Hey, Bobby. Nice jeans.
“They were sold to me as a lengthy short.”
Sure. Is this an ad?
“Yup. Been doing ’em for years. What people don’t realize about the Grateful Dead is: We were trying our hardest to sell out. It was just that no one was buying. We all used to go on commercial auditions in between tours.”
“Oh, yeah. Billy was almost in that Prince Spaghetti ad. But, uh, he would improvise lines about Italian-Americans.”
“I’ll tell ya: If you get the chance to endorse a dungaree concern, take it. They send you a lifetime supply of trousers and a giant check.”
How many jeans is a lifetime supply?
Levi’s makes a sturdy product.
“Y’can’t kill the 501. They’re very slightly bulletproof.”
What does that mean?
“In real terms, nothing. But with a high-speed camera, you can see a marked loss of velocity.”
Okay. Did Levi’s send you all those clothes?
“Not the toppermost.”
“There was a crisp hundo in the shirt pocket. Very classy touch from the Levi’s folks.”
That’s thoughtful. Where are you, anyway?
“The cloud forests of Nach-En-Ki.”
Care to explain that?
“Hey, all you cool cats and kittens. Senator Sassafras here. You can call me that. It’s all right. I’m the cool Senator.
“Y’know what’s not cool, though? China, and their policy of releasing bioweapons into airports because they think it’s funny. And I think that’s the biggest problem I have with them. When America releases bioweapons, it’s for the greater good. But China’s just amusing itself. Rook at the gaijin! They die with mayonnaise! Inka dinka doo, inka dinka doo. That’s what that language sounds like to me. Inka dinka doo. I got a theory that they’re just making that crap up to be dicks, and when they’re alone they speak English or Spanish or whatever. It’s not racist to say that some languages are worse than others. It’s just observation.
“Anyhoo, they screwed you royal, kids. Surprised that any of you can sit down what with all the ass-pounding you’ve taken this year. You probably all look like gibbons back there. Bright-red giant asses, man. That’s your generation. You call it being ‘thicc,’ but you’re all just fat little fucks. Maybe the cushion helped ease the pushing? I’ve heard that, but God I hate looking at you young people and your rolls of sloth.
“You won’t miss high school. Most of your friends are gonna end up on meth, anyway. Shit, it’s Nebraska. If it wasn’t for meth, there’d be no reason at all to stay here. You’re gonna lose some of your friends to thresher accidents, possibly meth-related. We had a kid in my class, Donnie Milsap, who just disappeared. Got in his truck, left the bar, never got home. I think Donnie got Communioned, and a lot of people agree with me. So what I’m saying is: Your choices are meth or aliens.
“Some of you are gonna become hobos. You’ll get into adventures, eat beans, and have a secret glyph language. You’ll have freedom and autonomy and untreated syphilis contracted from hobo whores. A few of you are gonna be hobo whores.
“Not gonna lie to you, kids: This sucks. When I was your age, I was Mr. Tugger. You heard of the Tiger King? I was the Tugger King. The Lord said one must not fornicate before marriage, but He didn’t say anything about a well-executed beef stroking-off. Girls liked to do it, and I liked getting it done. Reach on in, I’d say. That was a childhood, but you poor bastards have no one to jerk you off. Man, that’s a rough one.
“We had beer bashes, too. Get a couple kegs, invite a couple weird kids to ritualistically humiliate, some light rape. We just called that ‘Friday Night,’ man. We’d blast Van Halen and get nuts. I don’t know what you little queers are listening to nowadays. It sounds like gay robot music. What happened to guitar solos, man? That’s why everyone thinks you kids are fags. Listen to some freaking Maiden, why don’t you?
“Don’t worry about the economy, though. It’ll pick up once we go to war with China. You’re gonna be going to war with China. Congratulations. Funny thing about those $1200 checks that everyone got: Cashing them means you enlisted in the service. We’re just gonna throw you at the Chinese. Total ‘Drown ’em in blood’ strategy.
“Oh, hey: If any of your grandparents died, that’s too bad. You’ll get through it.”
My version is no more than sightly worse than the actual address, and you don’t have to stare at unshaven Ben Sasse, who has reached Jay Cutler/Ben Affleck heights of “White Guy With No Fucks” status.
Hey, Buck. Whatcha doing?
“Guarding. And y’know what? I didn’t know I had it in me. Not bred for it at all. I have absolutely no Doberman in me. I see a stranger, I love and trust that stranger. Not anymore, muchacho.”
Wow, everyone’s right. It is rather unpleasant to be called that.
“This kid is protected. I got her. Y’know that truck that comes by every morning and smells like paper?”
That’s the mail.
“I will take that truck down, man. I will take that truck down to Chinatown.”
“Or bears. Not bred for that, either, but I would fuck up a bear if it looked at Podgey wrong.”
“I call her Podgey.”
“Look at her wrists.”
Yeah, that’s a good name.
“Love this kid. No idea where the hell she came from, but she’s mine now. Sometimes she pokes me in the eye, but she doesn’t mean it.”
Hasn’t developed fine motor control yet.
“Yeah, she just waves all four legs around at random.”
“And not housebroken.”
People don’t get housebroken. We call it “toilet trained.”
“Same concept, though, right? Don’t shit on the living room floor?”
“That’s all I’m saying. So, there’s the pooping and the flailing. Those are the downsides. Everything else is a positive with this kid. You simply would not believe the smells that come off her. There’s a new scent every ten minutes.”
