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

Category: Uncategorized (Page 384 of 1031)

Pax Romana, The Best Pax, The Most Beautiful Pax You’ve Ever Seen

26 BC, ASTURICA, HISPANIA

“General Trumpicus, I see you’re looking swollen. Welcome to camp. The Cantabrians mass along the ridge.”

“Who we fighting here? Calrissians?”

“Cantabrians.”

“Bad guys! Let’s go, let’s do something. We’re gonna attack biglius.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to take some time to assess the situation?”

“Forget the little shit. Trumpicus is an action general.”

“Yes, sir. Your orders?”

“Have the left flank fight the right flank.”

“Sir?”

“And I want you to shoot arrows at the supply lines.”

“Theirs?”

“Ours. The supply line is disloyal.”

“That’s not an optimal idea, Trumpicus.”

“Priebus, who’s general here?”

“You, for some reason.”

“That’s right. What is the press saying about me?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Why not?”

“It’s 26 BC. The concept of ‘press’ doesn’t exist yet.”

“Do the legions love me?”

“You just got here, but they already have their doubts.”

“Take away their healthcare.”

“Again, sir: 26 BC. There is no healthcare.”

“Take away their swords and tell ’em they’re sissies.”

“Are you trying to fuck this up?

“IVth LEGION!”

“Sir, stop yelling.”

“ATTACK IXth LEGION!”

“Don’t do that! Please, don’t! Sir, we need the legions to work together.”

“I like to promote competition. Besides, I heard some sergeants in the IXth talking about me.”

“The soldiers will do that. Raucous sense of humor in the legion.”

“Have all the sergeants executed.”

“That would be counter-productive, sir.”

“Why aren’t we attacking? We should be attacking.”

“We need a plan, sir. There’s the old one left by your predecessor.”

“Obamanus? Bad plan! Sick plan. Bad guy, no good plan.”

“It’s not a bad plan, sir.”

“We can come up with something better. What if everyone panics and fights for himself?”

“Terrible plan.”

“That’s what we’re going with, great, wonderful. Some of these larger structures are going to need to be set on fire.”

“Oh, Trumpicus.

How To Do What Deb Says

  • Light them on fire.
  • Grab their small children and run away.
  • Wear scuba gear at all times.
  • Go to your Wall Street job in flippity-flops and Bobby shorts, and when your overseer says, “Hey, what the fuck, fucker? We wear suits,” and you smack him in his forehead with the ‘flop and go, “You’re not gonna forget this shit,” and he played rugby in college and he tackles you and breaks your collarbone, and then when he’s laying on top of you he goes, “Now you’re not gonna forget it, either,” and then you kiss, you kiss so fucking hard, and he rawdogs you on the commodities desk.
  • Leap at them from behind a tree wearing a hockey mask.
  • Molest them.

JESUS, MAN!

What?

Not cool! Way over the line.

Y’think?

Don’t take your darkness out on the nice people.

The nice people are so lovely.

They are. Did you think they were going to call and ask if you’d like to write the Amazon show?

No.

Did ya?

A little.

Just write the whole show?

I have an outline in my head.

They were going to give you, who according to IMDB does not exist, a teevee show to write?

One of the shows was gonna be one long shot through Winterland in ’74.

How very prestige.

And we were gonna do one episode live.

Amazon is a streaming service.

I was gonna make it work.

These are not good ideas.

I’m casting all black, and if you say that’s a bad idea, then it makes you racist.

No. No, it does not.

I will not have the Grateful Dead whitewashed.

There is no washing required to make the Dead white.

There was gonna be a lot of political commentary.

Oh, God, no.

At one point, Amazon-show Phil was gonna read the Bill of Rights in front of a flag.

Why?

To make a statement.

What?

Freedom?

Let it go.

Phlock’n To Lock’n

Hey, Phil. Whatcha doing?

“Feelin’ it!”

You’re enjoying yourself.

“Lucky man.”

You are. I couldn’t post pictures for a couple days.

