Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

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A Partial Schedule To Shark Week

Dude, Come Check out this Fucked-up Shark A full hour of stupid-looking sharks swimming around like ugly morons. No great whites or threshers or even hammerheads: we’re talking total mutants here. Some of them are from the deep sea, where looks don’t matter so much, and others look like shit that got hit by a truck for no reason. Real goofy: some of ’em got their eyes pointed in different directions, all sorts of shit. You will call your buddies in to see these freaks, trust us. HOSTED BY: Keegan Michael Key.

Bear Versus Shark You’re thinking it’s going to be Bear Grylls. You’re wrong: we’re throwing a bear into a pool with a bull shark and taping it for your entertainment. We had to go to Yemen to shoot it, but we did and now you can watch it. Also, remember when you thought we meant Bear Grylls? WE DID. That outdoorsy fucker is getting tossed into the pool to fight the winner. You’ll never guess what happens! HOSTED BY: James Gunn There is no host.

Shark-Throwin’ with Minor Marvel Stars! In a parking lot in Toluca Lake, the guy who plays Doctor Strange’s buddy Wong has a cow shark tossed at his chest. We get the brunette who plays Leather Jacket Girl on Netflix, like, four times. She comes out of her house in the morning: boom, leopard shark to the face! And that tends to discombobulate a soul, so we managed to get away and set up at the coffee shop we knew she was going to because she always goes there. (We have been stalking her.) So, she gets out of her car and WHAP goblin shark gets her and, you know, the goblin shark is an unattractive shark to have thrown at you so we again have time to get away. Long story shot, we assaulted the woman with predatory fish for an entire day, most likely giving her PTSD. She was very traumatized. Except for the last one. She was just numb for that one. We threw a silvertip at her. Nothing. Just bounced off. Didn’t even blink. I think we fucked that girl up. We also rigged up a cannon to shoot sawsharks, and then used it to shoot sawsharks at Jon Favreau.

Andy Dick Molests Sharks He begged. His agents and his managers and him personally. Begged. Please let me do this show and try to rehabilitate my image. I love sharks, Andy said. I’m a big environmentalist and I know I’ve fucked up, but I’m a good person at heart. He said this to us. His agents and managers said this to us. We chose to believe their sincerity. Not ten minutes after putting on his wetsuit, Andy was rubbing his genitals on passing nurse sharks. Shortly thereafter, he verbally attacked a reef shark with a racial ferocity no one on the crew had ever heard before. But we spent a ton of money on the boats and the cameras, so here’s the nightmare. (Watch for the segment in which Andy, having tired of molesting sharks, attempts to molest the camera operators to the point of being locked up in the cage for the rest of the day.)

Great White Botherin’ See the great white over there? He’s mostly gray, but we call him a great white. Gets up to twenty feet long. Spectacular creature. It rushes its prey. Patrols a hundred feet below the surface and then SHOOTS upwards at sixty mph. Launches itself right out of the water, hopefully with a seal in its mouth. Perfectly shaped. Massively muscled. Ancient and violent. Let’s go poke it with a stick and see what it does. HOSTED BY: Larry the Cable Guy. (But not in his Larry the Cable Guy persona. Everyone in the crew thought he was waiting for the cameras to roll to turn it on, but he didn’t; he just acted like himself. It was weird. There were several moments that were rife for a “Get ‘er done!” But he never said it, and daylight’s wasting, so one of the divers says “Are you gonna do the Cable Guy thing?” And Larry keened. That’s the only word for it. Just, like, a sound made out of razors. I can’t explain it any better than that. But then he took out his dick and starts pissing. And one of the divers goes, “Don’t piss on the poop deck.” And the rest of us laughed cuz, you know, it was real tense and shit so you laugh at weird shit, right? But Larry thought we were laughing at his penis. He came at us with the strength of four, maybe five cable guys. Once again, the celebrity spent the trip home locked in the shark cage.)

