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

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How Does Your Garden Bro?

I didn’t know Colonel Sanders was into psychedelics now.

“This is not–”

It’s like your friends are having a contest to see who can dress the worst.

“This man happens to be–”

Is Supreme for people other than douchebags now? Because up until the moment I started writing this sentence, the brand was exclusively worn by douchebags.

“Supreme is an iconic brand of streetwear that pioneered–”

What’s the point of a private plane if there’s gonna be hobos on it?

“He’s not a hobo, he’s–”

You look like the paper we took geometry tests on.

“This suit is by–”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I just don’t like you.”

Yeah, yeah. Complain to EDM Tom Bombadil over there. Pick up the phone.

“Gee, I wonder who this is.”

I think we both know.

“Yes, Kim Jong-Un?”

“Hot Dog Dick!”

“Is that Josh Meyers? I freejacked him once and almost destroyed the world in a Time War, and people have been talking about ever since. No one does Time Wars better than me, and that’s figuring for all of the illegitimate attacks on my Time War skills by the haters and losers who are very dumb.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Me and Dotard rage, bro.”

“Obama couldn’t do this. Peace. between America and North Korea, I mean.”

“Only Korea.”

“Tried and failed. Everything the man did was a failure and I have to clean up his mess. Obama probably couldn’t do this referring to swimming, either. Not great swimmers.”

“KJ?”

“Little Potato?”

“Could you swim away from him for a moment?”

“Can do.

ONLY KOREAN DOG PADDLING NOISE

“You no make dog joke.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

“Fatty no stop talking. Also think he peeing in pool. Water suspiciously warm around him.”

“He’s almost certainly peeing in the pool. Why are you two in the pool?”

“Have to wash off bitch-stink.”

“Ugh.”

“Got bitch juice all over. We go through half-dozen. Bing bang bing.”

“Dude, don’t say ‘Bing bang whatever.’ That’s his thing.”

“I steal. Is fun. I point, say Bing bang, whole family disappear. Fun.”

“That’s not fun.”

“Is fun if you homicidal maniac without any tether to reality.”

“True. So, lemme ask you: anything actually get accomplished at this summit?”

“I get picture with US President.”

“Besides that.”

“I fuck bitches.”

“That’s a given.”

“Only Korean scientists invent super-viagara. Dick-skin can barely hold in bone.”

“Stop telling me these things.”

“You want see? Is short but thick. Like stack of silver dollar pancakes.”

“Please stop it.”

CALL WAITING NOISE

“You hold.”

“I don’t want to hold! Don’t put me–”

CLICK

“Can’t have fun without Kim Jong-Un.”

“Oh, thank God you picked up. I mean, you’re a version of God, Your Powerfulness, but I also meant the other God. I’m just so happy to talk to you because…the things they’re saying about you…about us…I just can’t….”

“STOP CRY!”

“This is a very emotional time for me, Your Delicacy. I believed in peace when no one else did…and then the cruelty of the fake news…why do they hate us…is it because we love too much?”

“Sure, yeah, maybe. Could be other reasons, but probably ‘love too much’ thing.”

ONLY KOREAN MAN IMITATING THE CALL WAITING NOISE SOUND

“Oh, no. Gotta go. Talk later, Worm.”

“What hotel are you guys staying–”

CLICK

“Hot Dog Dick?”

“Yes.”

“Worm change, man. That guy no fun. Cry all time. Black men get menopause?”

“No. Of course black men don’t get menopause.”

“Hey, I only know one black guy.”

“Sure.”

“Come Singapore. We party. I get Dummy to do stuff. We laugh.”

“I’m through laughing at any of this.”

“You and readers.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Come rage. Bring your Santamonster.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“The summit’s over, y’know. So we can stop this.”

But I have more pictures.

“Die.”

One day.

Remembrance Of Drumz Past

“Hey, Mick, you remember when it was just two drum kits and we had to share a microphone?”

“Not really, no.”

“Okay. You remember when we put the Beast together and Phil threw a hissy fit?”

“Oh, that sounds fun. But I don’t remember that.”

