Thoughts On The Dead

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

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An Open Letter To Simon & Schuster

February 20, 2017 / / 2 Comments

Dear Simon & Schuster:

First of all, am I talking to Simon or Schuster? If I am talking to Simon, then congratulations on your daughter Carly’s success. If I am talking to Schuster, please let me talk to Simon. I don’t deal with Schuster; I’m a Simon Man.

Second: it has come to my attention that you recently had a slot open up in your release schedule. Previously, you had planned to release Milo Yacropolis’ book entitled Dangerous, but his recent advocacy of pedophilia has caused to to back off from this association and cancel his book.

Here’s what TotD can offer you, Simon (& Schuster): you pay me the same $250,000 you were paying Milo, and I’ll give you a book full of the exact same content as he would have provided, but WITHOUT the boyfucking.

What will you get? Racial realism. Does that sound like an oddly-worded phrase designed to cover up the truth rather than reveal it? IT TOTALLY IS, SIMON! Good call. You’re so much smarter than that asshole Schuster. But, yeah: I will write a book that will be racist as shit for you, much like everything I’ve written or said in the past several years, all of which is easily searchable on the internet.

Not just racism, though! You’ll also get religious bigotry, mostly focused on the Muslims but also about the Jews. (The Muslim stuff will be explicit, but the Jewish stuff will be all acceptable terms and head-fakes, perfectly deniable, and also–just like Milo claims to be–I am Jewish. So, you will have just as many jokes about ovens and camps as you would have received from Milo’s book.)

I will torture analogies (and stump for torture of human beings), and I will cherry-pick data (or just make it up), and I will denote several demographic groups that aren’t quite people. Can you guess which groups they are? I’ll give you a hint for one: they have vaginas.

Oh, God, the things I’m going to say about Lena Dunham…

BUT–and here’s the thing–I will not advocate boyfucking. Like, at all. I will (obviously) insinuate that all gay men are pedophiles, but once again I will not advocate boyfucking.

Because, Mr. Simon, that’s apparently the only problem with Milo. You liked the other stuff, but not the boyfucking, and so I offer you my pederasty-free services. I will dye my hair if the deal depends on it.

Sincerely,
Thoughts on the Dead

ps Serious, Schuster: you’ll never be half the man Simon is.

What’s The Republican Party Cool With Today?

February 20, 2017 / / 6 Comments

Pussy-grabbing? Check.

Selling off the National Parks, eliminating the Endangered Species Act, and dumping coal sludge directly into rivers? Check.

Making up terrorist attacks? Check.

Banning people of a certain religion from entering the country? Check.

Russia? Check.

Taking away healthcare from over 20 million people? Check.

Boyfucking? Depends.

Private boyfucking? Check.

Public advocacy of boyfucking? Nope.

We found the line.

We did. The Grand Old Party has taken a firm moral stand: boyfucking isn’t cool.

Nice to know that there are still some people with principles in this country.

Yeah, eventually.

Rushin’

February 19, 2017 / / 1 Comment

You got up to a lot today.

“I stood in literally one place for ten minutes. It’s just that, you know, 85 people took pictures of me and it was on national teevee.”

True. Like the shirt. That’s some good self-promotin’.

“Not exactly out of place here, though. Ads all over everything.”

You should sell the tee-shirt rights to Jeff Chimenti this summer.

“Like, rent out his torso?”

Yeah.

“That could work, yeah. But, uh, what if the internet heard about it?”

Ooh, yeah. Hadn’t thought of that. He’d be wearing a “Hitler Did Nothing Wrong” shirt the first night. Good call.

“Never engage with the internet.”

Nope. Bobby?

“Yup?”

You the only person there wearing Birkenstocks?

“I haven’t seen everyone else’s feet yet.”

APPLE WATCH NOISE

“Got a call. Hold on a sec.”

…

“Weir here.”

“Яacecars are for girls.”

“Who’s this?”

“Is Putin.”

“Chuck Putin?”

“Nyet. Vladimir Putin.”

“Did you used to be in the Flaming Groovies?”

“Vat is Flaming Groovies?”

“Are you one of the kids’ teachers? My wife–”

“Natasha Monster, da.”

“–Natasha Monster usually handles that.”

“Nyet, is Putin. Your president.”

“Not my president.”

“Da. Is Electoral College.”

“Vote’s a vote.”

“Illegal voters.”

“Okay, yeah, are you calling for a reason?”

“Da. Ve have kompromat on Mr. Bobby Grateful. Ve show to Deadheads if you do not spy for us.”

“Laundromat?”

“Kompromat.”

“Coprolith?”

…

“Blackmail. Is blackmail. Ve just say blackmail from now on.”

“Sure.”

“Now ve have leverage, Bobby Grateful. You belong to Putin!”

“Okee doke. So, uh, what kind of stuff you got?”

“Tapes.”

“Deadheads already have tapes, Buttons.”

“Putin. And not those kind tapes. Dirty tapes. Bobby Grateful and women.”

“Not outside the realm of possibility.  And, uh, what kind of things am I doing?”

“Is disgusting.”

“What?”

