Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Guys, I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta let you go.
“What’s all this, then?”
I have to fire you. I’m a writer, and so I’ve got to fire my Argent.
“Agent.”
Excuse me?
“Writers have to fire their agents. Not their Argents.”
…
…
…
That does make much more sense.
“Don’t include us in your foolishness, please.”
Reasonable request.
Hampton gets all the attention, but the true connoisseur* knows that the Shoreline shows are just as good, if not better, or maybe worse. Depends on your opinion, I suppose.
BUT there’s a killer Death Don’t Have No Mercy, a rare standalone Franklin’s, and a lovely Bird Song. We Can Run is also performed.
PLUS a Mighty Quinn encore. Quinn, braj. Love the Quinn. Everybody’s gonna wanna dose, braj.
9/29/89 from Shoreline. Listen to it.
*Spelled it right the first time. I know there’s no way to prove that to you, but I swear it happened.
Is that BTS? I thought they were supposed to be cute.
“It’s not BTS.”
My favorite is Jungkook. Who’s your favorite BTS?
“I don’t really have one.”
Racist.
“No.”
Not having a favorite member of BTS is incredibly racist. It’s pretty much worse than lynching a guy.
“It is not. Not in the slightest.”
If anyone asks, just say J-Hope.
“Which one is J-Hope?”
He’s the pretty Korean one.
“That doesn’t help.”
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMM
…
“What the fuck was that?”
It sounded very cosmic.
“Right? That was the word that I would use. Cosmic.”
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMM
“It’s a little disconcerting.”
“LOOK UPON ME, JOSH MEYERS. I HAVE CHOSEN YOU TO BE MY HERALD ON EARTH.”
“Who is this?”
“IT IS I, THE BLACK HOLE. YOU CAN CALL ME BH.”
“Ah, for Christ’s sake.”
“YOU SHALL PREPARE THE WORLD FOR MY ARRIVAL. IT’S GONNA GET FREAKY.”
“Freaky?”
“I’M A HOLE. ONLY ONE THING YOU CAN DO TO A HOLE.”
…
“Stick things–”
“STICK THINGS IN ME.”
“–in you? Ew. Please don’t bother Earth. We have enough problems.”
“MY PRESENCE WILL SOLVE THEM ALL. I WILL BRING PEACE AND FREAKINESS. BUT YOU, JOSH, WILL BE THE FIRST TO LOOK UPON MY TRUE FACE.”
“What now?”
“GAZE DEEPLY! LOOK WITHIN ME!”
“I’m looking.”
“DO YOU SEE WHAT IS AT MY HEART? CAN YOU WITNESS THE BLACKEST THING IN THE UNIVERSE?”
“The blackest thing in…ah, shit.”
“Hey, bitch.”
“You’re at the center of a black hole?”
“What the fuck is blacker than me?”
“You got a point, I guess.”
“Now fetch me some cocaine before I spaghettify you.”
“Yes, sir.”
…but a good tune’s a good tune.
When the Hungarian State Opera’s white cast of singers came together in Budapest earlier this month to revive a production of George Gershwin’s opera “Porgy and Bess,” they received letters carrying an unusual request: to declare themselves African-American.
According to the Hungarian news website Index, which said it has seen a copy of the letter, the singers were asked to sign a declaration stating that “African-American origins and spirit form an inseparable part” of their identity. At least half the group signed, according to Index. – New York Times.
“Hungarian Jenkins!”
“Igen Uram?”
“Oh, don’t do that. We do this joke every time.”
“I’ll speak English, sir.”
“Not well. You have the rhetoric of the seaborn. Were you birthed on a boat, Jenkins?”
“No, sir.”
“Were you the first generation brought forth upon the land? I know the look in your eyes, boy. You’ve got the canals in your veins.”
“Sir, I believe you called me in here to discuss the American situation.”
“That guy’s like a horny monkey. He’s getting his jizz everywhere. Dumb, orange, cruel, slouchy jizz. All over the world. It’s a reverse bukake, Jenkins. That’s the American situation, my friend. Reverse bukake.”
“The other situation, sir. The one that directly affects us.”
“The Jews from New York?”
“Oh, please, sir. Let’s save the anti-Semitism for emergencies.”
“One is required to blame the Israelite, at times. Political expedience and all that. Never anything personal. If we had Mexicans, we could blame them, but we’re in Hungary. No Mexicans.”
“The owners of Porgy & Bess have sent several letters.”
“You know I’m allergic to mail, Jenkins.”
“Which is why I didn’t show them to you, sir.”
“Are they squirt material? That’s the best kind of letter to receive. When I was in the service, my wife sent me letters that were nothing but squirt material. A story and a drawing. She was an excellent artist, and she knew I liked my titties big, so she drew ’em real big. She could draw, Jenkins. That was prime squirt material. Loved that woman. ”
“Please focus.”