Steve Harvey: Shark’s All Up In Here Steve Harvey could not be persuaded to get off the boat, nor to stop drinking and making the divers model the suits he brought aboard with him. It’s like an hour of Steve doing “That shark’ll bite my black ass!” material and then he gets pissed off when no one wants to play the Feud. Not our best offering this year.

Who Would Win? Kevin Smith and one of his loser buddies play Who Would Win for two hours while sitting on a couch. Ghost shark versus mako, tiger shark versus blue, etc. Quickly, it degenerates into nerd bullshit: Wolverine versus great white, Batman versus every shark in the world, which shark would make the best Jedi. We’re going to be honest: we ran out of budget before we ran out of hours in Shark Week. We had to do this one on the cheap. And while, no, there are no actual sharks in this program, Kevin does talk about Jaws for twenty minutes. Here’s a sneak peek: He thinks it’s a great film.

Megalodon: FACT (or fiction?) There will be numerous reminders that megalodon, the 60-foot long white shark that lived millions of years ago, is extinct. All of these reminders will be voiced by ugly people. Real uggos, too. Cankers on their lips and visibly-crusting scalps and eyes in their nostrils. Uggos, dammit. In addition to the reminders will be questions, such as “I totally believe megalodon exists, don’t you?” and “Why is it that all the cool people believe in megalodon’s existence?” The questions will be asked by Selena Gomez. There will also be CG giant shark attacks that are pretty decent for basic cable.

Shark Fuckin’ More sharks having sex than you’ve ever seen in one place unless you’re a spectacular pervert. Did you know that sharks engage in foreplay? Did you know it’s hideously violent? I know you shouldn’t project human emotions on the animals, but it truly seems like they hate each other when they fuck. They fuck furiously, meaning with fury. Never fuck like a shark, my friend. It’s not for us. Turn away from the beasts and go about your chores.

“No, Pa, I want to join up. I want to be a Sharkfucker and liberate the System.”

“We’ll have none of that filth talk, young Peter Earthlistener.”

“You’ve seen it, Pa! You know what I am!”

I’m sorry, what is this?

It is a vignette that I hope to turn into a seven-part sci-fi/fantasy series. The planets of the System are ruled by the evil Non-Sharkfuckers. They’re kinda like Democratic-Socialists, except very draconian on the question of fucking like a shark. You cannot do it. Other than that, very progressive but also business-minded. Great schools. But below every paradise bubbles a fart of unhappiness.

That’s awful writing.

Yes, I told you: I’m writing a seven-part sci-fi/fantasy series. Anyway: a rebellion forms. People from across the System who believe it’s their God-given right to fuck like any animal they want. We want to bite each other and have cloacas, the Sharkfuckers demanded.

All of this is awful

Then, on a backwoods planet named Plerf, a boy was born with a shark for a dick. How could he fuck in a manner contrary to that of a shark? By nature, he was a sharkfucker, and by prophecy, too. Wanna know what the prophecy said?

Of course there’s a prophecy. Please stop pitching this. As I said: it’s awful.

The prophecy said “One day, there’ll be a boy with a shark for a dick. Put him in charge. BUT check his dick first. And not just looking: feel up on that shit. There’s criminal-minded motherfuckers out there.”

That doesn’t sound like a prophecy.

And that shark-dicked boy’s name is Peter Earthlistener because–and, dude, you’re gonna love this–earth is one of the planets in the System.

I don’t need to hear any more.

Because you love it so much?

Yeah, okay, whatever.

Andy Was

“Oh, fuck off.”

You’re back on the Bud Light. I like that.

“Seriously, fuck off.”

Were there not bottles of water for sale? Or someone who could piss in your mouth for a dollar?

“Forget about the Bud Light.”

I can’t! It’s fascinating to me! You’re in the closest thing 2018 has to the parking lot of a Grateful Dead concert in Colorado and you’re drinking a Bud Light. There’s gotta be a more acceptable beverage available. Jesus, man, it’s not even ironically bad.

“I need you to stop talking to me.”

But you’re the only one of John’s friends I like. And Chapelle.

