No, it’s not the Pioneer Chicken Stand that Warren’s hanging out at in the beginning of the video; it’s the Burrito King, and there’s a song or five in that parking lot, too.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Category: Uncategorized (Page 184 of 1031)
“Could you please state your name and occupation for the committee, please?”
“Yes, Congressman Goodlatte. My name is Sundar Pichai and I am the CEO of Google.”
“I had been informed that you would be wearing a turtleneck, and had died several years ago.”
“I believe you’re thinking of Steve Jobs, sir. Completely different guy.”
“But he did, in fact, wear a turtlenecked garment?”
“He did. Technically, it was a mock-turtleneck, but same ballpark.”
“Hell of an accent you got on you there.”
“I was born and raised in Mumbai, sir.”
“Well, good for you for escaping Communism.”
“Sir, India has never been…y’know what? Forget it. Thank you.”
“I will yield to the Honorable Louie Gohmert, representing the state of Texas.”
“Aw right, now. Looky here. We got us some cowboys and Indians on Capitol Hill. Thass a joke, son.”
“Is it? Ha.”
“Lemme git right to the point, Mr. Prickly.”
“Pichai.”
“In preparation for these hearings, I asked my staff to perform a google on me and what they showed me was outrageous. Absolutely outrageous. I was called ‘a bag of clown shit left in a pizza oven for two hours.’ I was referred to as ‘dumber than a mongoloid after a stroke.’ That’s offensive. My mother had a stroke.”
“Sir, Google does not actually write any of those things. We just collect them from the web according to their popularity.”
“Furthermore, my picture pops up when you enter the search phrase ‘feeble-minded pants-shitter.’ Why is that, sir?”
“Again: this is all based on what people are clicking on.”
“And look at this here: ‘Louie Gohmert couldn’t spell his first name if you spotted him the vowels.’ Do you think that’s appropriate?”
“We are just a search engine, sir.”
“How many cylinders?”
“Excuse me?”
“How many cylinders your engine got?”
“Ah. I see where you’re going with this. Congressman, sometimes words have multiple meanings and–”
“Don’t you didacticate up in here.”
“And sometimes words are just invented on the spot, I guess.”
“I yield the rest of my time to the Honorable Ted Lieu from the disgusting Sodom that is California.”
“Thank you, Congressman. Good morning, Mr. Pichai. Welcome to the Resistance.”
“Um, good morning, but I am not in whatever group you just talked about.”
“But you hate Trump, right?”
“I was told this hearing would be about technology and business and other subjects I am familiar with.”
“Sure, sure. You wanna get a selfie for the feed? I’m coming up on 900,000 Twitter followers.”
“Good for you. Maybe we’ll get a picture later.”
“Mr. Pichai, following up on what Congressman Gohmert was saying: it is truly terrible some of the things that pop up when you Google Republicans. For example, when you look up my distinguished colleague Steve King from Iowa, you get ‘Steve King looks like how a burning cross smells’ or ‘Steve King masturbates while imagining the Harlem Globetrotters performing their legendary Magic Circle routine using his asshole as the ball’ or ‘Steve King doesn’t hate Jews, he just wishes they were all dead.'”
“Do you have a question for me, Congressman?”
“No, I just wanted to read some mean things about Steve King. I yield my time to my very august colleague, Lamar Smith from Texas.”
“Thank you kindly. Mr. Pickles–”
“Pichai. Pih like in pitcher, chi like in Chinese.”
“–I want to know where my damn headphone jack got up to. I used to have my music on my phone and I could listen to it when I went walking around the Pentagon Mall at 5:00 am. My granddaughter put on all my Bob Wills records, loved it. Favorite time of day. Never any rain in the mall, nosiree. And now my staff has this new phone for me, right? And my music’s still there, but I can’t get the damn ear-things in.”
“Congressman.”
“The hole used to be round, but it’s like a long oval now.”
“Congressman–”
“I tried shoving ’em in there, but the doohickey got bent.”
“Congressman, is there a woman who lives inside your phone and answers your questions?”
“Yes.”
“Is her name Siri?”
“How do you know about her?”
“You’re talking about iPhones, Congressman. We don’t make those.”
“Who does?”
“Apple.”
“Do you know the people who run Apple?’
“I do, yes.”
“Well, can you call over there and get my ear-thing hole back?”
“May I ask for a five minute recess?”
GAVEL NOISE
Potato salad and Icarus stories: that’s what America is made of. Read this; it’s long but it needs to be.
Symbolism! Getchyer symbolism here!
OR
A man goes to a psychologist.
“Doc,” the man said. “I’m miserable. Don’t get any joy out of life, y’know? No colors, right? It’s a real chiaroscuro type deal.”
