Thoughts On The Dead

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

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The Other Order

December 30, 2017 / / 8 Comments

Was no one paying attention to you for a minute?

“Kylo Ren challenge, bro.”

Not a thing. You made up a challenge so you would have an excuse to take your shirt off. Or, at least, the top of your shirt.

“Totally a thing. Sweeping social media.”

Uh-huh. You want a soda?

“I’m good.”

Iced tea?

“No, thanks.”

La Croix sparkling water?

“Why are you offering me drinks?”

You look so thirsty.

“Okay.”

Like, absolutely parched. Thirsty as fuck.

“Stop it.”

Desiccated.

“Fuck off.”

Wait, don’t go.

“You want to apologize?”

No, I want Garcia to see you like this. Garcia?

“What, man?”

“What the hell is with him, man?”

No one knows.

“I mean, this is my replacement?”

Preaching to the choir, buddy.

“It’s simply beyond the pale.”

I dunno. He’s pretty pale.

“He is, man. Hey, Jimmy.”

“It’s Josh–DAMMIT–John.”

“Get a little sun. Or put a shirt on. Y’know what? Forget the first thing, man. You need a shirt? I got a crate full of ’em at home.”

“I have shirts.”

“Great. Problem solved.”

Are You A Doughboy Or A Doughn’tboy?

December 30, 2017 / / 0 Comments

“No, sir.”

“You look sexy in that, Jenkins.”

“I look exposed to enemy fire in this, sir.”

“Only if they’re firing off their love guns. Sticky, warm bullets from their love guns, Jenkins. All over you. That’s how you know the battle’s over.”

“You’re talking about pornography, sir.”

“War, porn. Enriching the old and morally debased through degrading the bodies of the young. All the same thing.”

“It’s not, sir. Besides, it’s World War I. There’s not really any pornography yet.”

“Pshaw. I’ve got a few decks of playing cards that would curl a Chinaman’s hair.”

“Yes, sir. You’ve shown them to me.”

“Oh, those French ladies. And such crisp photos! You can almost smell the muff.”

“Sir, can we talk about the mini-tank?”

“What’s to talk about?”

“The disastrous nature of its existence.”

“Nonsense! It’s a bulwark, Jenkins. A bulwark. Sucker could wark the living hell out of any bull it saw.”

“Possibly, sir. It could definitely stand a chance against an unarmed bovine. I’m talking about the Germans, though.”

“Curse the Hun!”

“I do, sir.”

“Pestilent and weak-kneed race. What have the Germans given the world, Jenkins?”

“Beethoven? Bach?”

“It’s just scales, Jenkins. They go up the piano, they go down the piano. Scales and sausages, Jenkins. All the German is good for. And taking bullets. Why won’t you shoot Germans in their face?”

“I’d like to, sir, but I fear that they might shoot me back in this contraption.”

“Your tomfoolery and malarkey is chapping my asshole, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Becoming rather sandpaperish back there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll need a salve. Where can we get some linseed oil and a gentle nurse?”

“Paris, sir. Let’s go there.”

“Oh, Jenkins, the lengths you’ll go to not get murdered by a stranger in a field full of corpses.”

“I am peculiar that way, sir.”

“No, no. We’ll hit Paris after the trials. Now: hup!”

“Hup?”

“Get to it.”

“Get to what, sir?”

“The DMZ. The Bad Place. Tampa. What are we calling the bit in between the trenches?”

“No Man’s Land, sir.”

“No Mans Land? Then it should be your kind of place, Jenkins.”

“Because I’m–”

“A sweet little girl.”

“–a little girl? Yes, sir.”

“Now stop sliding down the bannister, Jenkins. Your mother and I know what you’re doing. Go and kill some Germans. Or Austrians. Hell, kill a Finn for all I care: just kill someone.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Don’t give me any of that conscientious objector crap, Jenkins.”

“No, sir. It’s not that. The engine on this nightmare has seized up.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know. Probably because engines were invented, like, five minutes ago and we don’t know what we’re doing yet.”

“Push.”

“No, sir.”

“Hup to it, boy.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“You can do it; put your back into it.”

