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

Tag: andy cohen (Page 1 of 4)

Fever Roll Up

You can get through this, Andy Cohen. The Real Housewives need a firm hand, Andy; without you, they’d run wild and no one would be safe. How can we Watch What Happens Live if you’re dead? Think of the Vanderpumps!

Besides, wouldn’t this be a low-rent way to go? People as rich as you don’t die from coronavirus, they die from misadventure, or boredom, or at age 93, or from being poisoned by a scheming relative. This is a hamburger death, Andy. You can afford steak.

Take two of anything and a glazed donut; call John Mayer in the morning. You can do it.

Assorted Thoughts On Dead & Company’s CNN Hit

  • Almost instantly, Mickey begins misbehaving.
  • He may, in fact, only be upright on that couch thanks to the liberal application of duct tape.
  • There’s a handsome guy who works at CNN named Bill Weir, and when Andy Cohen mentions him, Bobby gets real confused for a second.
  • Anderson Cooper does not listen to the Dead, nor does he seem to much care for these filthy wretches.
  • I just looked up what AC listens to, and it is probably inappropriate to call it “homosexual music,” but it is.
  • Although the other AC is similarly inclined, and he has decent taste in jams.
  • (Andy Cohen is an outlier, though; let’s be honest. There are, like, three gay guys who don’t like shitty music, and two of them are in Husker Du and the other one’s Steve Silberman.)
  • Have you finished being insulting and offensive?
  • Dude, you can’t hear what I say in the parentheses; there are rules here.
  • The rules are made up, don’t matter, and shut the fuck up.
  • I shall ignore you and claim that I won the interaction.
  • Jeff and Oteil have not been given microphones.
  • That’s just hurtful.
  • Just give ’em dummy mics.
  • You don’t even have to plug the fuckers in.
  • They wouldn’t have said anything, anyway; Jeff and Oteil know their place in the organization.
  • And neither is schnockered.
  • Twozzled.
  • Legless.
  • Mickey is drunk enough to get thrown out of bars with Harry Nilsson.
  • Billy, speaking for the first time, says that the Dead lived in Haight-Ashbury in 1972; both Jeff and Oteil recognize this as incorrect, but stop themselves from saying anything.
  • Mickey is wobblier than Eugene Debs.
  • Mickey is more plastered than the Sistine Chapel.
  • Mickey is so loaded that Doug Yule wrote most of him.
  • We get it.
  • I thought you were dying?
  • Oh, right.

Somewhat-Less-Than Hallowed Eve

Hey, Josh. Love your costume.

“I’m not wearing a costume.”

No? I thought you were Guy With Terrible Friends.

“I didn’t miss talking to you.”

Well, you’re back on tour with the Dead (Or What’s Left Of ‘Em) and so now we have to chat more regularly. Does Jimmy Fallon smell like scotch?





“Hey, man: alcoholism is not funny.”

Makes it perfect for Jimmy, then.

“Are you this relentlessly negative about everyone?”

I’m nice to your friends that don’t suck. Which in this group, ironically, is the gay guy.

“Stop it.”

I’m pretty sure all your Santa has in his bag is herpes.

“He’s not a Santa.”

He looks like if a yoga studio were homeless. Andy Cohen tripping? Those people love their drugs.

“What? That’s just homophobic, man.”

I didn’t mean gays love drugs. I meant “rich Hollywood Jews at Dead shows” love their drugs.


Although, throwing “gay” in there doesn’t make it less true. He candyflipping?

“I don’t know what that is.”



It’s like Robodosing, but you have a homeless guy buy the cough syrup.

“He’s not doing that.”



Andy Cohen boofing the roofs?

“You’re making these things up.”

Some toot for his snoot?

“Stop it with your rhyming lies!”


“Oh, thank God. Wait. This isn’t Kim Jong-Un, is it? I know he’s been calling around lately.”

It’s not Kim Jong-Un.


Yeah. It’s much more annoying.


“You’re on with John.”

“Josh, how do you like your kebab?”

“Mickey, for the ninth time: I do not want kebabs from a truck.”

“I’m here! It’s kebab time!”