“Super exciting! I’m not a puppy, man. I’ve done some serious smelling in my time, and this kid’s blowing my nose.”
I see what you did there.
“Dude, hold on a sec.”
“We gotta pick this up later. She just pooped again, and I’m gonna try to eat the whole diaper before anyone stops me.”
The dream of the 90’s…
TELL ME YOU DIDN’T START DRINKING AT ELEVEN AM!
Fine. I didn’t start drinking at eleven AM.
Are you lying?
Jesus, man. Get it together.
You can’t make me.
Ole, Ole, Ole is on Netflix; it’s a travelogue of the Stones’ South American jaunt in 2016, and this is the best part.
Also: I know “Ole” should have some sort of foreign diacritical over the “e” but I can’t be bothered. Get a Sharpie and do it yourself.
“Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m a man–”
I’m TotD! How are you?
“–of wealth and…could you not interrupt me, please?”
Gosh, I’m sorry. You had a whole thing you were gonna say, didn’t you?
“Yeah. There’s a rhythm to it.”
So sorry. So, so sorry.
“May I continue?”
Go to it. Again: I apologize.
“Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m man of wealth and taste.”
“I’ve been around…what?”
Are you Guy Fieri?
“Guy Fieri just has wealth.”
The taste is in the donkey sauce.
“I’m not Guy Fieri.”
I interrupted you again.
“You did. You absolutely did.”
Sorry. Again: I am sorry.
“I’ve been around for a long, long year. Stole many a man’s soul to waste.”
You still sound a lot like Guy Fieri.
“Guy Fieri doesn’t steal souls!”
He steals hearts.
“Hearts are not souls!”
“They’re not! Shut up and listen to me!”
Dude. We are not close enough for you to take that tone. I mean, I don’t even know your name yet.
“I’m trying to tell you my name.”
I’ll be quiet. Do your thing, man.
“Thank you. I was ’round when Jesus Christ had his moment of doubt and pain. Made damn sure–”
Did you help Him?
“–that Pilate washed…what?”
Did you help Jesus?
“No. I was there. I was there.”
And you didn’t help? I once held up traffic on the New Jersey Parkway to rescue a turtle; you didn’t give the Son of God a helping hand?
“That’s not why I was there.”
We all make choices, muchacho.
“Do not call me ‘muchacho.'”
No one likes being called that.
“I’m gonna continue.”
“Pleased to meet you. Hope you guessed my name.”
I did. I guessed you were Guy Fieri and you got mad.
“I’m not Guy fucking Fieri.”
You should be so lucky! That man has raised millions for charity.
“I think what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game.”
“I stuck around Saint…what?”
Is your game Mah Jongg?
People think it’s for old ladies, but it’s a hoot. You can get some big money games going.
“Mah Jongg is not my game.”
“I was in the middle of a statement.”
Go to it.
“I stuck around St. Petersburg when I saw it was–”
“–time for a change. What?”
St. Petersburg, Florida?
You should have been more specific.
“If you hadn’t interrupted me, the next thing I was about to say would’ve clarified my position.”
Wow. What a rude guy I am. Sorry, my dude.
“I killed the Czar and his ministers. Anastasia screamed in rage.”
Oh, yeah. That’s Russia. There are few to no czars in Florida.
“Context is important.”
Wait. Are you the Devil?
“I have, like, four more verses to get through.”
Unnecessary! I figured it out! You’re the Devil.
“Yes, okay, I’m the Devil. But I have some real deep shit to say about humanity, and its nature.”
I’ll bet! You must have some stories, The Devil!
“Your tone of voice is not rubbing me the right way.”
Well, you’re the one who talked shit about Guy Fieri and didn’t help Jesus.
“I’m the Devil!”
How’s that working out for you? You happy?
Are you happy, The Devil?
“Call me Lou.”
Absolutely not. Listen, man: go back to Hell and think about the kind of Supreme Evil you wanna be.
“Do not speak to me that way.”
I can speak to you any way I want. Because I have…THIS!
AN OVERCONFIDENT IDIOT PRODUCING A CRUCIFIX NOISE
“I’m not a dracula, man.”
This doesn’t work on you?
“I’m gonna walk away from you and pretend this didn’t happen.”
OPERATION WASP SPEED Enormous wasps’ nests will be installed at the CDC and hooked up to timers. If the scientists don’t invent a vaccine by November 1st, the wasps are released.
OPERATION WAMP SPEED Same basic concept as Operation Wasp Speed, but with wampas.
OPERATION WAP SPEED This one’s racist, and I apologize to any and all Italian-American Enthusiasts, even the greasy ones.
OPERATION WHOOMP SPEED “Hey, where’s the corona vaccine?” “WHOOMP! There it is.”
OPERATION WHALE SPEED How fast a whale goes depends on its species, I suppose. Killer whales? Speedy! Ambling Whales? Well, they didn’t get the name ironically.
OPERATION WATUSI SPEED Vaccine sock hop! Vaccine sock hop!
What the fuck does “Vaccine sock hop” mean?
The scientists are, like, in their socks and doing early-60’s dances. They have their PPE and their pipettes and they’re writing up grants, the whole deal, but they’re shagging and frugging and swimming and, like the name suggests, doing the watusi. Allfather Trump thinks it will improve morale.
Why would he believe that?
He’s a goddamned idiot.
Take a nap.
Prince & the Revolution live from 1985; only up for a few days, so hop on it.
(EDITOR’S NOTE: 3/30/85 from the Carrier Dome in Syracuse, NY. I know we care about that sort of thing.)