Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (Page 14 of 198)

A Dialogue That Goes As Poorly As The Performance That Inspired It

August 12, 2019 / / 3 Comments

Hey, Paul Simon. Whatcha doing?

“Suffering! Honestly? I’m suffering. No Jew in history has ever suffered as much as me.”

You sure you don’t wanna amend that statement?

“No. Fuck Anne Frank. Let her sue me.”

What’s your problem?

“He doesn’t know the song!”

The Boxer.

“Yeah. I asked him Bob, do you know the song? and he said Sure, uh-huh, gotcha.”

Ah. That’s how Bobby answers every question. Usually, though, Matt Busch follows up a few minutes later and gets him out of whatever he just agreed to.

“You knew what he sang? In the clearing stands the Bobber; In his poncho and his beard and then he just started humming. It’s unprofessional.”

Hey, you’re lucky. Bobby has been waaaaay more unprofessional than that.

“Ugh. I never got the whole Grateful Dead thing. Doodley-doodley and all the kids are on drugs. Terrible scene.”

Uh-huh. You sure you’re not just still pissed that Garcia fucked your wife?

“HE DID NOT!”

Little bit.

“You include me in your little blog again and I’m suing.”

She gave him a beardjob.

“FUCK YOU!”

TEAM GARFUNKEL!

Diamonds On The Soles Of His Birkenstocks

August 12, 2019 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Poncho time.”

Uh-huh. What else?

“Well, uh, I’m doing a little duet with Paul Simon. I don’t know if you know this, but–”

He’s not your best friend, Bobby.

“–he’s my best friend.”

I thought Jimi Hendrix was your best friend.

“He never calls.”

Sure.

“Me and Paul are tight, even though neither of us have ever mentioned it, or performed together, or even been seen in the same room.”

If you insist.

“He’s kinda my Garfunkel.”

Don’t say that to him. He’s prickly.

“I think you’ve got him confused with James Taylor. Paul Simon is known throughout the music industry as a caring, generous, warm-hearted man.”

He is not.

“I may be thinking of Simon LeBon.”

Maybe.

“Who is also my best friend.”

Sure.

It’s A (Mocca) Sin

August 10, 2019 / / 3 Comments

“Hey, uh, guys? Did we forget something?”

“We’ve got our soft-soled hippie shoes.”

“And our enormous guitars.”

“Sure, right, yeah, uh-huh. But, uh, aren’t there usually people in the seats?”

…

“Goddammit, we forgot to sell tickets.”

“Let’s blame Mickey.”

“He doesn’t join the band for two weeks, Lesh.”

“I don’t give a shit. I say this is Mickey’s fault.”

I Need A Jonas ‘Bout Twice My Height

August 9, 2019 / / 0 Comments

“Easy, son. That’s the trick shoulder.”

“Sorry, Mr. Weir.”

“Don’t worry about it. It might actually be the other shoulder.”

“Okay.”

“Now, I know I’ve asked you this already, but–”

“I’m not Bill Walton.”

“–are you Bill…ah. I thought maybe Marvel got ahold of you and sprayed some of that de-aging gunk on your face.”

“They do that with computers, I think.”

“Welcome to the 90’s, right?”

“Sir?”

“This was fun. Now, uh, can you point me towards the trainer’s room?”

Bob-a-huey

August 8, 2019 / / 1 Comment

“Big dog’s comin’ at you, Lewis.”

“We’re in front of reporters, Bob. And we’re promoting a show to raise money for AIDS charities. The only way you attacking me could be any less appropriate would be if our mothers were in the room.”

“Your mom’s name is Mooey Lewis.”

“Bob.”

“Cuz she’s a cow.”

“Bob.”

“Four stomachs, chews her cud, the whole deal. You got a cow-mom.”

…

“I’m begging you, man.”

“Pistols at noon, Hewis.”

“Don’t call me that. And it’s usually pistols at dawn.”

“I don’t get up that early. Wait, I got a lunch thing tomorrow. Let’s make it pistols at two-ish. Half-past at the latest.”

“No pistols, Bob.”

“Then the big dog is comin’ at you.”

Family Feud

August 6, 2019 / / 0 Comments

“Just, uh, keep an eye out.”

“Dad, you have to let this Huey Lewis thing go.”

“Never. I’m gonna piss on that son-of-a-bitch’s grave.”

“Wow.”

“You think they’ll bury him in one of those colorful suits he favors?”

“I don’t know, Dad. To tell you the truth, I barely know who Huey Lewis is. He wrote the song about wanting a new drug, right?”

“Yuh-huh. Another thing he stole from the Dead. We invented wanting drugs. That was our thing.”

“Please let it go.”

“Head on a swivel, Chloe.”

“Monet.”

“All right, sure. THERE! I see you, you easy-rocking bastard!”

“Dad, that’s not him.”

“No, no. Listen to your father.”

“Daddy is always right.”

“Have you ever googled ‘duck penis?'”

…

“Uh, yeah. You may be right, Money.”

“Monet.”

“Okee-doke. THERE!”

“Dad, no.”

“That’s Hugh Laurie.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“There’s only way to be sure. Let’s wait five minutes and see if there’s a saxophone solo.”

“Dad, this is getting–”

“THERE!”

“No. I think he was in one of the Harry Potter movies.”

“Huey Lewis is in movies.”

“Not British ones, Dad. That guy’s name is David Thewlis.”

“You’re a regular ICBM, sweetie.”

“IMDB.”

“And I am BW.”

“Dad, I’m gonna ask you something and I don’t want you to be offended.”

“Shoot.”

“Was your shoulder hurting earlier?”

“No.”

…

“It was my knee. THERE!”

“Nope.”

“You can see the resemblance, though, right?”

“Not really.”

“But it is a Huey.”

“Can we go inside, please?”

“Lead the way, Mopface.”

“Monet.”

“Sure.”

…

…

…

“Psst.”

Me?

“Yeah. Is Bobby gone?”

Uh-huh. Who is this?

“It’s me.”

Hewis!

“Don’t call me that. I can’t deal with Weir anymore, man. The guy’s a nut.”

His alignment’s a couple degrees off-center, yeah.

“You know what I’m talking about. Hey, lemme ask you a question.”

Is the question How old is Bobby’s daughter?

“Yes, it is.”

You may not ask me that question.

“All right. Am I pulling this pose off?”

No man has ever pulled that pose off.

“That’s what I thought.”

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