“Sir, the mini-tank weighs a ton and everything is muddy.”

“What if we strap a couple horses to the front of it?”

“A chariot, sir. You’re now describing a chariot.”

“Old school, Jenkins.”

“The horses would be immediately killed by machine gun fire, sir.”

“I have it!”

“We’re not putting cows in front of the horses, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because I see where this is going and a mile-long team of various animals–all dead from machine gun fire–is how it’s going to end, and that’s not going to work.”

“What about–”

“Nor can we strap ethnics to the front.”

“Oh, why not? What’s the point of being alive in 1918 if you don’t strap non-whites to the front of poorly-designed tanks?”

“I don’t know, sir, but we can’t.”

“Fine. We’ll just do Plan B.”

“Plan B, sir?”

“Unscrew that rifle and run straight at the German trenches.”

“I’m gonna monkey around with the engine a bit, sir.”

“I knew you’d see things my way.”

The Great Silver Way

December 30, 2017 / / 1 Comment

Nice to see you back where you belong, Jeff Chimenti.

“Off-Broadway is not for me.”

No.

“I like the Dead. Dude, do you know how much weed you’re allowed to smoke at rehearsals for a musical?”

None.

“None! I offered everyone dabs, and they looked at me like I was crazy.”

You brought your dab rig to rehearsal?

“Not the big one.”

Sure.

“I had to go out behind the theater during a coffee break. And by myself, too! I was like a leper with great hair.”

Poor guy.

“Problem is that now there are offers coming in. They want me to do Annie.”

To be the musical director for a restaging of Annie?

“No, they want me to play Annie.”

Why?

“I look incredible in the dress.”

Okay.

Slobs Versus Snobs

December 28, 2017 / / 2 Comments

Y’know, Pig, most bands had one look. A collective aesthetic, if you will.

“I most certainly will not, you fancy-talkin’ cockknocker!”

Cockknocker?

“Heard one o’ the crew say it the other day. Thought it was funny.”

It is.

“I know!”

Seriously, man: you guys look like you’re in different bands.

“Y’gotta give the kids options f’r their eyeballs! Mebbe they get tired o’ lookin’ at College Boy over here, so they take a peek at the ol’ Pig! Switch it up ev’ry now an’ then!”

I guess.

“You guess, but I know! Done my research!”

You did research on this?

“I sure did! Asked my ol’ lady! I said, ‘Woman! How we lookin’ this evenin’?’ And she said we looked sharp!”

That sounds like research.

“If y’ can’t trust your ol’ lady, then I feel bad f’r ya!”

You never tell a lie, Pig.

“That ain’t what my ol’ lady says!”

Good one.

“Heh.”

Highlights From The Editor’s Comments On Milo Yiannopoulos’ Manuscript

December 28, 2017 / / 0 Comments
  • “Let’s limit the ‘Asian men have small dicks’ jokes to one a page, please.”
  • “The Vietnam War did not end in a tie.”
  • “Neither did the Civil War.”
  • “If you have no evidence to back up your assertion that Hillary Clinton eats her own vaginal discharge in front of her staff, then we cannot print it.”
  • “An entire chapter on how much you hate ugly people is unnecessary.”
  • “‘I suck black cock, so I can’t be racist,’ is not an argument; it is merely two assertions, only one of which is provable and no we are not including a picture of you sucking black cock.”
  • “Not only are all Mexicans not illiterate, but the country has a long tradition of literary excellence.”
  • “Abraham Lincoln was not a cuck.”
  • “Five pages is a bit much for a description of your skin-care regimen, to say nothing of the two chapters on entitled Shampooing and Conditioning.”
  • “What does the phrase ‘Climate Change is for fags’ even mean?”
  • “Everyone knows what you’re doing when you describe Obama’s economic policies as ‘niggardly.'”
  • “Who taught you how to use a semi-colon?”
  • “Phrenology is not a real science.”
  • “You may not refer to transgenders as ‘shims.'”
  • “Being banned from Twitter is in no way comparable to anything Anne Frank went through; please choose a different analogy.”
  • “Ronald Reagan did NOT end the Cold War by ‘fucking Russia in her sloppy ice-pussy until she cried Uncle Sam.'”
  • “There is no need to point out that Kissinger is Jewish every time you reference him.”

