“No, I can’t look at him in those glasses, either, Brent. And tell Bobby that if he offers to ‘shorten up them shorts’ for me once more, it’s gonna be clobbering time.”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: brent mydland (Page 11 of 14)
Yeah, there’s just the pic and the semi-clever title. There is quite literally nothing interesting or funny about this photo. But, you know: Brent.
Until around ’85, Mickey thought the new keyboardist’s name was Brett Millman and Brent was just too polite to correct him.
It seems that we’re all in agreement that these upcoming Sochi games will end in blood. Slightly less disastrous was the time the Dead attended the Winter Olympiad…
Keith was assigned the bobsled and immediately drove the thing through the front window of a bank, which isn’t even possible. he was fine, but then he ate all of the pain pills the doctor had given him and then he wasn’t fine anymore. The other bobsledders ended up kind of bowling him down the track and, wouldn’t you know: that son of a bitch won the bronze.
They tried playing Garcia in goal at ice hockey because fat guy, but a strange thing happened when they put him on the ice: Garcia sprawled out like a starfish. “SAD PANDA. SAD PANDA,” he pleaded with tears in his eyes, and then he started making this unholy noise.
Bah-rooOOOOOOOOO. Bah-roooOOOOOOOOO. Over and over and, you know: if it were Bobby was doing it, there would be procedures to follow, but this was Garcia and it was making people nervous, so Billy hopped in the Zamboni and ran over three Canadians as a distraction while Parish fireman-carried Garcia out of there.
Pig declined the invitation entirely, correctly deducing that, and I am quoting, “my type a’ pussy ain’t gonna be there.”
Bobby was a pretty good skier, but when it was time for his race, he was in the chalet working on a drink and a fox and didn’t much care to compete.
Phil was told there was nothing but snow everywhere, and when he got there and found out that, while technically not a lie, that description was more than a bit disingenuous, Phil was ripshit for, like, five minutes before some dirty hippie wandered by and recognized him and gave him some drugs. Then he was better, but from then on, if you said ‘winter Olympics’ around Phil, he would retort ‘winter suck MY dicks’ and it wasn’t funny the first time, so people excluded him from figure-skating related conversations after a while.
Punched in the dick by Billy: Torvill, Dean, Peggy Fleming, Peggy Fleming’s haircut, six separate teenagers who were wearing the mascot costume, Brent while he was wearing the mascot costume, Brent in his street clothes, a reindeer, Bob Costas, an interdimensional trickster being named the Spirit of Winter Promises, and the inventor of the ski jump, Johann von Skijump.
The Dead’s acquisition and sloppy handling of Time Sheath technology has been a running thread of TotD’s Sweater of Justice. I WEAVE THESE GARMENTS OF TRUTH FOR YOU, MY BELOVEDS.
Wow.
Before they lost control of the Sheath, there were many adventures…
Phil suggested a trip through musical history; everyone readily agreed, but the first person they went to see was Rachmaninoff to hear-in person!–the maestro play his vaunted and feared Third Concerto and Bobby said “More like Cock-maninoff,” under his breath and Garcia fucking lost it: tears running down his cheeks, the whole thing, and the maestro heard them giggling and got all Russian about it and threw his piano bench into the audience. Phil wouldn’t talk to anyone for a week.
Brent committed war crimes. There’s no way to sugarcoat it.
Billy kept using it to visit P.J. Soles when she was in high school and the Time Cops–who are already really busy trying to stop every yahoo with a flux capacitor from killing Hitler–had to step in. (When we’re talking foxy 70’s babes, it’s Mrs. Donna Jean, P.J. Soles, and Bailey from WKRP. End of discussion, and none of this Loni Anderson nonsense: you wanted to take Loni Anderson out; you wanted to take Bailey home.)
Seriously: King Leopold thought Brent was a monster.
No one knew why they kept hiring that Abrams kid to take pictures; the same shit happened every tour.
A rare sight indeed: Mickey winning Best Hair
The Pig and Keith and Brent thing is well-intentioned, and the attention to detail on Phil is laudable, but if Billy or Mickey ever saw how small they were in comparison to everyone else, the rest of the afternoon would be measured in Holiday Inn bars, “borrowed” cars in ditches, and small East African military dictatorships that both flourish under Billy and Mickey’s benevolent, though confused rule, then implode into death and sin, when MIckey finds different native people banging on things and drags Billy along.
It’s a Stealie! Their faces make–
Yes, we allOOH, a Stealie!
—a Steal…you are a horrid thief: the thunder of others’ is your prize.
…
Nice.
Plus, Billy and Mickey are staring fucking LOVINGLY at each other. It’s unsettling.
And where’s fucking Donna?
Oh, Brent. Not only are you wearing the T-shirt of the band you’re in (which, admittedly is a pernicious trait within the organization), but you’re wearing the one you could get at Sam Goody’s.
Ironically enough, Brent was wearing the noob shirt.
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