Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (page 1 of 180)

The Fullest Muppet Possible Given The Genetics

No one gives your ’77 beard enough credit.

“Yeah, she’s pretty manly.”

I don’t know if that sentence makes sense.

“Well, obviously my beard is female.”

Why?

“It’s, uh, sitting on my face. Not to get too Billy about the whole thing, but only ladies are allowed to saddle up.”

Sure.

“But, you know, the characteristics displayed are masculine. Robustness, stolidity, forward-thinking.”

If you say so. Why do you have Dee Dee Ramone’s haircut?

“I asked for it specifically. Gotta keep up with the punkers.”

Okay. Tell Phil I say hi.

“He’s not fond of you.”

I’m aware.

Podia

“…no one could use that bathroom for a couple of weeks. They had to get one of those companies that cleans up crime scenes to come out. Hell of a thing.”

Bobby, what are you doing?

“Pontificating. But, you know, without the hat. Or the child abuse. Sometimes I wear a hat, though. But never the child abuse. You shouldn’t even compare those two things, really.”

True.

“Big on hats, the Catholics. And, uh, the Jews. Their hats aren’t as big. Just as holy, apparently.”

Bobby, why are you giving a speech?

“Because my mime work is sub-par at best. At best.”

I don’t even know what that–

“Bobby! Hey, buddy! We talking hats?”

“We were covering a lot of subjects, Birdy.”

“Benjy.”

“Okay.”

“Bobby, I know hats. When it comes to hats, I make Holly Bowling look like an amateur.”

“That’s a bold statement.”

“I’ll back it up. Watch what happens when I take this one off.”

HAT REMOVING NOISE

“Huh. There’s another one under there.”

“Hats all the way down, man! Let’s join podiums.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“C’mon. It’s not gay. We’ll touch tips.”

“I don’t want to touch tips, Booboo.”

“Benjy.”

“Okay.”

PYROTECHNIC NOISE!

“What, uh, the hell was that?”

“I heard we were having a podium party.”

Okay, this has gotten stupid.

“I agree.”

Which one of you said that?

“Me.”

“Me.”

“Me.”

Sounds right.

Bobby Knobby

Hey, Mickey. Looking flexible.

“I’m lithe, and my tendons are supple.”

Gross. Hey, Bobby.

“Howdy.”

Buddy, you’re the worst clown I’ve ever seen. You look stern.

“I was going for whimsical.”

You missed it and hit morose.

“I gotta cut down on the botox.”

Sure. I mean, look how happy Mickey is. That’s how you wear a clown nose.

“Yeah, sure, but Mickey’s drunk.”

You’re not?

“I am, but off a different liquor.”

That does make sense.

Fare Thee A Little Bit Better Than This

After a great deal of discussion, the school board decided that Heather Has Three Daddies, At Least Two Of Whom Are Schnockered wasn’t appropriate for the library.

OR

Ginge on a binge.

OR

Li’l Orphan Xannie.

OR

“Whose shoulder hurts?”

“Mine.”

“Over here.”

All I Know Is That She Sang A Lille While

Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?

“Ah’m boogyin’, sugar. Most nobody don’ know what kinda moves Ah got.”

You mostly just swayed gently onstage.

“Ah was under strict instructions! Miz Donna Jean, we ain’t that kinda band. That’s what e’rybody would tell me. Otherwise, Ah woulda done a li’l hotsteppin’.”

I had no idea.

“Dancin’ Queen Donna Jean. That was mah nickname growin’ up in Alabama. Ah once had the honor of performin’ the tango with Governor Wallace.”

What was that like?

“He kept jammin’ his pecker into mah stomach.”

Sounds right.

OR

I see you back there, Ramrod.

OR

Full.

Fucking.

Muppet.

There’s Not Enough Question Marks For This One

The important questions, Enthusiasts. We concern ourselves with only the most vital of the day’s issues. Let lesser sites finger their rosaries over peace, war, coffee cups left on tables, et cetera. These are trifles. No, we’ll not be spending our ever-shrinking lives boodling about in the intellectual shallow end. We’re gonna get down to what’s really real, you and me.

And, thus, we come to our question: Did Phil yoink Bobby’s BMW shirt?

I told you it was important.

Surfboardt

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Well, uh, you know Sammy.”

“WOO!”

Hey, Sammy.

“And, uh, this is some sort of handsome gentleman.”

That is Rick Springfield.

“Ah. Question.”

Shoot.

“Did he ever get Jesse’s girl?”

I don’t think so.

“Probably for the best. Bros before hos.”

What? Who taught you that?

“Sammy.”

“WOO!”

I should have guessed.

An Aesthetic

Precarious?

“Yo.”

Why must there always be pandemonium?

“Referring to?”

The stage. It looks like a woodworking shop had a baby with a Guitar Center, and then the baby exploded.

“Eh. Band liked it this way.”

How could anyone like this?

“Maybe ‘like’ is wrong. How about ‘The band didn’t give a shit if it looked this way?'”

That sounds right.

Acrostic The Rio Grand-ee-oh

W is for water, as in rain, which was dripdripdroppifying all over the scalawags and reprobates and chickies at Woodstock, which is where this photo was taken.

O is for omelettes, which you couldn’t get because there was no food because it was just a fucking field with no amenities.

O is for opera, which is the plural of opus, which just means “work.” When you call something an opera, you’re literally saying “this thing someone made.” Lot less fancy when you know that.

D is for Dirty Dingus Magee. Sinatra was in it. He played a cowboy.

Because when you think “cowboy,” you think “Sinatra.” Blue-eyed Enthusiasts will note the luxurious toupee under the hat; Frank named all his hairpieces, and called that one Husky Boy.

S is for Sly Stone, or perhaps Sha Na Na, (PREDICTION: When the absurd “every single note of every single band” 38-disc Woodstock box set is released, Rock Nerds will all rediscover the Na’s brilliance. Pitchfork is already readying a thinkpiece on Bowser, I guarantee it.)

T is a drink with jam and bread, or crystal meth, or testosterone, or the mohawked muscle of the A-Team, or a square, or one of two events that stop play in a basketball game.

O is pissing me off, honestly. Three appearances in one word is too much, O. Let the other vowels get a chance to play.

C is for Country Joe and his Fish, and I’m gonna pass. Hard pass.

K is allowed to ask me about my business just this once, and also potassium.

Four On The Floor

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Well, I’m not scowling.”

That’s big for you when you’re getting your picture taken.

“I knew you’d appreciate the gesture.”

Is Jackie Greene related to Benicio del Toro?

“I have no idea who either of those people are.”

Jackie Greene is the person to your right who isn’t your wife or Matt Busch.

“Is that who that is?”

Yes.

“I thought it was Steph Curry.”

No.

“Then why did he sign my basketball?”

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