“Pass. Pass on the street food, Mick.”

“Ask Johnny Carson and Paul Lynde.”

“Their names are Jimmy Fallon and Andy Cohen, and neither of them want kebabs.”

“What about bibimbap? The guy also does Korean.”

“Do not bring me ethnic food from a rando in a van, Mickey.”

“I’ll buy some extra churros.”

Your Love For Me Has Got To Be Real Housewives

Okay, I mean it this time: you can’t be in the Grateful Dead anymore.

“Not your call.”

This is actionable. This is a Dishonorable Discharge. Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to step outside.

“Knock it off.”

I get that Andy is your friend, but why would you attend this function?

“These are the Real Housewives!”

I know. That’s why I asked the question. It wasn’t just because they were women.

“Of multiple cities!”

Your only excuse is that you have a brain tumor pushing up against your tasteythalmus.

“Not a thing.”

It’s the part of the brain that judges aesthetics.

“Look, I’m here supporting Andy and hanging out with Real Housewives. You’re just jealous.”

How many glasses of wine have been thrown?

“I lost count. It started almost immediately. Several of the Housewives brought goggles in anticipation.”

Gotta be prepared. How many of them straight-up invited you into the bathroom for a beej?


Not bad. How many times you go?

“All eight times, but I only let one blow me. The rest, I made them show me their buttholes.”

When the phone rings, do not continue this line of conversation.




“You’re on with John.”

“Dead & Co suck. Ari rules.”

“Nephew on the Dead?”

“This guy here is the future. You got a tambourine on your shoe?”

“Mickey probably has one.”

“Josh, lemme ask you a question–”

“Don’t call me Josh. You’re a baby. You don’t get to do that.”

“–you guys ever do Itsy Bitsy Spider?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’d know, dude. That shit’s the jam. My man Ari here does a Spider>Whole Word In His Hands that blows minds, dude. You guys are just posing with guitars. Ari? Ari’s making the real music.”


“Oh, dude.  Happy And You Know It! He hasn’t played this since 12/11/16.”

“How do you know that?”

AriBase. I gotta go.”


“I don’t wanna talk to him.”

He’s a perfect angel and I’ll throw dinosaurs at you from now until the end of time if you breathe ill of him.

“I don’t wanna talk to you, either.”

I can understand that.

Playing Through

See how nice your friend Andy is dressed? Why can’t you dress like that?

“I dress wonderfully.”

You dress like Jonah Hill after a house fire.

“That doesn’t even mean anything.”

You’re aging out of hypebeastdom.

“I am not aging out of anything. ANYTHING!”


“I am often mistaken for a man in his twenties.”

By whom? Prosopagnosiacs?

“No! Not by people with face-blindness!”

You had to look that up, didn’t you?

“So did you!”

Just for the spelling. I’m just saying maybe you should let Andy take you shopping. You could go to Barney’s. You could meet a starlet there. Did you call Demi Lovato yet? Your window on that is closing.

“You disgust me.”

I’m trying to help you, dude. But you don’t want to be helped and only one thing can come of that.

Oh, don’t–

“You think you can get a bead on those rooty-toots, Cue Ball?”

“I will hit the tall one, the short one, etc., etc., etc.”

“I’m sorry. Frank Sinatra and Yul Brynner?”

Well, there are only so many photos of Nixon and Jackie Gleason playing golf. I work with what I have.

“Everything about this is bush league.”

Never denied that, broham.

Andy Was

“Oh, fuck off.”

You’re back on the Bud Light. I like that.

“Seriously, fuck off.”

Were there not bottles of water for sale? Or someone who could piss in your mouth for a dollar?

“Forget about the Bud Light.”

I can’t! It’s fascinating to me! You’re in the closest thing 2018 has to the parking lot of a Grateful Dead concert in Colorado and you’re drinking a Bud Light. There’s gotta be a more acceptable beverage available. Jesus, man, it’s not even ironically bad.

“I need you to stop talking to me.”

But you’re the only one of John’s friends I like. And Chapelle.

“Him and John called me real late one night to pitch a show. Real Housewives of Wherever The Fuck In The Middle Of Ohio Chapelle Lives. Dave and John were gonna be Housewives.”

You mean househusbands.

“Nope. Full-on Bosom Buddies routine.”

That sounds terrible.

“Dreadful. They really wanted to do it.”

What did you do?

“Called their bluff. Told ’em we’d rush the show into production and sent over the shooting schedules. As I anticipated, neither wanted to spend 14 hours a day making a fake reality show.”

Very smart.

“Yes, I am. Now go away.”

“Would you like some mango to go with your Bud Light?”

“Oy. Fuck off with the…oh, hi.”

“I am Michael Gordon. I perform with the Phish. We’re from Vermont. Please enjoy these succulent and nutritious fruits and berries.”

“Ugh, you’re a lifesaver. My blood sugar dropped out of my asshole ten minutes ago.”

“They are from my garden, which I cultivate and fertilize.”



“Did you use your own feces to fertilize this fruit, Mike?”



“You should maybe tell people that first.”

“I consume many plant-based calories, as you can see from my torso. Much like a gorilla, I am evolved to slowly digest leaves and grasses in my elongated gut.”


“May I photograph you, Andrew?”

“Sure, shoot away.”

“Can you remove your shorts?”

“I can’t, no.”

“What if I dress you in a frilly bathing suit and have a small dog tug at it like in the old Coppertone ads?”

“You don’t have a dog.”

“I have access to dogs. Dogs can be procured.”


“Would you like to see my trick?”


“I manipulate my belly into the shape of a giant mouth. Then I speak through my bellymouth in the voice of a character I call The Admiral. He will say anything!”

“I don’t want to see that.”

“Many people enjoy it. I am going to find them.”


“What the fuck was that?”

It was Mike Gordon.

“No, I know who it was.”

Where are you?

“Another Rando got me.”

His shirt is very clever.

“I’m thinking about buying it.”

And so is yours.

“It’s Bobby’s shorts! But stylized. Anyway, what the fuck was up with Gordon?”

Nothing. He’s just like that.

“He made me eat poopfruit.”

He didn’t make you. More like tricked you into it.

“There’s no difference.”

Of course there is. A guy swindling you out of a thousand bucks is different than getting mugged at knifepoint.

“I ate Mike Gordon’s doodyberries and you’re arguing semantics. This is why I hate you and this whole little summer stock thing you’ve got going.”

Hire me.

“No! You’re talentless and weird.”

I’m sorry.

“You’re sorry for what? What did you…oh, shit.”

“Look at the beard on the tall one, sir. I know you’re a poker player.”

“I am, Gleason. A damned good one. And, uh, you are correct. The beard is what’s called a tell.”

“There is almost certainly an explosive device in Little Tim Leary’s fanny pack!”

“My God, Gleason! Assassins!”



Andy, you should run.

“I hate you!”

I’m sorry, Andy Cohen. Someone has to be Daffy Duck in this routine, and it’s just your turn.

“Fuck you.”

Andy And John

Hey, Andy Cohen from teevee’s Bravo channel.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me. I don’t want to talk to you.”


“You set a former president and a legendary funnyman loose in the parking lot, and people died.”

Just randos. No one famous died.

“That’s terrible.”

You’re just saying that because a rando is standing next to you.

“Absolutely not.”


“Of course, it would have been worse if a famous person had died, but it’s still terrible about all the ugly, poor weirdos.”

I can’t believe it wasn’t your mansion Dead & Company played at.

“Ugh, Ed Begley Jr. in my house? No, thank you. I have much better parties, anyway.”

What’s an Andy Cohen party like?

“A bunch of guys my age, and a lot of guys who are not my age.”


“I put out a nice spread. And there’s also some food.”

Ba dum bum!

“I’m glad you enjoyed that. I’m renowned for my wit and easy charm. Now fuck off.”



“I should take this.”

You should.

“Everything’s dandy when you’re on with Andy.”

“Wow. That is…I am blown away. There is the kind of energy I want in my life. I’m surrounded by vampires. Financial, spiritual, emotional, all kinds of vampires. And some real ones, maybe. I won’t attest to it in court, but I think the new security guy is an actual vampire.”