“Him and John called me real late one night to pitch a show. Real Housewives of Wherever The Fuck In The Middle Of Ohio Chapelle Lives. Dave and John were gonna be Housewives.”

You mean househusbands.

“Nope. Full-on Bosom Buddies routine.”

That sounds terrible.

“Dreadful. They really wanted to do it.”

What did you do?

“Called their bluff. Told ’em we’d rush the show into production and sent over the shooting schedules. As I anticipated, neither wanted to spend 14 hours a day making a fake reality show.”

Very smart.

“Yes, I am. Now go away.”

“Would you like some mango to go with your Bud Light?”

“Oy. Fuck off with the…oh, hi.”

“I am Michael Gordon. I perform with the Phish. We’re from Vermont. Please enjoy these succulent and nutritious fruits and berries.”

“Ugh, you’re a lifesaver. My blood sugar dropped out of my asshole ten minutes ago.”

“They are from my garden, which I cultivate and fertilize.”

“Fertilize?”

“Yes.”

“Did you use your own feces to fertilize this fruit, Mike?”

“Yes.”

VIOLENT EXPUNGATION OF MANGO SLICE NOISE

“You should maybe tell people that first.”

“I consume many plant-based calories, as you can see from my torso. Much like a gorilla, I am evolved to slowly digest leaves and grasses in my elongated gut.”

“Interesting.”

“May I photograph you, Andrew?”

“Sure, shoot away.”

“Can you remove your shorts?”

“I can’t, no.”

“What if I dress you in a frilly bathing suit and have a small dog tug at it like in the old Coppertone ads?”

“You don’t have a dog.”

“I have access to dogs. Dogs can be procured.”

“Pass.”

“Would you like to see my trick?”

“Maybe?”

“I manipulate my belly into the shape of a giant mouth. Then I speak through my bellymouth in the voice of a character I call The Admiral. He will say anything!”

“I don’t want to see that.”

“Many people enjoy it. I am going to find them.”

FRUIT-BEARING BASSIST DEPARTING NOISE

“What the fuck was that?”

It was Mike Gordon.

“No, I know who it was.”

Where are you?

“Another Rando got me.”

His shirt is very clever.

“I’m thinking about buying it.”

And so is yours.

“It’s Bobby’s shorts! But stylized. Anyway, what the fuck was up with Gordon?”

Nothing. He’s just like that.

“He made me eat poopfruit.”

He didn’t make you. More like tricked you into it.

“There’s no difference.”

Of course there is. A guy swindling you out of a thousand bucks is different than getting mugged at knifepoint.

“I ate Mike Gordon’s doodyberries and you’re arguing semantics. This is why I hate you and this whole little summer stock thing you’ve got going.”

Hire me.

“No! You’re talentless and weird.”

I’m sorry.

“You’re sorry for what? What did you…oh, shit.”

“Look at the beard on the tall one, sir. I know you’re a poker player.”

“I am, Gleason. A damned good one. And, uh, you are correct. The beard is what’s called a tell.”

“There is almost certainly an explosive device in Little Tim Leary’s fanny pack!”

“My God, Gleason! Assassins!”

TALL HIPPIE WITH A BEARD BEING SNIPED NOISE

“Jesus!”

Andy, you should run.

“I hate you!”

I’m sorry, Andy Cohen. Someone has to be Daffy Duck in this routine, and it’s just your turn.

“Fuck you.”

An Open Letter To My Back

Dear My Back,

Do you think I’m stupid, My Back? Goldfishian in my recollection? Are you laboring under the misconception that I’m just a mobile, vaguely human-shaped pile of pudding? No, My Back, I have My Brain. And My Brain knows what you’re doing, asshole.

Your little pings and pops and twitches are known to me, My Back! I recognize your little warm-up noises, like tremors before a quake, and that tightness up my left flank. Or maybe it’s my loin. Damn you, My Back, I do not know precisely how to divide my body into cuts of meat, but you know what I’m saying. It is this: I see you, dickhead. I AM A PATTERN-RECOGNITION MACHINE WITH HAIR, YOU FUCKFACED FACE.