“Is so gross.”

“Well, now I’m interested.”

“The girls make the pee-pee on you.”

“Huh. Yeah, see the thing is…wait, I know what’s happening. You meant to call Billy.”

“Billy?”

“In those, uh, tapes you got: how’s my hair?”

“Not great.”

“Yeah, you want Billy. But just to save you some time, he’s not gonna care.”

“Ve vill see.”

“Okay. Say hi to the other Flaming Groovies for me.”

“Putin is not Flam–”

DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH WATCHES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

…

“Where were we?”

I have no idea.

Speedway

February 19, 2017 / / 6 Comments

“Randos.”

Well, obviously.

“On the, uh, on the way here I was convinced there wouldn’t be any Randos for me.”

There will always be Randos for you, Bobby.

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

You tell me.

“Depends on the day, really.”

Sure.

“Dunno why I was nervous. People here couldn’t be nicer. Tell ya what: you thought a Dead crowd had a lotta drugs on them, you should come to a race.”

Really?

“That infield’s like Alphabet City in 1975. I have been offered elephant tranquilizer by, like, nine people.”

Don’t take elephant tranquilizer, Bobby.

“LISSEN T’HIM, MAN. AH WANT YOU IN TIPPITY-TOP SHAPE FOR TH’ BIG RACE!”

Goddammit.

Elvis, get off the track.

“IF AH CANNOT KARATE WITH HAIRY GARCIA, THEN AH WILL RACE WITH HIS YOUNGER BROTHER BOB SEGER.”

I have no response to that statement.

“LOOK AT ALL THAT SISSY STUFF DRIVERS GOTTA WEAR. KING DON’T EVEN NEED NO HELMET.”

That’s because you’re on a soundstage in front of a rear projection screen.

“TH’ KING DOES ALL HIS OWN STUNTS! NOW STRAP THAT SANDAL-WEARIN’ HIPPIE INNA CAR!”

Stop yelling at me.

“THE CARS IS VERY LOUD!”

Oh, right.

“AH AM A BLACK BELT-LEVEL RACE DRIVER. TH’ OTHER NIGHT, AH RACED JOE ESPOSITO AN’ JERRY SCHILLING DOWN ELVIS PRESLEY BOULEVARD.”

And?

“IT IS NOT A CLOSED STREET. IN FACT, ISS A MAJOR THOROUGHFARE. CRASHED INTO A DANG FUNERAL PROCESSION.”

That’s terrible.

“THEY WAS ALREADY GOIN’ TO TH’ CEMETERY!”

“Don’t rationalize it.”

“RUBBIN’ IS RACIN’!”

Not on a public street.

“ISS MAH STREET! NOW GET BOB SEGER OUT HERE AN’ WAVE TH’ DINGDANG FLAG!”

His name’s not Bob Seger, and he does not race cars.

“I’ll race with you, Elvis.”

“PASS.”

Jesus, John.

“What?”

You’re coming across as very needy.

“I miss being part of storylines.”

Summer’s coming, buddy.

“I hate this universe.”

Burn Down The Indy, Gas The Daytona

February 19, 2017 / / 3 Comments

You cause a commotion everywhere you go.

“I’m like Oprah.”

Not really.

“I feel like Oprah.”

You shouldn’t.

“Question.”

Shoot.

“Car’s vegan powered?”

Yes.

“How do they get the vegans in the fuel tank?”

I don’t think that’s what that means.

“And, you know, once the vegans are in the tank, then how do they tell people that they’re vegans?”

You’re completely misunderstanding this. The gas is made out of plant material.

“Are we talking about tofu farts?”

No.

“Cuz I love my sister-in-law, but after a couple helpings of quinoaloaf, she could clear out the room.”

Car doesn’t run on any kind of farts, Bobby.

“Well, then: what the hell does it run on?”

You can make gas out of corn or wheat or rice or bacteria or whatever. It’s just nowhere near as efficient as the gas made from dinosaurs.

“Huh. Why don’t you just use an electric car?”

You should. Internal combustion engines are 150 year old technology. But it’s a race. There’s rules.

“Sure, yeah, rules. Save your blue shell for when you really need it.”

You’re thinking about Mario Kart, Bobby.

“I may or may not have little to no idea what’s going on.”

Me, either.

…

…

…

Can you get up?

“If I wanted to.”

Okay.

I Like Your Smile, But I Ain’t Your Typo

February 19, 2017 / / 3 Comments

Fifty fucking years, man. They’ve been around for fifty fucking years. My auto-correct won’t even allow me to type the word “Greatful,” mostly because it’s not a fucking word.

It’s like the Dead’s bush leagueosity rubs off on whoever’s in the area.

…

Or maybe Bobby was in a second band with almost but not precisely the same name as his first band. Wait, is the Greatful Dead a tribute band? Has Bobby been in his own tribute band this entire time?

