- Who’s going to host the Oscars?
- Pizza being, like, 20 minutes late.
- Liza Minelli’s liver.
- Climate change.
- Your need to finally watch The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.
- The possibility that we’re alone in the universe.
- The possibility that we’re not.
- The Long Island Islanders’ playoff chances.
- All the airports shutting down at the end of the week because Basketball Head has the foresight of a lobotomized squirrel.
- Spam calls. (Honestly, I would be all for declaring a National Emergency to wipe the spam callers off the planet. I would support military action. Drone strikes on office buildings in Bangalore would be fine by me; I don’t even care if there’s collateral damage. Kill all the women and children in the area if that’s what it takes.)
- The critical reevaluation of Sam Kinison.
- That thing where all the animals and insects are dying.
- How woke Aquaman is.
- Alexandria Ocasio-Cortes and her big socialist titties.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Category: Uncategorized (Page 177 of 1031)
Are there any California commies you don’t know?
“Oh, Gavin’s not a communist. He’s too handsome for that.”
He’s a dreamboat.
“Right? That’s why California’s the best state: we’ve always had the most fuckable governors.”
Are you including Gray Davis in there?
“Much sexier in person.”
And Jerry Brown?
“50 million Linda Ronstadts can’t be wrong.”
Is that a Member’s Only jacket?
“You bet your ass this is a Member’s Only jacket.”
Awesome.
“You married?”
“Not, uh, married. Long-time boyfriend, though.”
“Your hat doesn’t count.”
“A human. I am dating a human male, Phil.”
“Just dating, though?”
“Why are you–”
“I need another grandchild. You and Grahame are gonna make me one.”
“Phil, I–”
“Stand up. Lemme see your hips.”
“Completely inappropriate.”
“Young lady, I’m 80 years old and I’ve had 15 different cancers. Time is running out. I need a grandkid and I need one now.”
“Isn’t Grahame married?”
“Yeah, and I call her Munchhausen.”
“Why?”
“Barren!”
“Jesus.”
“But not you. You’ve got the glow of fertility all over you.”
“Phil, no.”
“I’ll give you my Porsche. Right now. You can drive home tonight in a Porsche. Just let Grahame at your cracker. You won’t even know he’s in there.”
“I don’t want to be having this conversation any more.”
“I didn’t want to do it this way.”
YOINK!
“Hey!”
OLD BASSIST RUNNING AWAY NOISE
“Give me my hat back!”
“You’ll get it back after the rabbit dies!”
Good thing nobody asks me nothing.
Once upon a time, not so very long ago, the President wasn’t a complete buffoon with clown piss for blood. No, he was smart and charming and handsome and had the decency to at least pretend he was sad about all the corpses his policies created.
It was a wild run.
You have such attractive parents, John.
“This is Fleetwood Mac.”
Ah. You have a straw, a flashlight, and some coke?
“That’s a terrible rumor about a wonderful and talented woman.”
See, that’s where we differ. I think it makes her more awesome.
“It’s scurrilous.”
What now?
“I got a Word-A-Day calendar.”
Gotcha.
“Today was ‘cenobite.'”
That should come in useful. You look spectacular. Good night’s sleep?
“No, it’s 2005.”
Oh, even better. You should stay there. You aged drastically.
“I did not!”
Do you know ‘Stevie’ is short for ‘Stevedore?’
“I didn’t, because it isn’t.”
Well, then, Creem magazine lied to me.
“Could be.”
“PHONE CALL FOR JOSH MEYERS!”
“What the fuck is that?”
You have a phone call.
“Doesn’t it usually come to my cell?”
It’s 2005.
“There were cell phones in 2005.”
Were there? It all rolls into one and all that.
“PHONE CALL FOR MISTER JOSH MEYERS!”
“Goddammit. Here!”
…
“You’re on with John.”
“Johnny?”
“I know this voice.”
“Of course you do! It’s me, Benjy, your manager and psychopomp.”
“Psychopomp?”
“Check your calendar. It’s the word for June 9th.”
“Cool. What do you want, Benjy?”
“Put me on the phone with Fleetwood. Or Mac. Whichever the bald guy is.”
“Absolutely not.”
“He needs to write a book, and I need to get paid for it.”
“I’m not putting you on the phone with Mick Fleetwood.”
“Fine. Lemme talk to Stevie’s asshole.”
DIAL TONE NOISE BECAUSE IT’S A REAL PHONE AND THEY DID THAT
“Is he in Hawaii?”
I think so.
“Sweet.”
“That shit ain’t funny, motherfucker! Don’t you talk about Stevie no more! I got all his records. I got Talking Book, I got Innervisions, I got Fuh-finger, Fufferdinger…Fuck it! The good one!”
What is 9/27/81?
A date.
Oh, I don’t think so. I just got out of a serious relationship.
You goofy goofball!
You see what I did?
I saw.
Let’s be serious.
Sure. Climate change is going to kill us all.
Not that serious.
Okay. 9/27/81 refers to a performance by The Grateful Deads, who were the ugliest of all the Boy Bands. Or the Girl Groups, for that matter.
What type of music did they play?
Choogly.
Can you be more specific?
No.
Anything special about the show?
There’s a Spanish Jam in Space.
And what does that mean?
During Space, they jam Spanishly.
Does that have anything to do with Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez?
Dude, you’re obsessed.
With big-breasted Socialists? You bet your ass I am.
Tacky.
Eat my hangover shit.
This was a good post.
“Tim, you seen the beer guy yet?”
“I have not.”
“The Capital should take some lessons from Parliament. There’s like a dozen bars in that building.”
“That’s the trouble with a country founded by Puritans.”
“You said it. So, is this the balcony Evita sang the song from?”
“You’re in the wrong hemisphere.”
OR
Still a bigger crowd than the inauguration.
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