I know you’re gonna seize. A minute from now or tomorrow or Tuesday: I do not know precisely when, but I know that it will be soon, and I need you to understand something, My Back.

I will get you for this, motherfucker

More empty threats from the homunculus imprisoned in flesh. Is that what you’re thinking, My Back? You’re not stupid to think so; there’s very little I can do. But I can do this:

Yes, it’s Affleck. And, yes, it’s real. And, yes, My Back: if you continue down this painful path, that’s what you’re going to look like.

Not the tattoo, My Back.

All of it. The whole tableaux. Sad, chubby, divorced Affleck alone on a beach thinking about walking into the ocean and ending it all WITH the world’s worst tattoo on his back. I’m going to ink this on your face, My Back. And then I’m going to get in shape and stop wearing shirts. And all the other backs will see you, and they will fucking laaaaaaaugh at your ugly ass, My Back. And who’s gonna love you then? No head or ass for this back! I WILL RUIN YOU.

Let’s not have it come to that. Let’s be friends, My Back, or at least congenial associates. We’re all on the same team here, so get with the program or you’ll bear the mark of Cain for life. (Cain in this case being represented by Ben Affleck’s hairy hamstrings.)

Sincerely,
George Hearst

Andy And John

Hey, Andy Cohen from teevee’s Bravo channel.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me. I don’t want to talk to you.”

Why?

“You set a former president and a legendary funnyman loose in the parking lot, and people died.”

Just randos. No one famous died.

“That’s terrible.”

You’re just saying that because a rando is standing next to you.

“Absolutely not.”

RANDO WALKING AWAY NOISE

“Of course, it would have been worse if a famous person had died, but it’s still terrible about all the ugly, poor weirdos.”

I can’t believe it wasn’t your mansion Dead & Company played at.

“Ugh, Ed Begley Jr. in my house? No, thank you. I have much better parties, anyway.”

What’s an Andy Cohen party like?

“A bunch of guys my age, and a lot of guys who are not my age.”

Cool.

“I put out a nice spread. And there’s also some food.”

Ba dum bum!

“I’m glad you enjoyed that. I’m renowned for my wit and easy charm. Now fuck off.”

Uh-huh.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I should take this.”

You should.

“Everything’s dandy when you’re on with Andy.”

“Wow. That is…I am blown away. There is the kind of energy I want in my life. I’m surrounded by vampires. Financial, spiritual, emotional, all kinds of vampires. And some real ones, maybe. I won’t attest to it in court, but I think the new security guy is an actual vampire.”

“Who is this?”

“This is John Depp.”

“I couldn’t hear you over the rattling.”

“Those would be my necklaces. Hold on, I’ll have my neck man remove them.”

TOO MANY NECKLACES FOR A MAN OF JOHNNY DEPP’S AGE TO BE WEARING BEING REMOVED NOISE

“There you go. I’m John Depp.”

“What’s a ‘neck man?'”

“I have a separate assistant for each body part.”

“Huh.”

“And each of them has all of my banking information.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“I’m an artist, Andy! All that money stuff, it doesn’t stir the pot. I find people I trust and let them handle things, and then stop trusting them and sue. It’s a solid plan.”

“It isn’t. Not that I’m not happy to hear from you, Johnny, but what are you calling about?”

“Ah. Yes. The place in Malibu on Pacific Coast. The reddish one with all the windows. That’s your house, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I need to buy it.”

“Oh, no. I love that house.”

“I MUST HAVE IT! I tell you what, Andy: I’ll trade you two houses in the Hollywood Hills for the Malibu place. And I’ll throw in four motorcycles of your choice.”

“No.”

“An iron foundry.”

“You own an iron foundry?”

“I will purchase an iron foundry and trade it to you for the Malibu place. That’s a hell of a deal.”

“No, Johnny.”

