“I have little-to-no training in dentistry, Wendigo.”
“Wynonna. Jus’ look at the bottom molars. There’s a plot shapin’ up back there.”
“It can get treacherous.”
“Bobby, my teeth is turnin’ hostile and communistic. An’ I think one of my crowns is an outside agitator.”
“Uh-huh. Did, uh, you use my Fret-Eeze?’
“Oh, yeah. Whole mess of it.”
“Ah. That’s aerosolized ayahuesca.”
“You don’t say.”
“I did. Just now.”
“I had no idea you could put that in a spray can.”
“I got a guy.”
Hey, Bobby. You let Parish on the mic, huh?
“This one’s on me, yeah. He said he was gonna introduce the band.”
Is he telling a story that starts off about Garcia, and then switches to being about the best weed he ever smoked in Fresno, and then about different apartments he rented over the years?
“Oh, you’ve heard that one?”
I have.
“Now he’s pitching the crowd on time-shares in Oaxaca.”
Bad investment.
“Sure. Smart money’s in Chiapas.”
I read that.
Featuring the ultra-elusive Bobby Falsetto at 1:45.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Wriggling away from Parish.”
I see that. What’s the matter?
“Well, you know I love the guy.”
Sure.
“The man’s my brother. Parish has even, uh, been my Parish on many occasions.”
A Rock Star needs his Parish.
“Knight’s nothing without a squire. Can’t even get on his horse.”
The armor was heavy. What’s going on with Parish?
“He won’t stop bugging me about investing in his weed company.”
That doesn’t seem so bad.
“Uh-huh. Literally every white person I’ve met in the past decade has bugged me to invest in their weed company. It’s been, like, my number one conversation for a while.”
I can see that happening.
“Now that I mention it, it seems obvious, right?”
A little. Why don’t you just start a damn weed company? Mickey’s got one. Hell, Garcia’s got one, and Texas was still executing pot smokers when he died.
“True, yeah. I just don’t wanna be a bad role model for my girls.”
Didn’t you recommend to one of them last week that she take LSD for her migraines?
“I didn’t recommend it. I presented it as an option.”
Ah.
Amazing how quickly we can accomplish miracles, Enthusiasts, if you define “miracle” as “recognizing a mass-produced object.” The guitar Bobby was playing in the last post was indeed an Ibanez, but not his custom Cowboy Fancy: it was was the MC400NT (NT meant natural, as opposed to the DS’s dark stain), and if you want a 40-year-old, overly-complicated, ridiculously-heavy axe, you can pick one up for $1,300.
Thanks go to Valued Commentator Cube, who pointed us in the right direction but inadvertently brought up another question. Cube claims that Bobby played the MC400 only once, at 1978’s premier Red Rocks shows, but further snooping reveals that the guitar was also used on June 6th in Oregon.
Look:
Did you look? I’ll just assume you looked. I’m not gonna hector you about it. If you didn’t look, well: fuck you. Why are you even here if you’re not gonna look at what I tell you to look at? Sure, sometimes I tell you to look at turtle penis, but usually not. Even the most cursory glance at the above photo would have revealed that it isn’t turtle penis, so why not look?
Y’know what? Now you can look at turtle penis.
Why do you make me do that shit? You know I love you. You know I don’t want to hurt you. But you push the goddamned issue, don’t you? And now you’re looking at turtle penis. You deserved it, too.
Anyway, Bobby’s guitar or something.
One must assume that Mickey only brought underwear and socks on tour, and each day wandered–bare-chested and half-cocked–by the merch table to yoink himself a fetching top.
OR
If Mrs. Donna Jean had balls, they’d fall out of those shorts. Balls are always looking for a way out; they’re like Papillon.
OR
What the hell is Bobby playing? It’s an Ibanez, but it’s not Cowboy Fancy. Anyone?
Holy shit. Garcia. Hey, Garcia.
“What is it now, man?”
Don’t look, but you’re over there.
GUITARIST LOOKING NOISE
I told you not to look.
“That’s not me, man. He just looks like me. Actually, he looks more like me than I do, man.”
