Honestly, Garcia: that guy next to you is trouble.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 95 of 139)
Ladies and gentlemen: the fullest muppet.
- Someone remind Billy that precisely none of the Four Questions is “Mind if I stick it in ya for a while?”
- Who ordered the bacon-and-shrimp pizza with extra cheese? Do you realize how wrong you got that?
- It’s not the gift holiday, Bobby.
- Please stop using matzoh as ninja stars.
- Speaking of matzoh: don’t eat any, Garcia. Between that and the Persian, you’ll never make another doodie.
- Well, the Maneschevitz is kind of red whiskey, if you think about it aaaaand Phil drank all the Maneschevitz. Please don’t let him vomit in here: Maneschivitz vomit stains down to the Earth’s mantle.
- No, Phil, “chopped liver” isn’t a euphemism, it’s actually made of aaaaaand Phil ate all the chopped liver.
- It’s not the fasting holiday, Bobby. We’re seated at a dinner table with freshly-prepared food in front of us.
- Brent, go back to the kid’s table.
- These bitter herbs are dank as fuck, yo.
- We should get some bitter coke, too. Call your guy.
- It is also not the candle holiday, Bobby. Partially because the candle holiday is the same as the gift holiday. Which it remains not.
- Nor is it Mickey’s birthday, Bobby. Mickey’s birthday is not a Jewish holiday. Stop asking me silly questions.
- Stop crying, Bobby.
- Bobby: stop crying.
- …
- Go to the children’s table, Bobby.
Garcia didn’t have any formal training in astrophysics, but he had seen every episode of Cosmos, his favorite candy bar was a Milky Way, and he had nicknamed his penis “the Big Dipper,” so this makes a lot of sense.
This was one of Garcia’s more unfortunate late-period haircuts: a little something TotD calls “the Connecticut Lesbian.”
If a guy runs up and throws a jellyfish on you, and then immediately offers to pee on the wound, there’s probably something else going on. Especially if you’re in Indiana.
Hey, guys. Any way I can ask how you’re doing without bringing my mom into it?
“Sure, man. we’ll leave your mom out.”
“Like we left her outside the free clinic.”
“Where she needed to go because of all the sexually transmitted diseases we gave her.”
“Transmitted them to her, sexually.”
“That’s just a scientific way of saying ‘with our penises.'”
I’m going to stop talking to you guys.
“We’re going to keep having sex with your mom, though.”
“Using our penises.”
This is the least sexy fetish ever.
Having been the last one to touch his face, Garcia had to do the dishes that night.
Mrs. Donna Jean didn’t twerk, nor did she back that thang up. Didn’t have much of a thang, to be honest about it.
No belly shirts, certainly not thongs. Although: maybe thongs; Mrs. Donna Jean wore her underwear under her clothes. She was not ratchet.
But yet she was no basic bitch: Mrs. Donna Jean left a scorched Earth of crashed luxury cars, empty pill bottles of horse tranquilizer, and flowy patterned skirts.
And she did it backwards, in heels.
Mrs. Donna Jean was a rock star in the 70’s, which is the most rock star that rock stars ever got. She didn’t sleep with Bobby: Bobby slept with her.
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