“I don’t give a shit.”

And I had a medical procedure.

“Oh, well, that’s not good. You all right?”

I got through it.

“The procedure  was…?”

Endoscopy.

“You fucking with me?”

No.

“You’re gonna come at me with an endoscopy? I got another human’s liver in me. You want sympathy, you need at least a triple bypass. Is that what you’ve been whining about? Endoscopy? Kiss my ass.”

It was traumatic. I was woozy all day.

“You were woozy?”

Very high levels of wooze.

“I see.”

You’re playing with Bobby at Lock’n. That’s exciting.

“Thrilling.”

The Disco Biscuits are gonna be there.

“Good for them.”

And Fogerty.

“Prick.”

Government Mule.

“What?”

Woody Hayes’ band.

“Who?”

Warren Haynes.

“Well, duh. It’s a festival so Warren’ll be there. Can’t get a festival permit if he doesn’t play. He should be waking up right about now.”

Its’ 5 pm.

“No, no. Late March. Warren hibernates in between festival seasons.”

That makes perfect sense.

“Right after Labor Day, he smokes a ton of weed, eats a million fried chickens, plugs up his butthole with grass and leaves, and goes to sleep for eight months.”

His wife put up with that?

“The last four didn’t, but this one doesn’t seem to mind.”

Sure.

Transcript Of Sean Spicer’s Press Conference 3/28/17

“Good morning, everyone except John Rogers. This is the 68th day of Year Zero in America. I will begin by reading a statement that someone else prepared, and I’m not revealing who.

“Ahem.

“The Democrats are terrible, just terrible. They hate America! All they do is obstruct, but not build America. How many high-quality skating rinks has Chuck Schumer built? Where are Nancy Pelosi’s golf courses? Horrible face on Pelosi.

“For too long, regulations have killed jobs. Obama, who is in the next room with a glass up against the wall, wanted the country to be as lazy as he was, with all his vacations and basketball. I have seen videotape of Obama personally firing many coal miners. Many places have reported that he got a sexual charge from it. Real sick guy. Hillary liked to kill Marines, but Obama liked killing jobs.

“Today, the Greatest President Ever will sign a really, really, very great order slicing through all the red tape. Already, West Virginia has added 400,000 new jobs. It happened this morning, wonderful news.

“Ahem.

“Before we start, I want to say something. Our relationship, the one between the press and the White House, has gotten a bit contentious. Maybe we should both bring it back down, and see if we can start over. Maybe we can both work on bringing a little civility back to Washington.”

“Sean, I have a question.”

“FUCK YOU, CAROL! Right in your fat asshole, Carol.”

“Inappropriate, Sean.”

“What’s inappropriate is your lies about Russia.”

“I didn’t mention Russia.”

“You just said it.”

“Only because you did first.”

“Carol, I won’t play the blame game with you. There is no Russia.”

“Fine. The Washington Post is reporting that the White House tried to block former Deputy AG Sally Yates from meeting with the House Intelligence Committee. Any comment?”

“See, this is the agenda. These are the lies that you tell. 100% false, Carol. The White House encouraged Miss Yates to meet with the committee. We were all looking forward to her testimony.”

“Really?”

“I offered to give her a ride.”

“Okay, then why did the Department of Justice send her a letter saying that she couldn’t?”

“I have looked into that, and it turns out that the entire letter was a typo.”

“A typo?”

“Darn auto-correct. What the DoJ meant to say was ‘We’re all behind you, yay.’ But, you know, your finger slips and accidentally invokes Executive Privilege that doesn’t exist. Happens to everybody. We are all anticipating Miss Yates’ testimony.”

“The hearing was canceled.”

“Oh, noooo. How awful. That’s sad. Eamon?”

“Does the president still believe climate change is a hoax?”

“We’re focused on jobs. Amanda?”

“Why does the president keep tweeting about Hillary Clinton?”

“Jobs. Brian?”

“The president’s lawyers are claiming that he is immune from several sexual-harassment lawsuits. What’s your comment on that?”

