Wait, it’s vuh-NEE-tuh? I always thought it was vuh-NEH-tuh.
The statements “I am pleased by the high level of viscosity” and “WHEEEEEE it’s slippy” transmit the same thought.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: 8/27/72 (Page 1 of 2)
Now we know how he got up there.
Hey, kids! What day is it?
Prince Spaghetti Day?
No.
Rex Manning Day?
Also no.
Feast of the Fools?
Wha?
Buffet of the Buffoons?
That’s a fun and evocative phrase, but it’s not a thing. It’s Veneta Day!
Velveeta Day!?
Stop it.
Vagina Day!
No!
Valentine Dimsdale!
That’s not a thing, either.
Reverend Dimsdale from Scarlet Letter‘s fancy, well-dressed brother.
…
You’re ruining Veneta Day.
Ken Babbs did that years ago.
I’ve been listening to 8/27/72 for God knows how many years, and I keep thinking I’m going to stop hating the sound of his voice and the content of his announcements.
Nope.
Fucker liked that microphone.
Someone had to be in charge.
Isn’t it weird how people who think that someone needs to be in charge always think that the person in charge should be them?
Downright peculiar.
Let’s stop screwing around and let the nice people listen to the Veneta show.
Sure. What if they want to look at a fat guy with his ding-dong hanging out of his jeans?
16:50.
…
Yup. Ding-dong.
You think it’s for Harambe?
Yes. Yes, I do.
FELICIDAE IV, THRONEWORLD TO THE FELIS EMPIRE
“Jenkins! Get in here!”
“Yes, Space President?”
“Dammit, kid: fix your antenna.”
“Sorry.”
“The other one.”
“Gotcha.”
“The other one.
“Ah. Better?”
“You look like a Sallarian. Listen: what is this signal that Alien NASA picked up?”
“It’s so odd we call our space agency that, sir.”
“Answer the questions, Jenkins.”
“There are competing theories on the signal, sir. The mathematicians think it’s an equation that proves five plus two is seven.”
“Five plus two is seven, Jenkins.”
“Yes, but this proves it.”
“Have math executed.”
“Right away, sir.”
“You said there were other interpretations?”
“Yes, sir. The generals think it’s a threat.”
“The generals think lunch is a threat.”
“The cloners fed the data into the chromosonometer.”
“Monster?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Casualties?”
“Many, sir.”
“Well, have the cloners executed, too.”
“We’ve tried that, sir. They just make more of themselves.”
“Anyone else weighing in?
“The artists think it’s crap.”
“What do the people think?”
“The people think it’s art.”
“Great.”
“There was one interesting idea, sir. Someone ran the data through a soundifier–”
“Is that really the machine’s name?”
“–and, well: it appears to some sort of rock band.”
“Like Space Bon Jovi?”
“Sort of, sir.”
“Are they any good, Jenkins?”
“That’s subjective, sir. In fact, this might be some of the most subjective music I’ve ever heard.”
“Can you dance to it?”
“Kind of.”
“I’ll need a full report.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jenkins?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I wasn’t joking: take math outside and shoot it in the head.”
“I didn’t think you were joking at all, sir.”
“Good man.”
[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOjZz0HB7R8[/embedyt]
He’s back home.
Never sleep again.
43 years ago today was Veneta. I’ve written about it before: you can bathe in my glory and insight and dong observations here.
After you’ve read about it, you may watch it here:
Following which, you should do your best artistic interpretation of Veneta. You may use any medium you choose. Here’s mine:
Has Garcia always played a maple Strat with a whammy bar at Veneta in ’72? I could have sworn he played Alligator. Did someone reset the Matrix again?
We continue the theme of Bobby and crotches.
I honestly cannot even.
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