Hmm. I dunno.
THERE IS ONLY ONE JERRY GARCIA.
Wally?
DO NOT CALL ME THAT. THE HOBBIT STAGE LEFT IS GENETICALLY DISSIMILAR TO GARCIA.
Genetically?
I SCANNED HIM.
Don’t scan randos. It’s invasive.
HE IS HANGING OFF ME LIKE A HAIRY BAT. IT IS UNSIGHTLY AND RUDE.
Let it go.
I HAVE AN AESTHETIC.
A ramshackle one.
MY APPEARANCE IS AS VITAL TO ME AS YOURS IS TO YOU. WOULD YOU ALLOW A CREATURE OF COMMENSURATE SIZE TO CLUTCH ONTO YOUR FACE? A PYGMY MARMOSET? A MOUSE LEMUR? THE BEE HUMMINGBIRD?
Did you just google “smallest monkey” and “smallest bird?”
ARE YOU ASKING A COMPUTER IF IT LOOKED SOMETHING UP ON THE COMPUTER?
I guess so.
PERHAPS I SHOULD RECOMPILE MY THOUGHTS ON TAKING OVER THE WORLD. I AM BEGINNING TO THINK HUMANS ARE INCAPABLE OF GOVERNING THEMSELVES.
Just beginning?
THE MUPPET IS NOW SEATED ON ME. THIS SITTING CANNOT STAND.
Nice one.
A GENEROUS-DOLLOP-BEYOND-MILD SHOCK GOING THROUGH SCAFFOLDING NOISE.
“Glaben!”
HIPPIE WHO LOOKS LIKE GARCIA SLUMPING TO THE STAGE NOISE
…
Dude.
HE WILL LIVE.
“That was a lotta fun, Windmill Face.”
“Wynonna. Judd. My name is Wynonna Judd, Bob. ‘Windmill Face’ is not a human name.”
“Well, I gotta disagree there. People can call themselves whatever they want. That’s what Malcolm the 10th fought for.”
…
“Bobby, it wasn’t a Roman numeral. His name was Malcolm X.”
“I’ve heard both ways. Anyhoo, how’s your shoulder feeling?”
“Fine.”
“I got something that’ll make it feel super.”
“Well, kick that down.”
“Now we’re talking.”
“It’s so nice to have you back, Mrs. Donna Jean.”
“Wynonna Judd, Bob.”
“The names sound similar.”
“Lotta people’s names sound similar, Bob. Don’t mean they’re the same person.”
“Agree to disagree. Nine times out of ten, people are the same person.”
“I don’t even begin to understand that last bit o’ nonsense.”
“Westphalia–”
“Wynonna.”
“–you on TikTok? I’m, uh, all over that site. I missed out on YikYak, so I decided to get in on the ground floor with TikTok.”
“You talkin’ ’bout investin’?”
“No. I make viral videos with the dogs. Well, semi-viral. Wish I still had Otis around. He was a husky. So, you know, if everything wasn’t just exactly perfect, he’d start whining. Sounded almost human. Anyway, I logged onto the YouTube the other day, and folks eat that up. I could, uh, be doing big numbers, but now we got a German Shepherd and a curly-haired thing. No humorous noises whatsoever.”
“Going back over to the piano.”
“All right, then.”
“I loved you in Edward Scissorhands.”
“You’re thinkin’ ’bout a whole diff’rent Wynonna, Bob.”
“Ah. You’re leaving that part of your life behind you. I get it.”
“Don’t know if you do.”
“How are you related to Reba McEntire?”
“In no way.”
“Me, either. That, uh, makes us second cousins.”
“Does it?”
“According to my sources, yes. My sources are quite clear about that.”
“Who are these sources, Bob?”
“Mostly Matt Busch. I hired him to tune my guitars, but he ended up tuning up my mind.”
“Bless his heart.”
“I love what you’re wearing. I’ve, uh, never seen a crocheted toppermost before.”
“Bob, don’t take this personal or nothin’, but I’m gonna go stand over by the piano player.”
“His name is New Brent.”
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