“Jobs.”

“Jobs?”

“And it’s not Russia. April?”

“I have a question about Russia.”

“Wow! What is it with you people and Russia?”

“You people?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean black, April. I meant the press. All you people in the press telling lies, and obsessing about Russia, and eating fried chicken.”

“What now?”

“The press, April! Everything’s not about race. I’m talking about the press, always pushing agendas and rapping.”

“I’m just gonna ask my question.”

“The Trump Administration loves the blacks.”

“Please just let me ask my question. Congressman Nunes received classified information in the secure room here at the White House. Who was in the room with him?”

“Congressman Nunes has never been to the White House. We are not coordinating with Congressman Nunes. There is no Congressman Nunes.”

“What?”

“There is no Congressman Nunes. Your eyes are getting heavy. You are getting sleeeeeeepy.”

“Are you trying to hypnotize me?”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

“Then, no. April, Congressman Nunes has never been to the White House.”

“He’s right behind you.”

“I’m not falling for that old…Jesus, Devin.”

“Hi, Sean. I ate all the almonds in your office, so I came out to look for more and I saw cameras.”

“Go back inside, Devin.”

“Wow, look at all these cameras. Hi, everyone. I’m Congressman Devin Nunes, and I don’t know anything about Russia. If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to incriminate myself now.”

“GO IN THE OFFICE, DEVIN!”

“Jesus, rude.”

“Sean, would you like to explain that?”

“Explain what?”

“The Congressman’s appearance and statements.”

“What Congressman?”

“Sean, don’t.”

“Maybe time for new glasses, April. Congressmen, Russia: you keep seeing things that aren’t actually there.”

“It is your assertion that Devin Nunes was not just standing next to you?”

“It is.”

“Then why did the president just tweet out, and I quote, ‘Devin Nunes looking strong and confident next to Sweaty Sean. Maybe he should be my press secratary!'”

“Did he really?”

“Yeah. Wait. He has now deleted it and reposted the same tweet, but with ‘secretary’ spelled right.”

“That’s his process. Any more questions?”

“So many.”

“Great. That’s a wrap, folks.”

Prognosis: Choogly

Like I said: around one in 100,000 drop dead simply from the anesthetic, which puts the mortality rate at .0001%. In Palm Beach County in 2015, there were 1.42 fatalities for every 100 million VMT (Vehicle Miles Traveled). When we compare these numbers, we come to the conclusion that TotD is not good enough at math to compare these numbers. I’ll tell you this: if the hospital were 100 million miles from my house, it would make things both easier and much harder. Also, if the hospital were 100 million miles away from my house, then I should have left already.

So: will I die? Maybe. Although, every new dawn may be your last, so let’s acknowledge the slight added risk by marking tomorrow’s chance of death as “maybe plus.”

There are, however, other possibilities.

  • Listing this one first because it’s the preferable outcome: the procedure activates my super powers. (I have been waiting for those fuckers to turn on since puberty.)
  • Wake up in an alternate reality where George Washington Carver was never born and all you can get for lunch is a jelly sandwich.
  • I could imagine some sort of 28 Days Later situation arising where I come to in the middle of a zombie outbreak; I would be eaten immediately.
  • This is South Florida, so there is a real decent shot my doctor’s either a drug addict or a 17-year-old pretending to be a doctor, and both of those scenarios would end up with me being harvested.
  • CIA tracking device implanted.
  • Excuse me.
  • Another CIA tracking device implanted.
  • Blackfaced. (They could tattoo or dye you while you’re under, I suppose, and then you wake up and HOLY SHIT you’re in permanent blackface. You probably couldn’t go on the internet anymore. I hope I do not get blackfaced.)
  • Similarly, I hope the nurse does not draw dicks on me.

We end with this: if I were a doctor that did these types of procedures, I would wait until the patient was juuuuuuust about to go under and then I would put on a Bill Cosby mask and wave goodbye to them. Which might be why I’m not a doctor.

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