Here we see an incredibly rare vintage toy part: the head to Stretch Garcia.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 112 of 139)
So, this is a thing.
So…there’s this.
Getting caught with dope? In Louisiana? In Nineteen fucking Seventy?
I wouldn’t be smiling.
“Oh, hey. So, he and…huh. We were go going and ha-HA! Right! You know, of course, that ‘coven’ and ‘covenant’ can be parsed to the feminine case of the Indo-European, so when we make any deal, we’re invoking a specifically feminine power. Men, women, Mrs. Donna Jean: the creation of the contract-which ITSELF is a feminine word: to bind together, the ultimate bond, mother and child. The Universe is female: of course it is.
“It must be.
…
“You smell like Chinese food; I’m going to pat you down for Chinese food.”
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?
I’m melting! I’m melting!
I’ve always wondered what Garcia would look like if he had Tyrannosaurus arms, haven’t you?
Start at Bobby’s head, then look directly north about an inch, right next to Billy’s cymbals.
What’s worse: sweatpants or no pants?
© 2026 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments