Hey, Slim.
“Yeah, uh-huh. Little question.”
Get at me, dog.
“Don’t talk like that.”
You’re right. What was the question?
“Wasn’t this site about us?”
It was.
“What happened?”
I drifted.
“Well, hell, if it could happen to Omar Sharif…”
Right?
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Category: Uncategorized (Page 251 of 1031)
How fucking tall is Method Man?
OR
“Meth, Ghost, I have one question.”
“No doubt.”
“What up, James?”
“Where’s U-God?”
OR
Comey looks like a guy who just embezzled $400,000 from his accounting firm, flew to Vegas, and now he’s sitting in the Sports Book of Caesar’s Palace wondering what the fuck to do.
OR
I wasn’t kidding, 2018. You start making sense, goddammit, or I’m gonna beat some sense into you. Stop crying. You stop crying right now, 2018! I will give you something to cry about!
OR
“I have no jurisdiction over the Martin Shkreli case whatsoever.”
A long time ago, in Boston…
“I’m only going to explain this one more time.”
“Paul, I’m thiiiiiis close to understanding it.”
“You’ve been saying that for twenty minutes, Jenkins.”
“It’s confusing!”
“It is truly not. If you see the British coming by land, then hang one lantern in the steeple of the Old North Church.”
“Question.”
“Oh, God, what?”
“Are we calling it the ‘Old’ North Church? From our perspective, it’s not that old.”
“I need you to concentrate.”
“Sure, okay.”
“One if by land. You got that?”
“Yes.”
“And if they come by sea, then hang two lanterns.”
“What about the river?”
“What?”
“The Charles. Big river here. What if the British come up the river?”
“That counts as the sea.”
“It’s freshwater!”
“Jenkins, you’re killing me. Land: one. Any variation of water whatsoever: two.”
“Gotcha. What about by air?”
“It’s 1775, jackass.”
“Surely we have hot air balloons.”
“Not for another ten years.”
“Huh. Gliders?”
“Jenkins, there will be no air assault.”
“If you say so, Paul. What if the British ride elephants over the Berkshires?”
“They won’t do that.”
“That’s the arrogance that led to Rome’s downfall.”
“There are no elephants in America.”
“You have literally no way of stating that as a fact. We’ve explored nothing of this continent. It could be elephant central.”
“Jenkins, there are no elephants here.”
“Are you saying we settled a non-elephant country? What’s the point?”
“Freedom!”
“What good is freedom without elephants?”
“Are you just trying to annoy me now?”
“Scenario.”
“Stop talking.”
“What if the Redcoats swoop in on the Eagles of Manwë?”
“Lord of the Rings won’t be written for 150 years, man.”
“What a great surprise attack!”
“Jenkins, I need you to listen to me. Watch the harbor. Watch the fields. When you see the British, put either one or two lanterns in the steeple.”
“Should we be using the church?”
“What do you mean?”
“Separation of Church and State.”
“Not a thing yet.”
“Does anything exist now?”
“Cholera.”
“Anything good?”
“Sometimes someone you hate gets cholera.”
“The past sucks.”
“Regardless. One if by land. Two if by sea.”
“One if by land. Two if by sea. Got it.”
“And have you seen my apprentice anywhere?”
“Johnny Tremain? I think he’s boring grade schoolers.”
“Makes sense.”
Happy Paul Revere’s Ride Day, everybody.
I have no words. Trust me. You’ll not have a finer five minutes, not this wretched year.
“Thoughts on my Ass!”
Where are you getting all these children from?
“The mall. Bus stops. Wherever.”
Stop stealing children, Billy.
“Nah. The markup on ’em is astounding. I’ve completely stopped kidnapping dogs for the reward money. All about kids now.”
This is no good for anyone.
“Hey, I’m good to the little monkeys. Feed ’em, buy ’em some toys, give ’em beers.”
Beers?
“What? They’re not allowed to have alcohol. Just beers.”
Does he have a name?
“Probably.”
Do you know it?
“Huh. Pancho?”
No.
“Lefty?”
That’s a Dylan tune.
“Mata Hari?”
The boy’s name is not Mata Hari, Billy.
“What’s the difference? I yell out, ‘Hey, little fucker,’ and he pays attention. We’re simpatico.”
Give the child back.
“Give? No. Sell the child back. Do I have to explain this scam to you again?”
What if the parents don’t have enough money?
“Someone does. Someone’ll buy the kid. They’re a lot more valuable than you think. Gotta get white ones, though. People who buy children are racist as shit.”
Weird.
“But until he goes back, or to the highest bidder, I’m gonna teach him some stuff.”
