Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: dead & company (page 3 of 36)

Jeff Chimenti Shows His Pow

Courtesy of Tor Haxson in the Comment Section, sort of.

F*R*I*E*D

“Nearly beat him to death on four separate occasions, Ass.”

Hey, Billy. Bobby?

“Yeah. Could’ve popped his eyeballs out with my thumbs once. Parish stopped me, but later he told me that he wished he hadn’t.”

What did Bobby ever do to you?

“I can hear that hair dryer of his in my sleep. There’s something about beauty that drives violence.”

Only in the psychotic.

“PIttsburgh, 1979. I tried to drown him in each of the three rivers.”

Why?

“Weir doesn’t like to admit this nowadays, but he used to be a Republican.”

I heard about that.

“He wouldn’t stop with Reagan. Called him ‘Big Ron.’ Kept making everyone eat jellybeans.”

Well, jellybeans are all right.

“I got no problem with the candy itself. It’s just that he would watch you eat it while whispering ‘Morning in America’ over and over. That’s the kind of thing that gets to a man.”

I can see that becoming a problem.

“Made us watch Bedtime for Bonzo on the tour bus. No one wants to see that shit, man.”

But there was a monkey!

“If I want a monkey, I break into a zoo. Fuck monkeys.”

Okay. Well, I’m glad you’re all getting along now.

“We don’t speak.”

Good enough.

Bobby Has The Floor

“Maybe it’s the frazmoidoscopics.”

“Not a thing, Bobby.”

“Speculorpheronic frequency decoupler?”

“Also not a thing?”

“Wibble?’

“I don’t think it’s the wibble.”

“Maybe the battery’s dead.”

“That actually could be it.”

“Awesome. Now go round up three or four volunteers from Headcount to help me up.”

“Got it.”

The Next Logical Step

“AHHHHH!”

“Calm down, sir.”

“IT’S MADE OF TERROR!”

“It’s just a poster, sir.”

“That’s just a poster like Dorian Gray’s painting is just a selfie! It’s got bad juju, Jenk-Jenk!”

“Is it the teeth?”

“BY GOD AND DOW CHEMICALS, YES! Yes, it is the teeth, Jenkins! I think those are Martha Raye’s dentures!”

“Sir?”

“The older readers are laughing at the reference. Trust me.”

“I think this poster is interesting, sir. It’s colorful. It’s, uh, rectangular.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Nothing is misspelled on this one.”

“Point in our column. Still, though: this is just too frightening for us. Perhaps one of the heavier, metallic groups would like it.”

“I doubt it, sir.”

“Ah! I have an idea! Why are you crouching in a defensive position, Jenkins?”

“I’m familiar with your ideas, sir.”

“Stand on your wee hooves, you goat dressed like a man-baby.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s what you are, Jenkins. A secret goat.”

“If you insist, sir.”

“I was on to you when I noticed all my tin cans were missing.”

“I keep telling you, sir: I threw the cans away after you consumed their contents.”

“Lying goat bastard.”

“You had an idea, sir?”

“Idea!”

FASWOOSH!

“Oh, no, sir!”

“The Time Sheath!”

“I am begging you to put that down, sir.”

“All our problems can be solved, Jenkins.”

“And uncountably more created, sir. There’s no way to travel through time without creating paradoxes and causing glitches and breaking timestreams. We’re not qualified, sir.”

“Jenkins, we’re white American men. We’re qualified for everything.”

“No, sir. Not this.”

“First, I’m going to choose smarter, more attractive parents for you.”

“That won’t work, sir.”

“And, obviously, the usual land speculation and sports wagering.”

“Obviously.”

“And then we’ll go back to Austria in the 1890’s.”

“No. No, no, no. We cannot kill Baby Hitler. It’s a cliché at this point how bad an idea going back in time and killing Baby Hitler is, sir. No killing Baby Hitler, sir.”

“Oh, how I wish I could recycle you, Jenkins. Just toss you in a blue bin, feel good about myself, and then not think about what happens to you. We’re not killing Baby Hitler. How unimaginative do you think I am?”