“Who is this?”

“This is John Depp.”

“I couldn’t hear you over the rattling.”

“Those would be my necklaces. Hold on, I’ll have my neck man remove them.”


“There you go. I’m John Depp.”

“What’s a ‘neck man?'”

“I have a separate assistant for each body part.”


“And each of them has all of my banking information.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“I’m an artist, Andy! All that money stuff, it doesn’t stir the pot. I find people I trust and let them handle things, and then stop trusting them and sue. It’s a solid plan.”

“It isn’t. Not that I’m not happy to hear from you, Johnny, but what are you calling about?”

“Ah. Yes. The place in Malibu on Pacific Coast. The reddish one with all the windows. That’s your house, right?”


“I need to buy it.”

“Oh, no. I love that house.”

“I MUST HAVE IT! I tell you what, Andy: I’ll trade you two houses in the Hollywood Hills for the Malibu place. And I’ll throw in four motorcycles of your choice.”


“An iron foundry.”

“You own an iron foundry?”

“I will purchase an iron foundry and trade it to you for the Malibu place. That’s a hell of a deal.”

“No, Johnny.”

“DAMN YOU, COHEN! Your property is the last thing that stands between me and the Pacific. I’m buying my way to the sea.”

“From where?”

“Benedict Canyon.”

“Holy shit, that’s 30 miles. And there’s a State Park in the way.”

“Depptown will live, I swear it.”

“Johnny, I’m going through a tunnel.”

“Which one? I’ll buy it and have it blocked up.”

“Cant hear you! Kssssshhhhhh! Kssssshhhhh! Breaking up!”




“Did you give him my phone number?”



I gave his neck man your phone number.


Mayer Ex Machina

Oh, Andy Cohen from teevee’s Bravo.

“Went shopping.”

I see. You bought a life-size garden gnome.

“Him? No, this is–”

In a Chinese restaurant in Boulder, there’s a naked waiter.

“Oh, yeah, his outfit. His name is–”

Does he or does he not speak exclusively in riddles?

“You don’t care.”

I don’t. I know he’s John’s friend, and that’s all I need to know. You really kitted yourself out, buddy.

“Flying the colors, brother! Dead show! Colorado! What could be wrong?”

Everything’s on fire, Andy.

“I meant here. Right where I am. Where the incredibly rich man is standing in the sunshine. It’s pretty sweet here.”

Andrew Joseph Cohen, as a gay Jew you have a moral responsibility to be panicked.

“Incredibly rich gay Jew.”

Nah. Gay and Jew beat rich. When they start coming for us? The millionaires will be mass graved with the paupers.

“Not if I’m not here.”

What now?

“Can you keep a secret?”

Oh, absolutely.

“New Zealand.”


“Yup. Been putting the exit strategy in place since the morning after Election Day. Went down there, spent a ton of fucking money on lawyers, bought some land, opened a business. They make you pump a shitload of cash into their economy before they’ll even sit down with you. And then when the government officials do sit down with you, they do that haka thing at you first.”

Dude, I love the haka.

“So did I, but the novelty wears off real quick. I got haka’d three or four times a day. At that point, it’s just foreigners yelling at you.”

Sure. What kind of business did you open?

“Taco place.”

What do you know about tacos?

“I like eating them and not one single one of those hobbits knows how to make one. So I opened up my own place. Flew in some guys from Los Angeles and had ’em train up the cooks.”

You’re sparing no expense.

“I plan on spending the end of the world in comfort, and with tacos. That’s not cheap.”

I guess not.

“You two freakie-deakies clear out of the way! Jackie Gleason’s coming through! And the President’s with me.”

“There, uh, is the irreverent humor you have become so famous for, Jackie. One would expect the President to be mentioned first, but you turned it around. Thus, uh, creating humor. As I said, humor.”

“Sir, I’m gonna run ’em over.”

“I’ll pardon you if you do, Gleason.”



“To the moon, druggies!”

“Yes, good, Gleason. The cart will take more damage. Keep going.”






“Ha! You got the little fucker coming and going, Gleason! Have you ever considered an ambassadorship?”