“DAMN YOU, COHEN! Your property is the last thing that stands between me and the Pacific. I’m buying my way to the sea.”

“From where?”

“Benedict Canyon.”

“Holy shit, that’s 30 miles. And there’s a State Park in the way.”

“Depptown will live, I swear it.”

“Johnny, I’m going through a tunnel.”

“Which one? I’ll buy it and have it blocked up.”

“Cant hear you! Kssssshhhhhh! Kssssshhhhh! Breaking up!”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Hey!”

Yes?

“Did you give him my phone number?”

No.

“Really?”

I gave his neck man your phone number.

“Asshole.”

But Where Should We Meet Them?

“Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“About the boys.”

“What about the boys?”

“They’re back!”

“Those wild-eyed boys that had been away?”

“Yeah, them.”

“Back in town. Wow. Did they ask about me?”

“They did.”

“What specifically?”

“Where you was.”

“Valid question.”

“Where you could be found.”

“What did you say?”

“I told them you were living downtown.”

“You didn’t get into the thing with the old men, did you?”

“Um, no.”

“Dude.”

“Forget about that! The boys are back in town!”

“No, no, don’t get me wrong: I’m just as excited as you. But I just have one question.”

“Oh, not again.”

“When the boys leave here–”

“Every fucking year with this.”

“Where do they go to?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re students.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Of course it does. They’re here for the summer. Students are off in the summer.”

“It’s not the summer. The nights just started getting warmer. It won’t be long ’til summer comes, but the boys are already present.”

“Is it seasonal work that keeps them away for the whole winter?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they all have secret families.”

“Maybe.”

“How many boys were there, again?”

“Why must you be like this? The boys! In town!”

“You’re right, you’re right. Just one more question.”

“You’re trying my patience.”

“I know. Just one.”

“Shoot.”

“Where exactly are we?”

“A town.”

“Uh-huh. What kind of town and when? Are we in the Wild West? There’s nothing real on the nose Wild West-ish, but it just kinda feels that way.”

“I don’t think we’re in the Wild West. There’s a bar & grill.”

“I think they had those then.”

“Oh, and you remember that chick at Johnny’s place?”

“The one that slapped him?”

“Yeah.”

“That shit was funny.”

“Oh, yeah. But, you know, a woman striking a man and then not being beaten to death doesn’t sound very Wild West, either.”

“True. And there’s a jukebox at the bar& grill.”

“Okay. So, not Wild West. We’re in the present, or recent past.”

“You’re over-analyzing this. Just enjoy the fact that the boys are back.”

“You’re right, you’re right.”

“How long are the boys here for?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

And What Will Your Niece Be Having, Sir?

Ma’am.

“Talk to me, bud.”

Hey, Garcia. You layin’ your rap down in hopes of snarin’ a fox?

“That was Pig.”

Oh, right.

“I’m just making a new friend.”

I like her haircut. There was a plan there.

“You’re just kinda off, aren’t you?”

Little bit. Cop a feel.

“Man.”

Squinch on that booble.

“What?”

Check on the meat. Sometimes, the meat is rotten. Gotta check on the meat.

“Don’t talk to me in front of girls anymore.”

Probably a good call. Dude?

“Are you still here?”

I’m in the process of going, but dude? Dude?

“What, man?”

I don’t think she’s wearing a bra.

“What are you, 12?”

She’s free. She can live. She can love. She maybe can’t run without holding herself down or that would hurt, but she can live and love. She’s easy in herself, Garcia, and in the fact that she’s a woman. She’s probably a Wiccan. Ask her about her menstruation; it’s holy to them.

“You said you were leaving.”

I say lots of things. CUP HER YUMBOMBS.

“Get out, man!”

What about the First Amendment?

“Doesn’t apply here.”

It should.

Three-Piece Band On The Sofa

Dammit, Jeff Chimenti, move your hands and give us the triple potato salad action we’ve come to demand from our favorite content providers. Seriously: look how close we are.