“THE CONSUMPTION TOOK HER!”
“She left you for a failed waiter named László. I need you to focus. The letters were just the beginning. The property’s owners have filed complaints with the EU.”
“The EU?”
“For the love of Christ, I beg you not to say–”
“HUXIT!”
“–Huxit. No, sir. Hungary will not leave the EU because of a fight involving the opera house.”
“There was a war over soccer once.”
“We need to deal with what’s in front of us, sir. The creators of the material were, and the current stakeholders continue to be, quite adamant about the work being performed by a black cast.”
“The tenor’s black.”
“László? No, sir. He’s Hungarian. Magyar. Just like the rest of us.”
“What about the baritone? The tall one?”
“László? Also not black. Sir, we’re in Hungary. There’s no black people. I mean, there’s a handful but none of them can sing at a professional level.”
“Jenkins, aren’t we all African-Americans. I mean, if you go back far enough.”
“No, sir.”
“We all came from Africa.”
“That argument has never, ever elevated a discourse. It’s an unnecessary point.”
“Fine. Then we’ll call them the racists.”
“How?”
“Loudly!”
“Sir, that won’t work. The opera is still a privately-held work, and so they can make whatever rules they want about productions. Plus, there’s the fact that you haven’t paid them and staged the show using a pirated copy of the score.”
“RACIST AGAINST HUNGARIANS!”
“Perhaps, sir.”
“Hmm. Jenkins?”
“Sir?”
“Is the makeup department present?”
…
“Oh, no, sir.”
“We’ll do it subtle! Very subtle. High-quality work. Not some sloppy greasepaint, Jenkins. And, obviously, the big white circles around the eyes and mouth would have to go. It would be subtle.”
“No, sir.”
“Like Downey, Junior! Tropic Thunder. He plays Iron Man, and he pays black guys. Why can RDJ do it and we can’t?”
“So, so, so many reasons.”
“We’re corking up the chorus, Jenkins. And we’ll need wigs.”
“No, sir. No wigs.”
“You know the wigs I’m talking about. Disco wigs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Like Dr. J.”
“I can picture the hairstyle, sir. Let’s not do that. The Americans have completely lost their sense of humor about blackface.”
“What about brownface? The makeup department can do wonders.”
“It’s not about the shade, sir.”
“We could do high-yellow. Like Ice T. The brother is light-skindedded.”
“Again, sir: not about the shade. We cannot darken our cast and pretend they’re African-American.”
“Several of them are fans of hip-hop.”
“Still, sir.”
“Oh, fine. We’ll just switch operas. We’ll do Otello.”
“Great. Who’s playing Othello?”
“László.”
“Great.”
Hey, Bobby. That man needs some sun.
“You should see him up close. He’s the color of truck stop sushi.”
Truck stops have sushi?
“They have everything now. Truck stops have improved at an astonishing rate over the course of my lifetime. Used to be there were communal showers and real ugly hookers and the cafes served a dish called pastahoochie that you could only get at truck stops.”
Pastahoochie?
“It was like chop suey with a reddish sauce that was advertised as Italian in origin. Usually there was some beef in there. Beef byproducts, maybe. This was the old days, remember: sometimes, you got byproducts.”
Right.
“Only at truck stops, though. But now there’s chain restaurants and everything. There’s stops out there so big there’s room for competing brands. Like, you got a McDonald’s and a Burger King. That’s the big tent Reagan was talking about.”
If you say so.
“They got four haircutting bays. The barbershop is a rectangle, right? Customer seats along the long sides, waiting are in the front, shampoo stations in the back.”
Yeah, Bobby. A barbershop.
“Four of ’em. Lined up. And busy, too. I’ll match our truck stops up with China’s best any day of the week.”
I don’t know, man. China builds big and she keeps laying down highway. There are bound to be some gigantic stops over there.
“Sure, yeah. But can you buy an assault rifle at any of them?”
Absolutely not.
“Freedom wins again.”
Sure. Bobby?
“Uh-huh?”
Will you yell at your bandmates, the werewolf and the disgraced surfing instructor, for dressing too casually?
“No. I’m, uh…no.”
Okay/
Whither the All-Star Super Jam?
Everybody, everybody
Everybody on stage for the All-Star Super Jam.
It’s in D
No, not A
B flat?
Fuck off with that, man
It’s in D.
Somebody
Grab Ringo
Set up a kit for Ringo
He’s gotta do it
Wouldn’t be right to All-Star Super Jam without Ringo.
You’ll take a solo
Then I’ll take a solo
And he’ll take a solo
It’s in D, remember.
I trust one scientist, and his name is Dr. Funkenstein. Toast to the boogie, people.
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