“What about your children? Do you remember your children?”

“Just gimme a little clue. How many are there?”

“Two? Three?”

“Do any of them ambush pizza delivery guys and make the food cold?”

“That’s the Noid, Mickey.”

“Then I do not recall any of my children.”

“What’s the last thing you remember, Mick?”

“Asking you if my children ambush pizza delivery guys.”

“Just play your drums, buddy.”

“I love drums.”

Crib Tour

“Dude, look at that hair.”

It’s good hair.

“I wanna put it in my mouth.”

Why?

“I put everything in my mouth.”

Sure. Why do babies do that?

“I’m not really big on introspection. Honestly, I can barely control my limbs.”

You can get up stairs now.

“Yeah, but I can’t go down. I’m all over the place, man. Don’t ask me about my intentions. I see a thing, I put the thing in my mouth.”

Okay.

“But, dude, I wanna put Jeff Chimenti’s hair in my mouth. It’s so shiny. It’s like a horse’s mane if the horse were made out of disco balls.”

Good analogy, buddy.

“I literally just figured those out last week. That things can be like other things. Amazing being a baby. You know what a big breakthrough was?”

What?

“Categories. Like, the dresser’s white, but it’s also rectangular. An object or concept can belong to many different groups simultaneously. Blew my fucking mind when I realized that. And then I gnawed on the dresser for a while.”

What did you do today?

“Lately, I’ve been looking out the window. I do this thing where I pull myself up on the radiator and just stare at the street. It is unbelievable how much is happening down there.”

It’s New York City. It’s a moving and grooving kind of place. Enjoy it until your parents move you to the suburbs.

“Those hipsters? Never happen.”

Give it a couple years. They’ll start worrying about what school you’ll go to, and it’s “Hello, New Jersey.”

“Jersey? Nah. Not with those taxes. Maybe Connecticut.”

True.

“Yeah, maybe. Y’know what? I’ll worry about the future when I develop the cerebral pathways necessary to grasp the concept of ‘future.’ Right now, I’m gonna hang out, put stuff in my mouth, and enjoy the Jeff Chimenti-led jams.”

It’s nice being a baby.

“I don’t know why you ever stopped.”

A New Low

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ve woken from my nap, but I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I had such a dream! I’ll tell you about it, and then open my eyes. Got it?”

“I understand the premise, sir.”

“We were working for the Grateful Dead, sort of. Some of them, at least. And they went from one unpleasantly-named auditorium to the next all summer, and each show required a poster. That was our job, Jenkins. The posters. But we were shit, Jenkins. Just absymal at the task. Would have achieved better results had we ate a bunch of crayons and pinched off a loaf onto some oaktag. Terrible, Jenkins! We were terrible and what’s worse: lazy. Just the most half-assed, semi-professional bullshit you’ve ever seen. Ah, well. Dream’s over and now I shall open my eyes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“AAHHHHHHHH! IT WASN’T A DREAM!”

“Saw that coming.”

“What is this dreck, Jenkins? It’s dreadful dreck!”

“This is the poster from Saratoga, sir.”

“My ex-wife?”

“No, sir. Not Sara Toga.”

“Oh, good. Never marry a woman with a comedy name, Jenkins.”

“I’ll remember that. This is the poster from the city of Saratoga.”

“City? Hardly. Saratogans think Utica is a metropolis. It’s a racetrack, a Walmart, and some used syringes.”

“Even so, sir.”

“Gah! Look at this thing, Jenkins. It’s taking a shit on my soul.”

“That’s a bit harsh, sir.”

“Bears can’t ride horses! It’s in the Bible AND the Constitution!”

“I don’t know about that, sir.”

“It’s unnatural. Charlton Heston warned us about this very thing.”

“Those were apes, sir.”

“Apes are bears that live in Africa, Jenkins. Different words for the same thing.”

“No, sir.”

“Is the little eyeball in the race? That seems unfair. The eyeball has two tiny legs. How can it compete with a horse? Why doesn’t it use its wings like the other eyeball? Is this poster positing two separate specie of living eyeball, one be-winged and the other on walky-legs? Slapdashery! Unaesthetic and unsportsmanlike! I won’t have it.”

