul act. They must. They’re like old rummies in the convalescent home calling for their bottles. Have to have it, you see. But you can learn how to shake a damn hand. That’s a choice they make.”
“Sir.”
“They can grip a stranger’s todger, they can grip a hand.”
…
“You drinking, sir?”
“It’s Christmas, son.”
There’s a copy of The Great Shark Hunt staring at me from the bookshelf; it’s sitting right next to both volumes of Fear and Loathing. I don’t want to revisit the Good Doctor. I can’t put myself through that. I can’t put you through that.
I might, though.
Hey, Billy. Still celebrating your birthday?
“Birthweek!”
Huh?
“It took me about five days to come out. I was what they called a ‘logy fetus.'”
That’s an unpleasant phrase.
“I was happy in there. Hell, I’ve spent the past seven decades trying to get back in.”
Sure.
“I just didn’t wanna come out.”
How’d they entice you into the world? Forceps?
“Nah. They laid a check at the foot of the bed.”
You’re a remarkably consistent man.
“Oh, yeah. Hey, you sex striking?”
Oh, that thing Alyssa Milano is on about? I don’t know if that’ll work.
“I’m into it! Love me some sex striking.”
…
Billy, do you mean–
“Punching puss!”
–physically striking women…I thought so.
“I got no idea how it’s helping get rid of Trump, but I’m all in.”
Happy birthweek, buddy.
“Yeah, I’m great.”
W is for water, as in rain, which was dripdripdroppifying all over the scalawags and reprobates and chickies at Woodstock, which is where this photo was taken.
O is for omelettes, which you couldn’t get because there was no food because it was just a fucking field with no amenities.
O is for opera, which is the plural of opus, which just means “work.” When you call something an opera, you’re literally saying “this thing someone made.” Lot less fancy when you know that.
D is for Dirty Dingus Magee. Sinatra was in it. He played a cowboy.
Because when you think “cowboy,” you think “Sinatra.” Blue-eyed Enthusiasts will note the luxurious toupee under the hat; Frank named all his hairpieces, and called that one Husky Boy.
S is for Sly Stone, or perhaps Sha Na Na, (PREDICTION: When the absurd “every single note of every single band” 38-disc Woodstock box set is released, Rock Nerds will all rediscover the Na’s brilliance. Pitchfork is already readying a thinkpiece on Bowser, I guarantee it.)
T is a drink with jam and bread, or crystal meth, or testosterone, or the mohawked muscle of the A-Team, or a square, or one of two events that stop play in a basketball game.
O is pissing me off, honestly. Three appearances in one word is too much, O. Let the other vowels get a chance to play.
C is for Country Joe and his Fish, and I’m gonna pass. Hard pass.
K is allowed to ask me about my business just this once, and also potassium.
Who wore it better, Enthusiasts? The song, Full Moon & Empty Arms, is from 1945; Buddy Kaye wrote the lyrics, and Ted Mossman stole the chords from Rachmaninoff.
Was it…
…this phenomenally talented pain-in-the-ass?
Or…
…this phenomenally talented pain-in-the-ass? Exercise your franchise in the Comment Section.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Well, I’m not scowling.”
That’s big for you when you’re getting your picture taken.
“I knew you’d appreciate the gesture.”
Is Jackie Greene related to Benicio del Toro?
“I have no idea who either of those people are.”
Jackie Greene is the person to your right who isn’t your wife or Matt Busch.
“Is that who that is?”
Yes.
“I thought it was Steph Curry.”
No.
“Then why did he sign my basketball?”
I apologize for that. No one needs to be subjected to Vampire Weekend. They’re like someone set the Kavanaugh hearings to music. There will be no more of them.
This is how the song really goes.
I used to skip school when Gilbert sat in for the news.
Nice to see that Vampire Weekend has fully embraced the “90 guys in the touring band” portion of their career.
…fuckery. This is fuckery on a grand scale. Just watch it. Trust me.
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