Garcia, I love ya, but from that shirt to a keyboard-print scarf is a lateral move at best.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 79 of 139)
“Guys, I know we brought the giant stage, but why don’t we stand right on top of one another?”
“Good idea. Except for Keith, right?”
“Oh, of course.”
The times, they are a changin’ #411: this is now a felony. Leaving a child this close to not just one, but four Grateful Deads is completely illegal now. It might be some sort of super-felony, shit they only charge Manuel Noriega or Lex Luthor with.
“Oui, Monsieur Garcia. How you say, Le Muppet Complet?” – in Herouville, France, April of ’71.
No matter how loud the music got, if you mentioned making a cheese steak run, Garcia would hear you.
As a result of someone accidentally packing the Time Sheath technology in their carry-on luggage before their honeymoon in Monrovia, Garcia was quarantined in his home for 21 days. Neither he nor Rock Scully noticed.
There is only one relationship, and it has nothing to do with other people, other beings, others.
Your parents, brothers, daughters, lovers are separate from you. They have nothing to do with you, save for the stories we tell ourselves. The stories we tell each other.
The only real relationship is between you and time.
Upon being introduced to Garcia, the birthday candles flared up and lit ablaze the shirt of the woman holding the cake, which was not the worst thing in the world, to be honest.
OR
Mickey wished for $600,000 to finish his record Out of Towner, in which he seduces Mormon dudes into doing gay stuff–really gay stuff, stuff straight people won’t hear about for at least 18 months–and then records the sound of their confused weeping afterwards. There are also timbales.
OR
The cake is from Carvel and is called Junkie Puss.
OR
Garcia isn’t actually a stupefied and filthy mess, no: he is workshopping his new improv character, The Grumph.
OR
They jammed Happy Birthday for 15 minutes and Bobby forgot all the words even though there are only six.
OR
You could say anything–quite simply anything–to Garcia at this moment and he would counter with, “Right, man, sure” and scurry back to his dressing room.
OR
It’s tough to see, but the cake is an erotic one depicting a man having sex with a cartoon turkey, which you wouldn’t think would be erotic, but totally is due to the artists at the bakery, Doughy Pete’s. The shop advertises itself as “making cakes you could actually jerk off to” and they’re not lying: security guards have to chase middle-schoolers from the sidewalk out front or else the little pervs start gawking and they get ahold of themselves and you just can’t have that going on on Main Street.
OR
“Cake!”
Clockwise from top:
- This version of Billy–the Dickpunching Caballero– was short-packed and snatched up by collectors upon hitting the shelves.
- Mrs. Donna Jean is thrilled to be there, but has to get back to gym class.
- Mickey is the living embodiment of cocaine. Like, if there were a God of Cocaine–like Zeus or Ganesha or whomever–and he had to interact with humans, that is the form he would assume: cocky, wearing a ridiculous hat, and bearing the shirt of the band he’s in.
- Back to Billy for a sec: he’s farting on Mrs. Donna Jean, isn’t he?
- Luckily for all, Keith happened to have been in the park when everyone else showed up for the photo shoot. He had been chasing squirrels, and being chased by squirrels, and pressed into service in the squirrel navy fighting off the mighty war machine of the King of the Geese, Featherbeak the Younger. Having a human on their side decisively shifted the balance of power to the squirrels and it looked like victory would be theirs, but to an average citizen–or a cop–it just looked like Keith was half-naked in the pond strangling geese and there were children there, man. He tried to explain, but then everybody showed up and Rock gave the cop a twenty and no one mentioned the incident and someone found Keith new pants.
- What the fuck, Mushroom Head?
- Nice nips, Bobby.
- No joke: Keith berseker-murdered at least eight geese; the chilling thing is that his heart beat never went above 70. In fact, his heart stopped twice that afternoon, but that’s completely unrelated to the goose massacre.
- Jesus, Garcia.
You do not have Ebola. You will never get it, nor come within a mile of anyone who has it. Ebola has not seeped int the soil; it has not been carried aloft by mosquitos; water fountains are to be trusted. The chance that Garcia can name one of his children’s’ teachers–Any child, any grade, just one name–is staggeringly higher than the chances of you contracting Ebola.
One day soon, you will be playing Scrabble, or one of the many Scrabble knock-offs. You will attempt to play the word” Ebola” and it will not be allowed. This will be the worst way in which you are affected by Ebola.
Perhaps you will wonder how much of the coverage of this disease is colored–inexorably and inextricably and inherently–by King Leopold’s ghost, that blood spectre the white fuckers pissed all over the African continent in the last century and whose presence today is seen in foreign-owned minerals and tent cities. Maybe you will read these cultural critiques, these theses, these scholarly exegeses on a toy built for you by underage Chinese labor. You might feel a certain self-awareness come over you. It may lead to gratitude, but probably not, and anyway: the feeling will pass.
But you do not have Ebola.
However, you might. We all might. And in that case, TotD formally advocates assuming that we do and proceeding thusly. I say we move past the initial confusion and get right to running around flailing our arms and biting strangers.
Panic: let’s have one. Start the rumor that “Ebola” is Swahili for “chaos” (and “opportunity.”) Then, run into an opera house and start blindly waving around a sword.
Go to your local bar and tell everyone that the “A” in Ebola stands for “Atheist” and rouse up the rabble to go burn down the atheists’ house down the street. Then burn down a house. (The house doesn’t actually have to have to belong to atheists: you can just tell everyone that. Or not. You know: whatever, as long as a random house gets burned down by a mob.)
Paint the word “Ebola” all over your car and drive it through the Farmer’s Market. You can drive real slow, too.
Panic! At the disco or any other nighttime fun establishment! There is a disease named Ebola! And you will certainly die!
It is a well-known fact that children are filthy vectors of filth and illness, so before you leave your house you should cover every inch of your body with garbage bags, secure all that with duct tape, put on some swim goggles you found in the garage, and tackle every child on sight. You need to get a good run at them: children are rubbery, but you’ve got a huge weight advantage on them, plus the element of surprise. Most children will not be expecting a strange grown-up to tackle them on the street, especially one in a homemade Hazmat suit.
In closing: Keep Calm & You Have Ebola.
You’re a dangerous lunatic.
I don’t know, he made some good points: I have been worried about Ebola, and I’ve heard all of these so-called “experts” and “doctors” tell me that there’s no medical reason that anyone should be worried at all. Now I’ve gotten to hear the other side of the argument: that we should abandon reason and prove those doomsday prepper folks correct. Now I can make my own choice, because I’m informed.
I hate everything about everyone.
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