Little-Known American Race Car Drivers

February 19, 2017 / / 2 Comments
  • Rusty Ford.
  • Itty-Bit Hopkins.
  • Hopper Turner.
  • Bobby “Biscuits” Horvath.
  • Senior Jackson.
  • Junior Jackson.
  • Trey Jackson.
  • Raul Jackson-Martinez.
  • Froggy Butz.
  • “Good Time Eddie” Spackle.
  • Filter Tipp.
  • Beauregard “Hungry, Hungry Hippo” Flaxseed.
  • Johnny Sideways.
  • Stump Deedle.
  • “Speed Bump Sally” Worth.
  • Boo-Boo Champ.
  • Barkley Van Owen
  • Cooper Copper.
  • Pervis Shackleford.

The Race Is On

February 19, 2017 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“I dunno if you’ve ever met my sister-in-law–”

Lillian Monster.

“–Lillian Monster, but she’s a race car driver.”

I’ve heard.

“And, uh, she’s driving in Daytona. So, you know, I came down with the family. Met some nice people. I kept thinking I saw Billy all day.”

Why?

“Red baseball caps.”

Different kind of hat.

“I’ll say. This is, uh, not a Dead crowd. I don’t know if it’s the opposite, but it’s close. Lots of folks real sad about Sweden.”

Sure. You a racing fan at all?

“I’ve seen Cannonball Run a dozen times.”

Good enough.

“Just giving Lillian and her car a little bit of luck.”

The ol’ slap-a-Stealie-on-it routine?

“Well, think of it this way: if she doesn’t win, then she can still sell her car to Jim Irsay.”

Good thinking. Isn’t she worried that she’ll get pulled over with that sticker?

“I got a Jesus fish in my back pocket. Gonna stick it right next to the Stealie.”

Smart.

“I got my moments.”

Pink Is My Brand-New Obsession

February 19, 2017 / / 4 Comments

Really?

“Sexy.”

No.

“Sleek.”

I guess.

“Sassy.”

Hell, yeah. Definitely sassy. Looks like something you would see in Sassy, which if you’ll recall was a magazine for teen girls.

“You’re a hater.”

And if you squatted down and smoked a cigarette, you’d be a gay Russian teenager. We arrive at an impasse. Why are you here? It’s not Summer Tour yet; I don’t have to pay attention to you for months.

“I wanted to show you my clothes.”

What do you even wear that to?

“It’s mostly for shopping for other clothes.”

Good idea. You need something else to wear.

“I can’t wait to wash this.”

KARATE!

Shit.

“AH HAVE DEFEATED TH’ PINK PANTHER!”

That was not the Pink Panther, Elvis.

“THEN WHAT TH’ FUCK WAS IT?”

A 40-year-old man in a fuzzy pink tracksuit.

“HE DESERVED WHAT HE GOT.”

True.

“NOW BRING ME T’ HAIRY GARCIA!”

Well, you just kicked the guy in the Grateful Dead who does all the soloing now. Does that count?

“NO. AH MUST HAVE MAH SHOWDOWN. AN’ AH GOTTA HAVE SOME TWINKETTIS.”

Twinkettis?

“TWINKIES WITH SPAGHETTI SHOVED IN ‘EM. THEN YOU SOAK THE WHOLE THING IN BUTTER AN’ FRY IT UP ‘TIL IT’S CRUNCHY.”

That sounds awful.

“MAYBE GONNA GET ME SOME O’ MISS MARY’S SPECIAL PECAN COOKIES.”

Well, that sounds all right.

“THEY GOT PORK IN ‘EM.”

Why?

“COMPLEMENTS TH’ PECAN.”

It doesn’t.

“THEN AH’M GONNA TUCK INNA SOME HOMINY GRISTLE. L’IL BITTA FATBACK. THEN AH COULD POSSIBLY SCOOP TH’ BACON GREASE OUTTA THE COFFEE CAN MISS MARY KEEPS IT IN.”

Don’t eat any of that, Elvis.

“FINISH UP WITH A SALAD.”

Really?

“YEAH, MAN. BOWL FULL O’ PILLS WITH GREEN SPRINKLES MIXED IN. EAT IT WITH A SPOON, MAN. GOES DOWN EASY, ‘CEPT WHEN AH PASS OUT AN’ CHARLIE HODGE HAS T’ FISH HALF-CHEWED SAN’WICHES OUTTA MAH THROAT.”

King, you have to stop eating like this.

“THIS HERE IS A PRESCRIBED DIET! YOU KNOW TH’ OL’ SAYIN’: ‘STARVE A COLD, FEED A FEVER, DRINK STRAIGHT CHICKEN GRAVY FOR TH’ HEEBIE-JEEBIES.'”

Only the first part of that is a saying, and even that’s wrong. Why won’t you take care of yourself?

“GREAT MAN DONE GOT GREAT DESIRES, BOY! AH AM TH’ BABE RUTH OF SINGIN’ AN’ KARATE AN’ AH WILL EAT A DOZEN HOT DOGS IN BETWEEN INNINGS IF AH WANT!”

Okay, but he died at 53.

“AN’ LOU GEHRIG DRANK MILK AN’ WENT T’ BED EARLY. HE DIED AT 37. CHECKMATE.”

Yeah, you’ll probably live forever.

“WE BOTH KNOW THAT AH WILL.”

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