We know. Skank.
“Other stuff, too.”
Like what?
“Wearing red ballcaps.”
Okay.
“Hating Phil.”
Sure.
…
“And skank. You were right: most of the lessons are skank-based.”
Stay away from kids, Billy.
“We’re all slaves to the free market, Ass.”
As usual, Jennifer Boylan makes a good case over in the (failing, lying) New York Times comparing Trump to Gump; her thesis is based on a reputed conversation between Erick Erickson, who is to be taken exactly as seriously as his name suggests, and an anonymous Congressfucker in a produce section somewhere in Alexandria. This Rep–most likely the living avatar of Staten Island Peter King–describes Basketball Head thusly:
“It’s like Forrest Gump won the presidency But it’s an evil, really stupid Forrest Gump. He can’t help himself. He’s just an idiot who thinks he’s winning when people are bitching about him.”
Professor Boylan goes on to make her case comparing the two idiots. She writes beautifully, as always, but I must respectfully disagree with her. (And the Congressman, but without the respect. Fuck you, nameless government employee.) Yes, both Trump and Gump are mammals. Both, too, are nominally bipedal. The Krebs Cycle applies equally to both men.
But to posit a Forrest Gump who is “evil [and] stupid” is like talking about Darth Vader, but without the suit and he’s modest, kind to animals and children, and obsessed with hockey. We all–factual and fictional alike–have within us certain essentialities of character. A cruel Gump is not a Gump at all, just as a lazy Teddy Roosevelt is not a TR, or a giggly, loose-lipped Elizabeth II isn’t the Queen of England.
But, Enthusiasts, we surely must be able to compare Le Merde Orange to a fictional character. But whom? Moriarty doesn’t fit: while both men are clearly evil, Moriarty was a genius who could hold his own in a fistfight. (Sure, the fistfight was against a middle-aged opiate addict, but still.) Dracula is similarly wrong: both men suck, but Dracula could dress himself. Lara Croft? Both she and Turnip are children of privilege with big ol’ floppity tittyballs, but there is little correlation beyond that.
Perhaps Shemp? Shemp was a physically unattractive man, unpopular with the public, and replaced a much more talented and beloved performer.
Maybe Elmer Fudd. They are both perpetually confused, involved in disasters of their own making, antagonistic but cowardly, and convinced that the outcome will be in their favor no matter what the facts on the ground say. The two also resemble giant ugly babies.
Jabba the Hutt is too easy a comparison, so let’s move on.
What about Garfield? Hmm…
- Fat.
- Lazy.
- Orange.
- Use specialized glands in their cheeks to mark their territory.
- Need to be taken care of.
- Hate dogs.
- Despise any sort of order or natural beauty.
And they both shit in a box in the corner! There you go, Enthusiasts: the fictional character Donald J* Trump most resembles is Garfield. You’re welcome.
*The “J” stands for “Jamoke.”
Dear 2018,
I give up. Officially and publicly, 2018: I give up. Full and unconditional surrender. Whatever it is you want, you may have or do. I’ll tell you where the money is. You can do unpleasant sex things on me. Uncle, I cry. Whatever it will take to make you act like a normal year, I will do that and I will do it with vigor and joy. 2016 and ’17 were just awful; you, 2018, are fucking weird and I can’t take it anymore. All I’m asking is that you at least pretend to try to make sense. It seems like you’re just free associating at this point, 2018. Please, please, please stop being like this.
Thank you,
Thoughts on the Dead
PS Also: please don’t kill any more Rock Stars.
“Josh, slow down.”
“You’re like 40 years off, Weir.”
OR
Nothing says “professionalism” like a couch pillow lazily stuffed in a bass drum.
- The West looks shockingly like Spain.
- People in the Wild West did not speak English, they were overdubbed into it.
- If you hear Oooweeoo Bwah BWAH Bwah, you should fucking run.
- Marksmanship is dictated by where your name comes on the poster.
- Bad guys break into crazy, over-dramatic laughter at the drop of a hat.
- You can be nicknamed Blondie even if your hair isn’t blond.
- You can be nicknamed Lefty even if you shoot with your right hand.
- If you come across a child or a cripple, flip them a coin; they will have information you need.
- Everyone in the Wild West has heard of each other.
- Sometimes, men with Mexican names will look Jewish as hell.
- Matches will light when struck on anything, including human flesh.
- You just might run into Klaus Kinski.
- Shooting a rope in half from 100 yards off with a rifle from 1851 is eminently doable.
- If you are left to die in the desert but rescued, you will briefly have some cheap-ass burn makeup on your face, and then be absolutely fine.
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