“You’re concentrating on odd details, sir.”

“No horses on bears!”

“And we’re back to that.”

“Natural enemies, the horse and bear. Like the cobra and the goose.”

“Mongoose, sir.”

“Oh, no. Any goose. Mon, Canadian, swan, whatever. You’ve seen geese before?”

“Of course, sir.”

“And when you were in the presence of these geese, did you ever see a cobra?”

“No, sir.”

“Case closed. Cobra and geese, bears and horses. There is an instinctual loathing. They go right at each other, and they go for the genitals first. Like Reese Witherspoon accusing the maid of stealing. Just not fun to watch.”

“There’s not much we can do about it, sir. The poster’s been printed.”

“Let’s set them on fire and collect the insurance money.”

“No, sir.”

“Let’s set Applebaum on fire and collect the insurance money. Applebaum!”

“Stay at your desk, Applebaum! No, sir. No arson. How about lunch?”

“Ooh, lunch. Underrated meal. You got Big Breakfast telling you it’s the most important meal of the day. Dinner might lead to sex. But who stands for lunch, Jenkins? Who proudly declares their allegiance to taking three or four hours in the middle of the day to get plastered on the company’s dime?”

“I think the Spanish still do, sir.”

“There’s a pride and wisdom to the Iberians, Jenkins.”

“Paella, sir?”

“I’ll eat raw hobo shit if it means I can stop looking at this poster.”

“Paella it is, sir.

The World Hangs In The Balance

“Hi-vis or hi-Visvim?”

Very clever.

“I kid, of course. Cops couldn’t afford my clothes. This jacket? Four grand.”

Why?

“So that only rich people can wear it. Duh.”

How foolish of me.

“Dude, between you and me?”

Sure.

“This white guy’s a mess.”

He is, right?

“There’s no skew to him. Completely askew.”

He looks like Alex Jones and current-day Val Kilmer had a baby, and then ate the baby and fused together into a super-bloated dude, and then became a cop.

“I guess, okay.”

So how’s the tour going?

“Really well! We’re doing some new numbers and Bobby is in great–”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“–voice and…you didn’t care about the tour. You were lulling me into a false sense of security before some maniacal idiot calls me, weren’t you?”

Yes. Exactly what you said.

“Asshole.”

Again: you are correct.

“This is John Mayer.”

“What the fuck, bro? That’s how you answer the phone? I been getting death threats and that’s how you answer the phone? What the…I don’t…”

“Who is this and why are you crying?”

“It’s the Worm. I’m on CNN. Say hi to Chris Cuomo.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just been informed that John Mayer is on the line.”

“Goddammit.”

“John, can you lay out for the audience what your thoughts on the Trump/Kim summit are?”

“Um, not really.”

“I’ll speak for John, Chris.”

“Dennis Rodman does not speak for me, Chris.”

“What John means to say is that he loves Kim Jong-Un, because President Kim has a good heart. You hear all these things in the fake news about starving or nukes or this and that and all of that is because very powerful players want North Korea to be the bad guy. But he’s not the bad guy…he’s just not…why do you all talk so bad about my Kimmy Jay…I can’t…I just can’t….”

“John Mayer, 1991’s NBA Defensive Player of the Year Dennis Rodman is once again crying over his love for North Korean dictator Kim Jong-Un. Your thoughts?”

“I think I’m gonna hang up the phone.”

“Is Bobby there? Maybe Bob Weir has a hot take on the summit.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Why do you do this to me?”

Boredom, jealousy, irascibility.

“Stop it.”

No.

“Please?”

Okay.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Dick!”

Yup.

“What?”

“This how answer phone? Is not cool.”

“Dammit. Hey, Kim Jong-Un.”

“You talk to Worm? We hook up later. Rage so hard.”

“Sounds fun.”

“That guy fucks.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Like force of nature. Ruins bitches.”

“Let’s not get misogynist here.”