“I’ll go anywhere in the world as long as I can stay in Miami Beach.”

“Ha! My God, Gleason. I feel alive.”


Yes, Andy Cohen?

“What the fuck, man?”

Is it about your can of Bud Light?

“It’s not about–”

Because you’re on Shakedown Street in Colorado, Andy Cohen. I have to believe there were better beers available. And I am totally not one of those beer guys.

“It’s not about the beer, it’s about–”


Like, it would be hard not to accidentally buy a better beer than a Bud Light while on Shakedown Street in Colorado. How about a Coors Banquet!? Go old school!

“Can you just–”

It’s almost like the Bud Light is a statement. Are you making a statement, Andy Cohen?



“Why are Nixon and Jackie Gleason mowing down Deadheads in a golf cart!?”

Are they still doing that?




“Yes, they are.”

That’s awful.

“Why is it happening and can you stop it?”

The first question would take hours to answer, so do you want me to answer the second question first?



“Why not?”

I can’t overrule the President. And I wouldn’t want to: look how giddy he is.

“Hot damn, Gleason! This is better than executing that Jew couple. My blood is hot!”

“After this, sir, you and me are gonna get some broads.”

“No, no. Just souls. I am a mouth, Gleason. Feed me souls.”


“Ah, yes. I grow stronger.”


Yes, Andy Cohen?

“I hate you and I never want to be part of your little skitches again.”

I get that a lot.

“Fix this.”


“Then I’ll call a real man who will.”


“Look out, look out, the Andyman. Hey, buddy.”

“You really don’t have to say that every time I call.”

“It’s our thing.”

“We’ll discuss it later. Can you come out to the parking lot, please?”

“I’d be mobbed. Ooh, wait: I could put on a disguise. I went into the lot in a bear costume once for my teevee show, which a lot of people are saying deserves a critical reassessment. Could I cross-dress? Wait. If I cross-dress, will I get yelled at like Scarlett Johansson?”


“I suppose the entire range of ethnic costumes is out, too.”


“I could do Chewbacca. I actually have a Chewbacca costume with me. Visvim did them as part of their Fall 2016 line. It’s such an important piece. And, you know, it’s a Chewbacca costume. But it’s also a ‘Chewbacca costume.’ Y’know? Like, it’s a comment on itself. It’s a piece that asks questions, y’know? ‘What is fashion? How is fashion? When is fashion?’ That sort of thing.”


“Anyway: I have a Chewbacca costume.”


“Are you in danger!?”

“So much!”


“The motor’s getting gummed up, Mr, President. It’s all the guts.”

“We’ll commandeer an automobile. The killing isn’t over yet.”


“Gleason, it’s Bobby Darin. Murder him.”

“C’mere, punk.”


“Sorry, boys, but we just cant have this in the Dead & Company parking lot. You’ll have to go.”


“You’re all welcome. I’m available for interviews. Oh, hey, Andy. You wanna do our special handshake?”

“NO! What the fuck was that?”

“It was a disgraced pres–”

“I know that! Why did it happen?”

“Why does anything happen? I’ve given up on that question in here, man.”

“So, uh, do you have superpowers now?”


“You can fly?”

“I did.”

“Can you do it again?”


“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting to be able to. Arbitrarily granting and removing superpowers is what passes for comedy around here.”

“It’s not funny. It’s just lazy.”

“Could be that, too. Lot of ways to look at reality.”

“You’ve gone native in here, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been in the storylines a lot, and I’ve just grown to accept that I’m going to have adventures and death is temporary.”

“What about all the Deadheads Gleason and Nixon ran over?”

“Oh, no, they’re dead. Their families will mourn.”

“I don’t like being part of this world.”

“Your shirt looks nice.”

“Thank you.”

Stagelight Serenader



Don’t sing to men.

“That’s awfully homophobic of you.”

Dude, if you want to blow Andy Cohen, blow Andy Cohen. I’ll cheer you on and wipe the slobber out of your butt-chin. Fist him. I don’t care. Fist him again, like you did last summer. Fisting time is here. Go nuts on his nuts, and I’ll say, “Good for you.” But don’t sing to another man.