I’m not making this shit up, man.

My God, A Recommendation?

December 28, 2017 / / 1 Comment

Yes, you could be listening to the Phoshes from MSG, which is apparently the only venue they play now, but you could also join me in semi-ignoring the Official Band of Journalist Twitter and check out 6/8/77 from Winterland. This was the middle show of the trio that comprises the Winterland ’77 box set and gets far less love than the other two shows, as it has neither a H>S>F and a titanic Music Never Stopped, nor a Scarlet>Fire and a lusitanian Morning Dew. There is a Sugaree, but it’s not in the same league with the late May renditions. 6/8/77 is just a good show, but it’s a good ’77 show, which makes it better than, say, an above-average ’82, though perhaps not as good as a middling ’73.

(Interesting note: there were no good or bad ’72 shows. All of them were uniformly excellent except for the last half-hour of Bo Diddley sitting in (which is why it was left off the Official Release).)

Christmas Squattings

December 28, 2017 / / 1 Comment

“Put me down, man.”

I know that voice.

“It’s me, man.”

Soup? Are you living in Bill Walton’s comically oversized Christmas stocking?

“It’s cozy in here. And all the oranges I can eat, man.”

That’s good for your scurvy.

“My gums are the pinkest they’ve ever been, man.”

Does Bill Walton know you’re in there?

“Shit, yeah, man. I know Big Bill since forever, man. I used to live in his van.”

I remember that.

“Big Bill’s good people, man.”

He is. Merry Christmas, Soup.

“Back atcha. I’m glad we can finally say ‘Merry Christmas’ again, man.”

Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’re on that Fox News ‘War on Christmas’ bullshit.

“No, man. I meant since last December. You say ‘Merry Christmas’ for, like, eleven-and-a-half months out of the year, and people think you’re nuts, man.”

Never change, buddy.

“I only got one set of clothes, man.”

A Christmas Donald

December 27, 2017 / / 0 Comments

WHITE HOUSE – MIDNIGHT, CHRISTMAS EVE

“What should I call Jake Tapper, who is such a liar and probably a fruit and tells lies about me and Russia, which doesn’t exist and I didn’t do? I got it, I got it. Let’s go simple. Jake Tapper: Impotent? Many people are saying Floppy Jake can’t get it Up. Great tweet, the best tweet. Now I hit send and I’ll go to sleep the greatest president America has ever seen.

SHWAZOOM!

“What was that? General Kelly? Where’s my general? General? Melania? Donald, Jr.? Mooch? Anyone?”

CLINK CLINK CLINK

“Donald Trump!”

“That’s Mr. President to you.”

“Donald! You know me, Donald! I was once like you! Venal, vain, and vengeful! I lied, cheated, and stole! I was cruel and selfish and evil, and now I wear these chains I forged in life!”

CLINK CLINK

“Who are you? I can’t see you, even though I have probably the best vision of anyone you know. Great, great vision. Step forward so I can see you.”

“It is I, Roy Cohn!”

“Step back!”

“Donald, I don’t–”

“Keep your Ghost AIDS on that side of the room.”

“Jesus, really?”

“President can’t have Ghost AIDS. People look up to me–children, mostly, but also all the adults–and I can’t have Ghost AIDS on teevee. Looks terrible. Ghost AIDS does not make America great again.”

“You’re just as shitty as I remember.”

“Point to all the things in the room you’ve touched.”

“Fuck you, Don.”

“Mr. President.”

“Listen: you’re in for a long night. I was gonna warn you more specifically, but fuck you.”

SHWAZOOM!

“That was fake news. Didn’t happen. Complete fiction and a witch hunt. Okay, sleepy-time. Need to rest up. Big day tomorrow. Fox and Friends is talking about me, which is why their ratings are so high. Trump gets the best ratings. No ghosts, no ghosts.”

OLD-TIMEY MUSIC NOISE

“What is that? This shithole makes so many noises at night. I wish I was back at Trump Tower in my luxurious penthouse apartment on the 213th floor.”

