Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
When the last balloon
Popped
On Steiner and Post
And the confetti was
Swept up
For minimum wage
They brought in the bulldozers
And they brought on the wrecking balls
Condos now.
Unit 213 is where the stage used to be
Its owner was murdered
By a fellow
He met on Grinder
Who stole three watches
And a laptop
But left the record collection
They had to take this song off the album because it came out in October of 2001 and we all had to pretend that cops were awesome heroes.
Fuck the cops, man.
FUN FACT! Eastbound And Down, the redneckiest song in existence, was written by a trans woman. The credits say “Dick Feller” but she goes by Deena Rose these days. Jerry Reed has not commented, possibly due to being dead.
FUN FACT! The Grateful Dead is at least partly responsible for the Gardner Museum Heist. In March of 1990, a guy named Rick Abath was working security for the art museum when two men dressed as cops showed up to investigate a disturbance. There had been, as far as Abath knew, no disturbance; he refused the police entry momentarily, but relented when they threatened to arrest him. If he had been arrested, you see, he surely would have missed the 3/19 Hartford show that he had tickets for. The thieves tied up Abath and made off with $500 million in paintings.
FUN FACT! Father Yod. Listen, I can’t explain this motherfucker. Go read about him yourself.
Did you just want to clear the weeks-old tabs off of your desktop?
Yes, and it was fun for me.
Doooooooouche.
We’re still doing the hat thing?
“You’re still alive?”
Why can’t we be buddies? Bobby’s nice to me.
“That’s because he has no idea who you are. As far as Weir’s concerned, you might be one of his daughters. Man’s been befuddled since the Mayaguez sank.”
Going for the deep historical reference. Nice.
“Fuck off. Haven’t I 86’ed you from TXR?”
Yes.
“Then why are you here?”
I’m a rebel, man.
“You’re a twat.”
Phil, why do you have to be so…wait.
“What is it now, pest?”
I sense fuckery.
MY WAY RINGTONE NOISE
Yup. Fuckery.
“I don’t have to get this, but I want to.”
…
“Terrapin Crossroads, where the shrimp scampi is 20% off this week.”
“Hi, am I speaking to Phillip Lesh?”
“It’s not Phillip. It’s Philbert. Who is this?”
“This is Ronan Farrow.”
“Hm. Short hair works for you.”
“How exactly are you people seeing me?”
“Don’t worry about it. Are you calling for Holly Bowling tickets?”
“I am not.”
“Did Holly Bowling’s Hat sexually assault someone?”
“I don’t even think that’s possible.”
“You don’t know that hat. Complete asshole. Shocked it’s not the Secretary of Agriculture or something.”
“No, I actually have some questions for you. Can you fill me in on what precisely the ‘Hostility Suite’ was?”
“I could, but you’re gonna be too busy running from the draculostrich.”
“The what?”
“SHIT!”
HANDSOME MAN RUNNING AWAY NOISE
“Little punk doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”
Good work, Phil.
“I’ll send one to your house, too, dickbreath.”
Always a fun time visiting.
“Excuse me, what is this now?”
I need to talk to you some more.
“Why am I wearing a tux?”
Because you should always be wearing a tux. Maybe a hat.
“I’m not wearing a hat. Listen, loser: I told you I was dropping the Grateful Dead story. It’s not worth the bullshit.”
You only saw, maybe, 2% of the bullshit. This place is like a bullshit iceberg: most of it’s under the waterline.
“Fine, fine, I’m done with the story. So why are you still bothering me?”
I wanna know what you heard about the Dead.
“Should I just e-mail you all my notes?”
Yes, absolutely. That would be so much easier.
“You’re not good at recognizing sarcasm, huh?”
In my defense, it doesn’t come through in print unless you’re real heavy-handed about it.
“Uh-huh. Where exactly am I?”
Ronan, are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?
“Uh-huh. I’m calling my lawyer.”
HANDSOME MAN DIALING NOISE
“You’re on the phone with Michael Cohen.”
