Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: john mayer (Page 1 of 41)

No Help On The Way

Stay inside.

“Dude, my backyard is the size of a county. And not one of those dinky suckers Back East. Like, a Texas county.”

Is that your dog?

“That is my dog.”

Is he a rescue?

“In a sense.”

What sense?

“In the sense that I rescued him from the breeder for three grand.”


“I just couldn’t love a common dog.”



You deserve this.

“I can’t help it if I live a moneyed life.”

You absolutely can.

“But I don’t wanna.”


Answer the phone, douche.

“You’re on with John.”

“Hot Dog Dick!”

“Ah, shit.”

“That your lunch?”

“No, that’s my dog.”

“Look delicious.”

“Jesus, that’s offensive. Are you dead yet?”

“Not having good week, Little Potato! Look at hair!”

“Kinda sad.”

“So sad! Surgery go bad. Turns out forbidding education was poor long-term strategy.”


“Same thing with being a 400 pound chainsmoker. Tough to maintain.”

“Don’t see a lot of 80-year old 400-pound chainsmokers”

“No. Also, sister probably bribe doctors to botch operation.”

“Almost definitely.”

“No look good for Kim Jong-Un. At least I go to Heaven.”

“You think you’re going to Heaven?”

“Father invent Heaven.”




“When he dies, will I have to take phone calls from his ghost?”

Almost definitely.


The Spice Of Life

Aw, buddy. You sad?

“Little bit.”

Spray that Pam on your dick and have a penis party.

“That sounds like a bad idea.”

Oh, no. Pam was made for dicks. That’s why they gave it a girl’s name.

“That can’t be true. Even if it is, I refuse to believe it.”

I’ve been rejecting reality a lot lately, too. How’s quarantine going?

“Ups and downs. I got lost yesterday.”

How do you get lost during quarantine?

“My house is fucking enormous.”


“There’s a sub-basement! I had no idea!”

What’s down there?

“Bowling alley. Wine cellar. And I think maybe a torture room.”

You think?

“The floor is washable and slopes inward towards a drain. And y’know those metal circles that hang off walls and you hang chains through?”


“There are like a dozen of those.”

That’s a torture room.

“Probably. There were also several offices that appear to be in use. Like, there was a luke-warm cup of coffee on one of the desks.”

You should have a conversation with your realtor. All of this is stuff that’s supposed to be disclosed before escrow.

“I don’t think I’m gonna go down there again. The aboveground section of the house is enough, really.”

What if you want to bowl?

“Oh, there’s a bowling alley up here, too.”



Eat the rich.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Little Potato! You spray Pam on dick today?”

“Everyone’s being gross. Hey, aren’t you dying or something?”

“Ha! Kim Jong-Un is healthy as Only Korean horse! You know how say ‘horse’ in Only Korean?”




“Is no bat! Is no worse than bat!”

“C’mon, man.”

“Many year, people eat horse. No problem. Bat? Immediate problem! Bat is bad lunch.”

“Great, whatever. What do you want?”

“Need favor.”

“I’m almost definitely gonna say ‘no,’ but what is it?”

“Let Kim Jong-Un borrow heart.”


“Fine, buy. I buy heart.”

“You cannot buy or borrow my heart. I need it. Why don’t you just yoink one from one of the millions of political prisoners you’re jailing?”

“Want heart knows how to play guitar.”

“Nope. Doesn’t make any sense.”

“Kim Jong-Un needs heart that shreds”

“Complete nonsense.”

“Heart with whammy bar.”




“When you heard that he was sick, did you get sad for him?”

A little.

“You were worried for the monster who enslaves, starves, and imprisons his population, and floods the world with meth, counterfeit money, and nuclear secrets, just because you think he’s a funny character for your little make-em-ups?”

Precisely that.

“Do you know you’re a terrible person?”

Oh, yeah.

“Well, at least there’s that.”


If You Didn’t See This Coming, You Just Haven’t Been Paying Attention

Hey, Josh. Whatcha doing?

“Isolating myself, but not my fit.”


“People are sad and scared and unhappy, and so I thought I’d do the only thing I can–”

Playing music for them?

“–which is letting them look at my clothes.”


“Dude, everyone’s doing concerts from their living rooms. But I’m the only one doing fashion shows in a forest.”

You are. I’ll give you that. Is that a turtle?


Next to your left foot.


I like turtles.

“Can we talk about my outfit, please?”

Venmo me a thousand dollars.

“Absolutely not.”

Fine. Two thousand.

“I’m ignoring you and describing my threads. The jacket is Visvim’s new line called Kung Fu Drip.”


“You see how it looks like a utilitarian garment that any Japanese guy would have worn a few decades ago?”

I do.

“But it cost five grand!”

Does that make it better?