The psychologist answered,
“I have the solution for you. The Grateful Dead is in town tonight, and they could make any man happy. You should go see them.”
So the man said,
“We’re doing this bit?”
The psychologist responded,
“It is well-worn ground, huh?”
And the man said,
“Kinda. Hey, you think you could write me a scrip or two while I’m here?”
The psychologist said,
“You want a psychiatrist. I can’t actually prescribe anything.”
Then the man said,
“This was not the most productive use of time.”
“Hey, Jer?”
“What’s up, Weir?”
“Now, I’m not accusing or anything–”
“Good to hear, man.”
“–but, uh, did you eat my McNuggets?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, where’d they go?”
“Could have something to do with it being 1971. Product wont exist for a decade or so.”
“That might explain it. Y’know, I’m not a one-saucer.”
“Huh?”
“Some people go all in on bar-b-q, or honey mustard. I get ’em all and switch it up throughout the meal.”
“Good to know.”
“Can’t let your taste buds get complacent. Gotta keep ’em guessing.”
“Both what enters and what exits your mouth is a complete mystery to all, Weir.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Enthusiasts, they say it’s better to give than to receive, and–if we’re talking about your Christmas presents to me–I agree.
Here is my Xmas list:
- Straight cash, homey. (Via the Donate Button.)
- A garbage bag full of fine and varied marijuanas.
- I would like my father back, please.
Honestly, though, the cash is good. Please do not Pet Sematary my father.
“Jer?”
“What’s up, Weir?’
“I don’t know if I’ve asked before, but would you care for some Fret-Eeze?”
“My frets are as easy as they can be, man. I’m all set over here.”
“Okee-doke. Jer?”
“Yeah, man?”
“Some of my coffee?”
“Same answer as before. Just play your guitar, Weir.”
“Sure, sure. Jer?”
“What, man?”
“You think I need a haircut?”
“Weir, don’t take this personally, but I’m gonna walk a couple paces away and solo for a while. No, wait. Take it personally.”
“Aw.”
Hey, President Macron. You look natural and human.
“Ahh, I have been–how you say–popping ze pills? Zis is how you say?”
Oui.
“All of ze pills. Ze little blanc ones, and ze rouge, and ze bleu. Zey combine in my tummy.”
Any yellow ones?
“NON! No yellow! No one has hated that color as much as me since La Lanterne Verte!”
Going deep on the Green Lantern references there, Mr. President.
“He made ze team-up wiz Tintin several times.”
Huh.
“Zings are not bien. Zings are not bien at all. Have you seen what ze peasants are up to?”
They’re revolting.
“And zey are rioting!”
Nice. So, what started this round of barricade-going?
“Ze people, zey are perturbed about ze gas prices. We added ze teeny tax to ze gas to fight ze change de climatique, eh? Zey did not like.”
How much is gas?
“About €1.50 a liter.”
I have no innate grasp of the size of either of the units you just referred to. Hold on.
“Oui.”
…
SEVEN BUCKS A FUCKING GALLON? You deserve every riot you get, you Gallic shitstain.
“Zis iz too many Euros?”
Way, way, way too many Euros.
“Let zem drive Teslas.”
Do you want a Sixth Republic? Because this is how you get a Sixth Republic.
“Non. Zis is imposible. I am ze most powerful man in France. What could ze peasants do to me?”
Don’t ask me, man. Ask the cackling old lady with the knitting needles.
“My wife?”
You’re awful. We’re done.
Go read about Wayne Kramer, brothers and sisters, as written about in brief by FoTotD Nick Paumgarten.
Go read about the greatest of all Dead suites, Help>Slip>Frank, as brought to you by 21st Century Dead.
Go read about the Fillmore West, and how the greedheads and crumb-bums in San Francisco wanna knock it down and build some more fucking condos.
Go read about dumbfucks overdosing on entheogens and talking themselves into thinking it was meaningful.
Go read about Brian May and the moon and a ViewMaster.
You clear all your tabs?
It feels so good.
Hey, Phil. Is that Baby Levon?
“How could it be Baby Levon, jackass? It’s 1987.”
Or so.
“Or so.”
So who’s the kid? Is that one of those missing milk children?
“You’re dumber than a pig’s dick, y’know that?”
I’ve been told.
“It’s Brian. Or Grahame. One of ’em.”
Can’t be. Brian and Grahame both have beards.
“Go bother the pretty one, huh?”
Bobby or Josh?
“Either. I don’t give a shit. Just go away.”
One more question.
“If it’s stupid, I’m gonna just leave.”
Okay. Any chance of you becoming Trump’s new Chief of Staff?
…
Phil?
…
I guess he thought that was a stupid question.
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