“What now?”
“This is Michael Cohen. I’m your lawyer now.”
“You are not. You are, like, the exact opposite of my lawyer in every possible way.”
“Ronan, as your attorney, I advise you to rent a very fast car with no top and flee the country.”
“Why would I do that?”
“All my other clients need to, so I just assumed skipping town would be the best plan for you, too.”
“Uh-huh. Hold a sec?”
“I got free time.”
“You got time. I don’t know about the ‘free’ part. Just hold.”
“Sure.”
…
“Hey!”
Moi?
“Can you at least explain the rules of this universe to me?”
I was hoping you knew. You’re much smarter than I am.
“What was it you wanted again?”
What did you dig up about the Dead?
“So many teenagers. Roy Moore only got banned from one mall. Billy got 86’ed from dozens. I mean, some of those were for mannequin-jousting, but most were for chasing sophomores around the food court.”
Yeah. It was a different time.
“That’s what they all say.”
They weren’t that bad.
“On several occasions, the Grateful Dead pulled their bus straight up to the local high school.”
They were probably there to mentor the youth.
“With their penises. The Grateful Dead mentored the youth with their penises.”
Whatever. Decent human beings don’t make good music.
“What about Dolly Parton?”
With the exception of Dolly Parton, decent human beings don’t make good music.
“This was fun, but I don’t like you and I’d like to be on my way.”
Sure. Hey, Ronan? Great work on the Kavanaugh article today.
“Thank you, but I was only one of the reporters on that story. Jane Mayer was my partner and deserves as much credit as I do.”
Well, if she wanted people to notice her, she should have been Dean Martin’s kid.
“I’m leaving.”
One for the road?
“Fuck you.”
See, now, this is the type of company you should be keeping, John.
“I didn’t ask your opinion.”
Sooooo much better than your fashion friends.
“My fashion friends are great.”
They deserve a bullet apiece, John. All of your fashion friends should be executed for heterodoxical leanings and crimes against the state.
“When did you become a Bolshevik?”
I read a book about The Weavers and BOOM: Communist.
“Wow. The American government was right to be worried.”
Apparently.
STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT RING-TONE NOISE
“Is that your phone?”
Nope.
“Goddammit.”
…
“You’re on with John.”
“Hi, John. This is Ronan Farrow.”
“My God, it’s like you were born to wear that tux.”
“You…you can see me?”
“Don’t worry about it. What can I do for you, Ronan?”
“I have several questions about the things you’ve been doing with your penis.”
“Oh, sure. Can you hold on a sec?”
“Mm-hmm.”
…
“Hey!”
Dude, you’re fucked.
“Is he prettier than me?”
THAT’S what you’re worried about?
“A little.”
You’re such a mess of a man.
“I got him beat on the chin. My chin is clearly more chiseled. But, Christ, those eyes. Should I do the colored contacts thing?”
Dammit, I can’t believe you’re making me do this. Gimme the phone.
POP STAR HANDING PHONE TO IDIOT NOISE
Ronan the Barbarian!
“Very original. Never heard that before. Is this the asshole who zapped dinosaurs into my apartment?”
Yes, it is.
“Well, I got rid of them and now I’m back on the Grateful Dead story.”
Sure, cool.
“FORE!”
“What the hell was that?”
CLONK!
“Did a golf ball just hit me?”
“Hell of a shot, Gleason. Right off his pretty little noggin.”
“Ten bucks says you can break his nose with your five-iron, Mr. President.”
“I will, uh, take that wager.”
…
“Hey!”
Mr. Farrow?
“This is just fucking weird, man.”
This is nothing. This is the skin; we haven’t even gotten to the pudding. It gets so much worse.
“I’ll do a different story.”
Ooh, how about outing Lindsey Graham?
“That’s not a story. The story would be if he were straight.”
You’re good, Ronan Farrow. Now go away.
Raise a toast to Saint Joe Strummer, and send Beto a dollar.
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