“Oh, God, yes. And my sweatshirt was handmade by Amy Sedaris’ slaves.”

What now?

“Funny story: Amy Sedaris owns people. And not just a couple. Like, she’s got a whole dormitory out back at her place.”

Wow. You Hollywood people lead such interesting hidden lives.

“She treats them great, though. Knows all their names. Of course, she gave them their names, so maybe that’s not so impressive.”

Not really. Does David Sedaris know about this?

“There is no David Sedaris. His books and articles are written by a Humorbot.”


“It’s a program that produces amusing essays. One of the really early versions does all of Andy Borowitz’s stuff.”

Now that makes sense.

“Right? A human being would have been funny at least once just by accident.”

Sure. We’re getting along so well.

“Does that mean–”


“–the phone’s gonna…goddammit. Is it Nixon?”



You like him.

“The man tells it like it is.”

Pick up the phone.


“You’re on with John.”

“Leave the forest now, Jonathan. It is made of rancid spices and leftover gods. The forest compels one to invent coal plants, iron foundries, shops where one can find sexual items of abnormal size.”

“Hey, Werner.”

“How did you know it was me?’

“The guy who writes this shit is predictable as hell.”

“As is the forest! It is shit, and piss, and apples that cannot be eaten for fear of tummy problems. The forest will never surprise you. Imagine! It is your 50th birthday. You walk into your home. The lights are darkened, but suddenly they blaze to life. ‘Surprise!’ is yelled. But not by the forest. Never by the forest. The forest was defecated into being by a God that was not paying attention.”

“I’m honestly just in my backyard.”

“Backyards are worse!”

“Listen, it’s an honor to talk to you, but is there a point to the call?”

“Of course. I want you to help me float a 747 across Lake George.”



“Could you hold, please?”

“Yes. I will lecture my parrot on the glory of non-existence.”




“Du. Is he gonna become a thing?”

Depends on how fun he is to write.


Slow Dancing In A Burning Zoo

Hey, Josh. Whatcha doing?

“Entertaining my millions of fans on Instagram.”


“Yes. I have a lot of celebrities watching, and they each count for 50,000 RG’s.”

What’s an RG?

“Revenue Generator. It’s my cute name for my fans.”

That’s not so cute. Question?

“Is it about why a man in his mid-40’s can’t grow hair on his cheeks?”


“Fuck off, man. It’s just genetics.”

Maybe. Or it could be punishment for your sins.

“It’s probably not.”

I said “could be.” I was judicious in my statement.

“It’s not.”

This really must affecting your dating life.

“I’m playing Whack-A-Mole six times a day.”

You didn’t need to call it that.

“I wanted to.”



“Douche. Is this Kim Jong-Un again?”

Better. Or worse. Probably worse.


“You’re on with John.”

“Whatchoo wearin’, sweetcheeks? Anythin’ under them slacks?”

“Oh, please don’t be who I think it is.”

“It’s your next husband, Joe Exotic.”

“It’s who I thought it was.”

“Me an’ you gonna watch some big-johnson pornographies and smoke on some meth together. We gonna have us an Oklahoma Party.”

“What the hell is an Oklahoma Party?”

“It’s when no one wants t’be there, and y’can’t identify the smell.”


“You gonna! You my li’l Chicken Nugget now!”

“Don’t call me that. First of all: not gay. Second of all: if I were gay, you wouldn’t be by type. Third: coronavirus.”

“I cured that shit in a day or two.”

“You cured the coronavirus?”



“Meth and tigers.”


“Fine, Mr. Man! You wanna buy a lynx?”

“I do not wanna buy a lynx.”

“How about a marmoset with a bad attitude?”


“Excuse me?”


“Yeah. I can’t believe I’m sayin this, but: I’d rather talk to Kim Jong-Un.”

Joe Exotic is now part of the universe.


Couch, No Tour

I’ll give you a hundred dollars if we don’t have to talk about your clothes.

“But I want to! And, honestly, a hundred dollars is nothing to me. My socks cost a grand.”

Your socks cost a grand?



“Socks are far more labor-intensive than you’d think. It’s the stretch-to-cling ratio that gets you.”

I’d rather talk about the pandemic.

“And not my shoes? I’d really like to talk about my shoes.”

They look like something a stroke victim who’d only partially regained control of his hands would wear.

“Exactly. This is from Visvim’s 2011 line entitled ‘Gnarled Tree.’ They took inspiration from clothes for disabled people. Velcro and snaps instead of buttons, drawstrings instead of zippers, pants with loose asses so you can fit a diaper under ’em. One of the high points from the House, I believe.”



I told you I didn’t wanna talk about your clothes.



“You’re on with John.”

“Hold on, bitch. I gotta tell this motherfucker to suck my dick.”

“Suck my dick, motherfucker. Okay, I’m back.”

