Garcia dragged the office chair out to the backyard because, fuck it: he liked to recline.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 88 of 139)
Behind Garcia we see the King of the Rock and Roll Jews, Sexyberg Fuckowitz.
Did they get their sweatbands wholesale?
Also, the guy behind them.
I’d tell Garcia to run like I usually do when John Kahn shows up, but I don’t think he’d get six or seven steps before laying down and quietly vomiting on himself.
These were rock stars. Women–good-looking ones–lined up to tend to these mens’ dongs.
Was Brent always the size of Keira Knightley?
It’s easy to see why the road crew got so much power and money: their strategy of “piling things over there” and “stacking things on top of one another” could never have been replicated.
And then there was that tour when Phil looked like the new English teacher that all the girls and ten percent of the boys fell in love with, Garcia looked like Jay Leno, and Billy looked like a microphone that needed a haircut.
Halfway through the second set, the heat got to Garcia and he bellowed, “HACHA NO WONKEE-KO!” and dragged Bobby offstage where he had a metallic bikini waiting, but Parish waved a microwave burrito and some Persian in front of Garcia.
“Run!” Parish yelled at Bobby, who took off down the hall but stopped, turned around.
“What was that bikini even doing there in the first place?”
And Parish couldn’t meet Bobby’s eyes.
Shit, he caught sight of us. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t–are we between him and his ice cream? We’re dead.
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