The Limbo contest was Bill Graham’s idea, and it didn’t catch on.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 44 of 139)
Oh, c’mon! I need to put my foot down.
“People who appreciate a good deal need a Garcia, too. I’m Wal-Mart Garcia.”
Nice how you put effort into the name.
“Don’t you creativity-shame me!”
Not a thing.
“I had a terrible education.”
Where’d you go to school?
“Brown.”
Sure. Get out.
![[PDF] Li, Ernest Hemingway -](http://thoughtsonthedead.com/wp-content/uploads/PDF-Li-Ernest-Hemingway-.jpg)
“I will tutor you, Wal-Mart Garcia.”
Fuck this shit.
“My lessons will be direct. We will write in the morning. We will do dangerous activities in the afternoon. Then, the drink.”
And you are?
“Manly Garcia.”
Sure.
![[PDF] Pratchett starts process](http://thoughtsonthedead.com/wp-content/uploads/PDF-Pratchett-starts-process.jpg)
“That man’s not half the Garcia I am, Wal-Mart Garcia.”
I don’t understand this storyline at all.
“Join with me, and we will wear hats.”
Terry Garcia?
“Oh, hello. Have we been introduced?”
Okay, that’s enough. Every white guy with a beard and a book or two to his name isn’t a Garcia.
“Who are you calling white, sir?”
Shit.
“Garcias come in all colors, shapes, and sizes.”
One size, really.
“To deny that one is a Garcia is to deny one is a man!”
Fine, whatever: you’re a Garcia.
“Thank you.”
Name?
“Slavery Garcia.”
OH, COME ON.
“You have a problem with my name?”
A bit on the nose, isn’t it?
“Don’t tell me what my name is. Don’t tell me what to do. I was born a slave and I wrote a book. You’ve been white all your life. Where’s your book?”
FUCK YOU, FREDERICK DOUGLAS!
“FUCK YOU, WHITE BOY!”
Can we not do this?
He started it.
No. No, he didn’t There’s no “he.”
…
Yeah, sure.
Please stop doing this bit. It’s weird and no one likes it.
Some people like it.
They’re wrong to do so.
Just out of frame is Bobby, who is wearing a pair of XXL sweatpants with a ketchup stain on the left thigh: the wardrobe mistress was fired that night.
Check out this close-up of Garcia’s knee:
Weird, right?
Hey, Gar–
“What the fuck’s wrong with you, man? Really. It’s strange behavior. Positively out there.”
Y’think?
“Beyond the pale.”
I would think you’d be happy to have a worldwide brotherhood.
“Don’t do that anymore. Gave me the heebie-jeebies. There’s only one me, man.”
Not even that, anymore.
“You’re a bummer, man.”
Sorry.
“Go bother Weir.”
That’s always fun.
“You’d be surprised.”
Oh. who the hell are you?
“I am the real Curry Garcia! That other bastard is stealing my act!”
I don’t want to play this game.
“Satisfaction must be mine! I summon the Court of Garcias!”
Stop this.
“Garcia-san reporting.”
Motherfucker.
“My verdict is: death by seppuku.”
Oh, that’s your answer for everything.
“You have shamed me. I will now commit seppuku.”
Stop this. Stop all of this.
“A-sala’am Alekem, or however you spell that.”
Oh, this won’t end well.
“I am Imam Garcia. I heard we were gathering?”
No.
“That is what I heard.”
You heard an incorrect thing.
“Allow me to make up quotes at you–”
Please don’t.
“–the sands of the oasis water both camel and man. Hmm? Nice?”
It’s not terrible, honestly. But you still need to leave.
“Did someone assemble the Garcias?”
YOU ARE NOT A GARCIA. You’re Hagrid.
“Hagrid Garcia.”
No.
Please make this end.
I want to help you there, but I’ve lost control of the idea.
That’s not a thing.
“It could be a thing with some magic!”
Shut up, Hagrid.
Yeah, Hagrid. Go fuck your hippogriff. Grown-ups are talking.
“Jeez.”
Shush.
Anyway: can we stop this, please?
I’m trying, but–
![[PDF] Idiots raged over a turban](http://thoughtsonthedead.com/wp-content/uploads/PDF-Idiots-raged-over-a-turban.jpg)
–I’m outnumbered by Garcias.
“I’m Cranky Turban Garcia and I say we hang the sonofabitch.”
I don’t even remember what we were talking about.
It was gibberish from the start.
“Do not ignore me!”
…
Just hit publish and move on.
Yeah.
Didn’t see the cigarette at first, did you? I missed it, too, and was confused: the only pictures of Garcia without a cigarette are the scuba shots.
Also: the ultra-rare Parish potato salad.
Pain in the ass, you were;
Hesitant traveler;
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.
Spirituality;
Gnostic mortality:
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.
There are no gods, not here;
You deserve more, my dear;
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.
Ghats are on fire for you;
Ticket for one, not two;
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.
Carry-on, overhead;
God’s got an elephant head;
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.
Prayers you wouldn’t understand;
No road crew and no band;
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.
It’s no Mississippi:
What’s one more dead hippie?
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.
Everybody needs a place
To hide and tend their sores.
All God’s failures need some space
Afternoons, the threes and fours,
They chomp and nip your heel.
And then the limbs and then the cores.
Armor’s fine, but it’s just steel,
And it will turn to rust.
Then you’ll be naked on the wheel.
Life and all, a total bust,
Goddamned bills and half-darned sock.
Never figured who to trust.
A sloppy mind and droopy cock,
Imagination’s victim.
Door’s still got a healthy lock.
Who the hell are you?
“Hello, it is pleasing to be making your acquaintance. I am Curry Garcia.”
No. No. No. No.
“When they dumped White Garcia–”
Don’t call him that.
“–in the Ganges, he reincarnated as myself.”
This is not okay. I need you to leave.
“Pip pip!”
Oh, come on. Who are you?
“Nigel Garcia.”
Fuck no. Absolutely fuck no. This is not the International House of Garcias. Get out. And take the Indian guy with you.
“What about me, Branford Garcia?”
You’re Rick Ross.
“That’s my rap name. Actually a Garcia.”
No.
“Everything the white man stole from us, you gotta try to take Garcia, too?”
I no longer understand what’s going on.
When this year gets you down–and it should have by now–remember that people are still delightful on occasion, and that though there is evil and strife, there is also a guy in Japan who makes Lego dioramas of of a semi-defunct choogly-type band from two continents over.
Also: as stated, that is the 1978 band with Keith and Mrs. Donna Jean, and Maria Muldaur with the curly plastic hair; the inevitable John Kahn on bass, and the wonderfully-named Buzz Buchanan on drums.
It would be wrong to say that the Maria Muldaur Lego looks like Whora the Explora.
Also also: Garcia’s long-lost twin from the Sub-Continent, Curry Garcia.
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