“Oh, good.”

“We’re going to molest Child Hitler.”

“Oh, no.”

“We’ll diddle the self-confidence right out of him!”

“I think this is the kind of conversation you go to Hell for having, sir.”

“The world will view us as heroes, Jenkins.”

“It won’t, sir.”

“How is killing Baby Hitler better than molesting Child Hitler?”

“I don’t know, but it is.”

“You should argue in front of the Supreme Court with opinions as well-founded as that, Jenkins. Now, come on. Grab those candy bars and let’s get to messing this kid up.”

“Didn’t we start out talking about posters?”

“Life is a highway, Jenkins. Now let’s ride it to Child Hitler’s house and play the secret-keeping game.”

“I think I quit.”

“Resignation denied.”

“Goddammit.”

Man Without Hat

“Thoughts on my Ass! Look at me! I’m doing stuff!”

You’re drumming.

“Well, somebody’s got to.”

Mickey not helping?

“He’s just shaking fries around in a fast food bag and calling it Salty Maracas. I got no idea with that guy any more.”

How about the clogs?

“Not this tour. He’s got tap shoes.”

Mickey’s gonna play tap shoes?

“No, he’s gonna chuck ’em at Bobby when he plays Lost Sailor.”

Makes sense. So what happened last night?

“I stuck it in some skank.”

Besides that.

“Was there a show? I dunno, man, you tell me. I’ve been on auto-pilot for a decade.”

There was a show, but it started to rain 20 minutes into the second set and you guys disappeared.

“Oh, yeah! I remember that.”

The Dead used to play in the rain all the time.

“Here’s the thing, Ass: the entire world’s gone pussy. Everyone you meet these days: biggest fucking pussies on the planet. So it rained a little and all the crying little pussies got scared and cut the power. Punks. Dead used to play through riots. I mean, we caused ’em all but still: show must go on and all that.”

Uh-huh. Couldn’t one of you at least have gone back out onstage and made an announcement?

“Here’s the other thing: it turns out we played long enough to get paid.”

So?

“So…fuck ’em.”

You’re the heart and soul of the operation, Billy.

“Yeah, I’m the tits, too.”

So That’s Where She’s Been…

I’m gonna tell you right now: if you pull that “disappearing without a trace because it’s drizzling” shit on me, I’ll have the North Korean army track you down.

“Only Korean.”

You know what I mean. Who are these people?

“Oh, let me introduce the room. This is–”

Wait. I just remembered that I don’t care.

“You’re rude.”

I’m not. Tell Princess Doofus that her haircut makes her look like a doofus.

“I won’t tell her that.”

C’mon. If you say it, she’ll like it.

“She won’t.”

“Psst.”

“Was that you?”

No.

“Psst.”

“It’s coming from a road case.”

Open it.

“Oh, shit. Um, everyone out. Nice hanging with you, but you gotta go. Let’s go.”

HIPSTERS SHUFFLING OUT NOISE

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Hide me, Josh Meyers. I cannot go back there.”

“I understand you not wanting to live with him–”

“Soggy Man. I call him Soggy Man.”

“–with the Soggy Man, but you can’t stay here.”

“Is last place they vould look.”

“Yeah, okay, you have a good point there, but still.”

“I vill tour vith Grateful Dead. Get head straight. Also, I vill collect $300 that Matt Busch owes me.”

“How do you know Matt Busch?”

“Is long story. You vill hide me, Josh!”

“John.”

“Maybe I vill vork for tour.”

“Doing what?”

“Do you need trophy vife?”

“No.”

“First Lady?”

“Dead & Company does not need a First Lady. Listen, Melania, just leave him if you’re so unhappy.”

“I cannot! He vill send Rudy Giuliani after me vith his clawfingers and veird eyeballs! Or Sarah Sanders vith her fat arms and veird eyeballs. Josh?”

“Yes?”

“Vhy he have so many people vith veird eyeballs vorking for him?”

“Just a coincidence, I guess.”

“See! You understand me, Josh Meyers. Now come help Melania out of trenchcoat.”

“Um…”

“Is easy. Just a button or two.”

“Um, Mrs. Trump, are you trying to seduce me?”

“Shh. Come to First Lady.”

“Oh, this won’t end well.”

In Which Billy Learns A New Word

“Hey, Ass! Where’s Fucky?”

Fucky?

“Ding Dong Doodle.”

Who?

“Mister Clothes.”

Oh, Josh. I have no idea. Has he still not shown up for rehearsal?

“Nah, and my accountant’s getting worried.”

Not you, though?

“Nah, fuck him. But he’s gotta be here for us to get paid. It’s in the contract.”

You read the contract?

“I shoved it in a chick that works at a Dollar Store. Same thing, legally.”

I’m not a lawyer, so I can’t refute that.

“Seriously, where is the kid? At least when we used to go missing, we had good reasons.”

Such as?

“Rehab. Jail. Had a fight with the keyboardist and got on a plane 15 minutes before the show started.”

Right.

“What’s he doing?”

Twinks, I think.

“Twinks? Is that like Fortnite?”

No. They’re kinda like skank. But with dicks.

“Hey, some skank has dicks. They should tell you upfront, but they don’t. Some guys freak out, but not me.”

Because you’re open-minded?

“Shit, no. Because I flip ’em over and do my work in the backyard.”

Always a pleasure, Billy.

“I’M DRUMMING!”

You, too, Mick.

The Silver Knight

Hey, Jeff Chimenti. Whatcha doing?

“Pouting.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“I have feelings, too.”

I don’t even know where you got it in your head that you would be invited to the royal wedding.

“Is it because I’m Italian?”

No. Well, maybe.

“I mean, I couldn’t have gone because of Dead & Company rehearsal, but it would have been nice to have been asked.”

Do you even know these people?

“Dude. Maggie Marker?”

Meghan Markle.

“Huge Deadhead.”

Really?

“Like Walton, but with fewer knee surgeries. I’ve met her a bunch of times. She used to follow Ratdog.”

Wow, that is dedicated.

“Right? And then: nothing. Like we’re just the hired help.”

Um…

“Yes, I know that me and Oteil are literally the hired help, but it still hurts.”

Don’t know what to tell you. Maybe they’ll hit one of the shows for their honeymoon.

“You think?”

Oh, yeah. Probably Camden. It’s royal tradition to honeymoon in Camden, New Jersey.

“You’re a dick.”

You’re delusional.

“Kiss my grits.”

Jeff?

“What?”

Where’s Josh?

“We’ve actually been wondering that ourselves.”

Huh.

One Dead, Two Company

I’m gonna need everyone who isn’t Bobby or Oteil to take his hand off his dick. Thank you.

OR

“Laurel!”

“Yanny!”

“Laurel!”

“Yanny!”

“BOTH OF YOU KNOCK IT OFF!”

OR

When did the Dead become Metallica? Are we doing the all-black thing now? I’m fine with it, but Josh wont be if he ever shows up for rehearsal.

OR

Seriously, Jeff, let go of your dong.

Dead Or Company?

“So, uh, some folks heard ‘oral.'”

“Bobby.”

“And others heard ‘handy.'”

“No.”

“And, you know, both of those are fine ways to let young ladies show their appreciation of your musical abilities.”

“You’re not getting it right.”

“I suppose if she had a lot of rings on, I’d go for ‘oral.’ Or maybe some sort of skin condition. But if she had, say, a mouthful of peanut butter in her braces, I would go for ‘handy.’ There’s a lot of variables here.”

“Bobby, it’s ‘Laurel’ and–”

“Billy! Did you hear ‘oral’ or ‘handy?'”

“Fuck that grade school shit! Straight anal, baby!”

“Billy heard ‘straight anal.’ What about you, New Brent?”

“How do you not know my name? We’ve known each other for 20 years, Bob.”

“And I value our relationship right up until the moment you ask for more money.”

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