“Trump!”

“Who’s there? Do you have Ghost AIDS, too?”

“No, I…what the hell are Ghost AIDS?”

“Terrible, terrible disease. Possibly invented by Obama, people are saying Obama made Ghost Aids in between basketball games and rap concerts. He made it in his hut.”

“Wow.”

“You look like Abraham Lincoln.”

“I am Abraham Lincoln. I’m the Ghost of Presidents Past.”

“Many, many people have said I’m a better president than you, Abe. I gotta be honest. Lots of people are saying it. Not the media, which is very unfair to me and never reports on how much better than you I am. Civil War. That’s on you, Abe. The entire Trump presidency: no Civil Wars, not at all. That’s winning. Someone’s gotta win and someone’s gotta lose, and Trump’s a winner.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“And I don’t like your hat. Not a great hat. Why didn’t you put a motto on it?”

“Huh?”

“I believe Hillary Clinton had you assassinated. Maybe that’s why she had those 33,000 e-mails deleted, because they had proof of her evil time traveling.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Also, Abe, gotta say: Melania is much better-looking than Mary Todd. Not a looker, Mary Todd.”

“I’m outta here.”

SHWAZOOM!

“Weak president. Only on the five! No one uses fives anymore, a very weak bill. Maybe I should be on the money. Gary? Gary Cohn? Where’s my Money Jew? Gary?”

WHITE HOUSE – RESIDENCE BATHROOM (SPECTRAL PLANE)

“Okay, your turn.”

“Nope. Fuck this.”

“Hillary, get in there.”

“Not a shot, Abe.”

“You’re supposed to be representing what could have been.”

“I offered the world myself, and it chose Darth Diarrhea. Hilly is dunzo.”

“There’s three ghosts. That’s how this bit works.”

“Abe, suck my popular-vote-winning dick.”

“Oh, fine. Ghost of Presidents Future?”

UNHOLY SCREAM OF THE ABYSS

“What do you mean, ‘Fuck him?’ Get in there and show him he can mend his ways!”

TERRIBLE CRY OF THE DAMNED

“It is a cool hat, and I don’t know why everyone is ganging up on me.”

“It’s a stupid hat, Abe.”

“Oh, fuck you, Hillary.”

WHITE HOUSE – CHRISTMAS MORNING

“I’m awake! I’m awake and the greatest president that’s ever lived. Those must have been the worst dreams in the history of Christmas, which I allowed America to celebrate again.”

WINDOW BEING THROWN OPEN NOISE

“You! Little boy! Little boy who is somehow wandering around the White House grounds!”

“It’s me, dad. Donald, Jr.”

“Little boy! Is the Burger King still doing breakfast?”

“I think so.”

“Then go buy me the biggest french toast stick in the store, and if you’re back in a half-hour, I’ll give you a pardon.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Okay, great, wonderful. French toast sticks. And God bless us, but only the Christian God, who is Jesus and the best and only God, everyone. Great, okay, whatever.”

The Musical Never Stopped

December 26, 2017 / / 4 Comments

Hey, Jeff Chimenti. How’s Broadway?

“Off-Broadway.”

Whatever.

“I hate it so much and want to go back to the Grateful Dead.”

But the Dead doesn’t feed you and won’t put your name on the poster.

“Don’t care. Do you know what time they start practice in the legitimate theater world?”

The morning.

“Yeah! And the early part of the morning, too. The real morningy morning. Oh, and speaking of starting: do you know when things start?”

No.

“When they’re supposed to! I’m used to easing into things 45 minutes late, or whenever Bobby shows up. It’s bordering on militaristic around here.”

That’s a bit hyperbolic. Overalls Wolverine is completely out of regs.

“I’ve been calling him Mister Muttonchops.”

That works.

“Dude, do you know how long a 20-minute intermission lasts here?”

20 minutes?

“Yeah! Isn’t that fucked up?”

No! That’s the way professionals behave.

“Exactly! I wanna go back to the Bush League. This whole environment is too tense for me.”

Okay. You making a move on Dita Von Teese?

“I’m gonna let her watch me shampoo.”

Nice.

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