OR

This looks like one of the promo pictures for a sitcom set in a family-owned pot shop. Bobby is “Pops” and he runs the place (in between naps) with his son “Jeff Chimenti,” who is played by Jeff Chimenti. His other son, a hard-charging finance executive from New York, comes home for some bullshit and ends up running the shop with his spacey dad and out-there brother. This is John Mayer, playing “Thumb;” for great stretches of the program’s runtime, the main and secondary characters beat him with sticks, and point, and laugh, and beat him about the face and head.

“Ha, ha,” they say. “Your name is Thumb.”

And Pops and Jeff Chimenti and the rest of the cast–the sexy, sassy, ethnic clerk, and the store manager who I’m thinking we need a Holland Taylor-type for– they take the sticks and poke Thumb in the soft places of his body. Perhaps a wrestling move is attempted.

“Why are you–”

Jeff Chimenti brings a brick down on Thumb’s chest. Swings it from way over his head and the Holland Taylor-type, when she hears the crunch of the sternum, cums. The second blow is shorter, but more direct: to the head, and with the brick’s point. Another crunch.

He stands over the body and extends the bloody cudgel towards the camera.

“THIS IS CAPITALISM!”

And then he kills himself by eating the brick.

Netflix has committed for eight episodes.

OR

Sadly, those are not Miller High Lifes. (TotD not being a beer person, but being highly suggestible, the official beers of the site are Heineken because Phil and Miller High Life because a blonde who lived in a terrible Hollywood apartments where the door and living room window open onto the catwalk; she used to say she was like a guy because she could only cum once and then she was done; she parked her bicycle in her kitchen, or in mine; she sat on the edge of the tub to watch me shave. I can’t remember her name, but I’ll always remember she demanded Miller High Life or nothing at all, and so it’s the shitty beer I’ll choose over the other shitty beers.)

OR

Jeff Chimenti’s shirt is immeasurably cooler than John Mayer’s.

OR

Hey, Bobby. You having a stroke?

“I don’t know. How’s my tongue look?”

GUITARIST STICKING OUT HIS TONGUE NOISE

Straight and true.

“Then, uh, it’s not a stroke.”

Good. So, uh, what’s going on with your face?

“That I don’t look vengeful?”

Yeah.

“Good tour.”

Yay.

OR

Off-White?

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but Virgil Abloh–”

Yeah, yeah, Louis Vuitton. His old stuff was fine, but since he got so big, I don’t know. He used to print the name of his company on bullshit so much more authentically.

“You’re very closed-minded about fashion.”

I’m not. I can appreciate high fashion. Crazy people make art for slender people to wear in front of rich people. Sometimes, folks still get mad about it, and that makes it fine by me, too. Or fashion throughout history. Silk road and whatnot. But this streetwear thing is depraved.

“Depraved? Depraved?”

You’re paying someone to advertise for them. The brand requires recognition and cash to survive; you’ve given it both. Plus there’s the issue of lies, John.

“What lies?”

You are not off-white. You are very white.

“I’m not that white.”

Your father was winter camouflage and your mother was hospital sheets.

“That’s rude.”

No, you know what’s rude?

“What?”

“Ow.”

Somebody’s publicist fucking hates you, dude.

“This is just mean. Why is this in the newspaper? There are only two fresh quotes in here, and the rest is just rewritten copy! And the second one is hearsay! Jesus, I’m getting fucked like a backwoods chimneysweep.”

I’m not familiar with the term.

“In the backwoods, you’re allowed to fuck the chimneysweeps.”

That didn’t help.

“Hey, you went to college.”

Barely.

“Help me with this, Is ‘He had to join the Grateful Dead because he talked too much about all his famous girlfriends’ a logical statement?”

No. And it’s not really the accusation that the bigwig thinks it is.

“He’s saying it like joining the Dead was a punishment.”

Like how in the old days, judges could send you into the military. The Famous Person Court sentenced you to three-to-five years of Grateful Deading for the crime of talkin’ poon.

“Don’t say poon.”

I probably shouldn’t.

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