“You are a deeply uptight man in a lot of weird ways.”

You’re just figuring this out?

“Go away. I’m celebrating my friend’s 50th birthday.”

Andy’s 50?


And yet he looks younger than you.

“He doesn’t.”

Just in the face. And probably with his clothes off.

“You can’t bother me. I’m rich and famous and have rich, famous friends and millions of Instagram followers and clothes from all over the world.”

Under you chin is getting saggy.


“You need to leave me alone.”

We’re buddies.

“We’re not. I hang out with millionaires and designers and Dave Chapelle. I banged Bebe Rexha the other night.”

How do you pronounce that?

“Y’know what? I have no idea. Just called her ‘Tushycakes’ the entire night.”

Nice work. Who else you been sticking it in lately? You’re quiet in the gossip columns.

“Both Darlenes.”


“From Roseanne. Both Darlenes.”

Wow. That’s impressive.

“At once.”


“Right? It’s like getting Eiffel Towered by both Darrens from Bewitched.”

You’re living the dream, Meyers.


Stop singing to men.


Steal Andy’s brown shoes and tell him it’s for his own good.

“Why would I do that?”

For his own good. Brown shoes are for guys who manage malls in Ohio.

“I’m just gonna stop talking to you.”



“I hate you.”

You have every reason.

“Johnny M. speaking.”

“Are you serenadin’ homos, Jew Boy?”


“Ah can see ev’rything with mah super-peepers. Ah’m like Hillbilly Heimdall.”

“I’m singing my friend a song.”

“Degeneracy reigns in California! Hot darn, you sissyboys out there set mah mustache to quiverin’.”

“I have several products that could take care of that.”

“Ah am a Christian, sir, and Ah take mah ablutions via scour.”


“There’s a Little League field by mah house. Ah go out there at night and rub mahself against first base f’r a while.”

“Not recommended.”

“It’s in the Bible.”

“I don’t think the Bible mentions Little League.”

“How would you know ’bout the Holy Bible, Delicatessen Breath?”

“For the ninth or tenth time: I’m not Jewish.”

“Ah c’n smell the usury all over you, boy.”


“Why aren’t you singin’ the National Anthem?”

“For a bunch of reasons.”

“One bein’ that you hate America. Another ungrateful millionaire who burns down VFW halls in his spare time.”

“I don’t do that.”

“You’re disinvited t’ the White House!”

“I wasn’t invited in the first place.”

“Well, you ain’t comin’ now, and black unemployment is down.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Tell Andy Ah like his shoes.”


“I want you to cease all contact with me.”

Get your lawyer, Delicatessen Breath.

Love, Elevator

Hey, Josh. Look at you and your buddy, the Andyman.

“I can hear you.”

Quiet, Andy. Josh–

“Why does he call you Josh?”

–you can’t take Melania on tour with you. It’ll get out of hand immediately.

“Melania Trump? John, why is the booming voice that originates from outside reality talking about Melania Trump being on tour? Dead & Company tour?”

She stowed away in a road case, Andy Cohen.

“Is this true, John?’

It is, Andy. Very observant of you.

“I’m not gonna hire you or anything.”


“Did you just send Andy Cohen to the Castle of All Tears?”


“Dude, stop being a dick to my friends.”

I’ll bring him back if you get rid of Melania. She absolutely cannot be hanging around Dead & Company Summer Tour 2018. I don’t want you guys to be in play. Like, in a media sense. The less people examine Billy’s background, the better it is for the Dead’s legacy.

“I’m handling it.”

If the Dead wind up in the Problem Attic because of you, so help me God I’ll strangle you with your own enormously-crotched pants.

“I’m handling it!”


“Ah, shit. How did you get into my hotel room?”

“Vith my charm, Lover Man.”

“And you redecorated.”

“Melania makes vherever she is home.”

“It looks like Staten Island threw up.”

“I do not know vhat is this Staten Island. Now come to Melania. Let me lay under you vhile you thrust.”

“You are the single least sexy human on the planet.”

“Sveat on me, Lover Man.”

Dude, this is not handling it.

“I’m handling it!”

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