“Tough not to here. Is capital of sin.”

“Singapore? No. It’s like the opposite of that. They cane you for chewing gum in Singapore. You’re thinking of Bangkok.”

“For realsies?”

“Yup.”

“Motherfucker. I have schedulers starved to death.”

“Good idea.”

“You come here, Little Potato. You , me, Worm, ‘Ye. We all party.”

“No, I’m not going to…wait. ‘Ye is there?”

“He with Worm.”

“COME TO SINGAPORE, LITTLE POTATO. I DID NOT BRING ANY OF MY MEDICATION AND HAVE MANY IDEAS.”

“My man ‘Ye…people say such bad things about him, but I know what a kind soul he has…why do they say such horrible things…it makes me so sad…I just can’t…I can’t….”

“DENNIS RODMAN’S TEARS ARE MADE OF WIZARDS.”

“I’m hanging up again.”

“BILLIONAIRES ARE SELLING FLAMETHROWERS AND THAT IS A THING THAT IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING.”

“Hot Dog Dick?”

“You’re still on the line?”

“Am always listening. You come. We rage. Want to come in to the summit? I say you are translator. Dotard believe.”

“I don’t want to pretend to be your translator.”

“Father invent translator.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

“I’m not answering the phone again tonight.”

Aw.

A Shaft Of Light

And there it was. Glowing, damn near seemed to Billy–a golden dick, covered with jewels and possibly chicken nuggets–it shimmied in the light like a laser show that got drunk and fled the planetarium and crashed a bat mitzvah. He could not look away, not in this lifetime, not with these eyes and this mind: it had a gravity! My God, it had a gravity to it that no rocket could loose itself from, so what chance did Billy’s eyes have?

It called to him. Like a whisper, but meatier, and in the secret language that only Billy could understand. Plug your ears! No good, not gonna work. Run from it, Billy! No. The floors are tarry, and his feet are clay, and all the world is uphill from that–THAT BEAUTIFUL MOTHERFUCKER–which could never be obtained.

It was the one dick that Billy could never punch.

Baby, Bobby

Hey, Nephew on the Dead! Whatcha doing?

“Couch tour, braj.”

Nice.

“Uncle TotD, lemme ask you something.”

Shoot.

“Corrina?”

I have no explanation?

“Fucking Corrina, dude?”

Watch your language.

“It’s cute when I curse.”

Kinda. More like unsettling.

“Whatevs. Bobby got the ol’ Finger-Eeze out again, huh? He loves that stuff.”

You know too much about the Dead for a baby.

“Went straight past Sesame Street to Shakedown Street, braj.”

Uh-huh.

“Going to Citi Field this weekend, dude. Gonna fuckin’ RAGE.”

You go to bed at 7:30 pm.

“Staying up late for The Boys. Set lists from the past week say I’m getting a Dark Star. Gonna trip my baaaaaaalls off, dude. And you ever see a baby’s balls? They’re enormous.”

Leave your testicles out of this, please.

“Besides, I gotta dispense some lot justice.”

Lot justice?

“Gonna kick the shit out of those Online Ceramics assholes. Ordered a onesie from ’em six months ago and it never showed.”

I am totally behind you.

“Might puke on Rock Star Richard.”

You’re a little hellion, NotD.

“Yeah, I’m–”

“–awesome.”

Did you just poop your pants?

“Yup. Watch this. HEY! DAD! HOP TO IT, ASS-WIPER!”

I love you so much, Nephew.

A Partial Transcript Of The G7 Summit

QUEBEC CITY – FANCY HOTEL

“Listen, less important countries with terrible, weak leaders: thank you for coming. Things have gotten heated, mostly due to your lies and stealing from America and Angela’s attitude, but also because of my strength. Let’s face it: you come from sissy countries and you were impressed by me and we got off on the wrong foot. Now we have to do a communique, and I want it to be the most beautiful communique anyone’s ever seen. We’re gonna really do something special that people are gonna love. Justy?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Where’s Justy?”

“Again: do not call me that, and I am sitting directly to your left.”

“Justy?”

“I’m gonna jingle my keys.”

CANADIAN KEY-JINGLING NOISE

“Justy. There you are.”

“Jesus.”

“Canada is killing us! Using us like dogs. It’s not fair what’s going on, Justy. We’re gonna need the Great Lakes back. Both sides belong to us now.”

“That’s not even worth discussing, Mr. President.”

“Fine. I want a CFL team. And a good one, not the Argonauts.”

“That is in no way something I could do.”

“Justy, I don’t know what the press is like in Canada, but our news is 83% fake. 83% percent, that’s the number, and it’s getting to the point where it’s almost a contest of fakeness. I talk about this with Sean Hannity all the time. He says, ‘Mr. President, which news is the fakest?’ and I sometimes I say NBC, and sometimes I say CNN. It depends on the day. Really, it depends on the day.”

“Okay. And…?”

“Where’s the King of Macaroni? French guy. King of Macaroni?”

“I’m a president. And my name is Macron.”

“I want you to put my name on the side of the Eiffel Tower.”

“Non.”

“I want the can-can to be renamed the Don-Don.”

“Non.”

“Weak! Merky, you’re next.”

“Vas zat all you had to say to Herr Macron?”

“Who?”

“Gott in himmel.”

“Merky, your accent reminds me of something. We gotta let Russia back into the club, group, summit, whatever. Very important, Russia. Big time guys over there, and what are we doing without them? Not right!”

“Zey vere expelled for invading Crimea, Donald.”

“Invaded Crimea, shminvaded Crimea. Who here hasn’t invaded another country? Even Canada invaded! Remember that, Justy? Canada invaded America and burned down the Grand Canyon.”

“That is in no way what actually happened.”

“Besides, most of the Crimeans are very, very happy to see the Russians. I saw videotape, and this is true, I saw tape of Crimeans celebrating in the streets. They were yelling and dancing and shooting in the air, bing bing bang, and it was a joyful scene. Crimeans call me and say, “Mr. Trump, it’s so nice having the Russians here. They’re a boon to the economy, big tippers, real class. Real class.”

“Ja. Crimeans call you, Herr President?”

“All day long. I probably know more Crimeans than anyone you’ve ever met. I know more Crimeans than most Crimeans, I would say. So we need to get Putin in on this.”

“Nein. Herr Putin vill sit in his Straufraum until he learns to play nicely viz the rest of ze vorld.”

“Great, great, wonderful. I’ll FaceTime him.”

“Nein!”

“Mr. President, I smell a Filet-O-Fish in the next room.”

“Thank you, Justy!”

CONFUSED OLD MAN WITH THE NUCLEAR CODES WOBBLING INTO THE NEXT ROOM IN SEARCH OF A FILET-O-FISH NOISE

Danke schoen, Justy.”

“It was my pleasure, Chancellor. The world needs heroes right now. And it’s got me, Canada’s Justin Trudeau.”

“Gott in himmel.”

Law Come To Get You…

NOW, you smile?

“I’m going for it, yeah.”

Seriously, Bobby: that is about a sixth of a grin. You look far happier than in any picture taken of you recently.

“Well, you know: cops used to hit us with sticks and arrest our fans. And us. And they would hit the fans with sticks. Everybody got arrested and hit by sticks, that’s the takeaway here.”

Uh-huh.

“And now they don’t.”

Sure.

“So that makes me happy.”

Gotcha. Bobby, can I ask you a question?

“If you gotta.”

White wine and valium?

“Oh, that’s a hell of a combo. That’s like tomatoes and that one specific kind of cheese. There’s an additive effect when you slap ’em together. Increases the yumminess.”

It’s a bit ladies-who-lunch, isn’t it?

“I love lunch. What else is in that book?”

You fall over in public a good half-dozen times.

“Sounds about right.”

You spent about $85 billion on TRI Studios without having the first clue how it was going to generate any income.

“One could put it that way, sure.”

You never got over Garcia’s death.

“Huh. No, never have. No.”

This got sad.

“Death’ll do that.”

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