“Miles, I told you to stop calling. We’re through. You hurt me too badly. And you also murdered me.”

“We gonna start over I won’t murder you no more.”


“Less you use the tone of voice you about to use. Then I’ll shoot you right the fuck in your face.”

“–this isn’t going to work out. Neither of us is gay, and you died in 1991.”

“Love finds a way. Grease yourself up.”



He Loves Dressing Up

Lemme guess.


Desertcore? Yeah, I guessed.

“Look how much cargo these pants can hold.”

Those are capacious trousers.

“Only problem is that I showed them to Bobby, and now he makes me hold everybody’s stashes.”

Sure. How are you dealing with the coronavirus?

“Duh. I’ve taken to the desert.”


“Loaded up the Earthroamer with the entire 2018 Visvim line, four million dollars worth of watches, my personal security team, and some sex slaves.”

Sex slaves?

“I didn’t say that.”

You did. Are you buying sex slaves again?

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t buy sex slaves. I’m leasing them.”

Just as bad!

“Not financially. I mean, you buy ’em and then they turn 25 and then what do you do? Sex slave starts depreciating the second you drive them off the lot.”

I don’t even want to respond to that.

“Can’t argue with the bottom line, man.”



Dude, you’re human trafficking. You deserve whatever’s coming.

“Is it Nixon?”

Dunno yet. Say ‘hello’ and let’s find out together.


“You’re on with John.”

“Hot Dog Dick! Long time, no Kim!”

“Ah, shit.”

“Kim Jong-Un is doctor now. Best doctor in Only Korea. Better than Hawkeye. You know Hawkeye?”


“He from MASH.

“I know who Hawkeye is.”

“He wisecrack, but he care.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“I cure cobra violence.”


“That, too. Cobras no fight any more, and virus no kill old people. NBA back on thanks to Kim Jong-Un. You got Bron number?”

“I do not have LeBron’s phone number, and I wouldn’t give it to you if I did.”

“Kobe always in heart!”

“Sure, yeah. You said something about curing the coronavirus?”

“Is cure. Say bye. No more. Kim Jong-Un is hero. Get star on Walk of Fame.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“You can see all star as walk down Hollywood Boulevard.”

“Please don’t–”

“Some that you recognize. Other, hardly even heard of.”

“–sing The Kinks at me. Do you really have a cure?”

“My treatment has 100% success rate. After one session, no have coronavirus any more.”

“Are you rounding up people that look sick and executing them?”

“You know Kim Jong-Un so well.”


“Medicare cover! No co-pay!”

“Hanging up.”




“How many more pictures of him in that stupid lab coat do you have?”

Like a dozen. Kim Jong-Un is absolutely involved in the pandemic now.

“Oh, great.”

The Newest Trend In Fashion Is: Forestcore

What a puffy coat.

“It’s Visvim, thank you. Spring ’14 line. This is the Heavy Puffed Jacket, also known as the Nano Morgante. It was named after Cosimo de Medici’s favorite dwarf.”

It looks exactly like the jackets my mom used to buy me every winter from the Burlington Coat Factory.

“No, this is better.”

How so?

“It cost three grand.”

Uh-huh. I noticed you’ve been awful quiet since Jessica Simpson’s book came out.

“Literally everyone has advised me to do so. Even Bob Saget said I shouldn’t say anything, and he thinks dick jokes are the answer to everything.”

All of these people are your friends. Listen to them.

“Yeah, there’s no way to help myself here except by excusing myself from the conversation.”

She talked some serious shit about you, broham.

“I’m not engaging.”

Said you were a dick about grammar.

“Well, you should see how the woman writes. If a pigeon tap-danced on a keyboard, you’d get fewer misspellings. She’s dumber than Daryl Hannah.”

You take that back.



“I hate you so much.”

Hey, you wanna talk shit about Madison the Mermaid, you face the consequences.

“You”re on with John.”

“Hey, bitch. I’m back. We gonna get freaky.”

“I’m not doing this anymore, Miles. You broke my heart, and then you murdered me.”

“The Cos got some shit gonna help you forget all that.”

“I am not partying with you and Bill Cosby.”

“Fleezum flozzum rape!”

“Bitch, you made The Cos mad.”

“Hanging up and changing my number.”


“Pardon me.”


“Did you have to bring Miles back? He’s a monster.”

Sure, but the Enthusiasts love him. Very popular character.


High-Level Negotiations

“That girl went in on you.”

“Uh-huh. She did.”

“Called you a pretentious stalker.”

“Can we talk about something else, Phil?”

“Mr. Lesh.”


“Absolutely not. Funniest damn book I’ve read since Hitchhiker’s Guide. That was a good one, but I didn’t know anybody in it. What’s her name again? Larry Simcox?”

“Jessica Simpson.”

“Who’s Larry Simcox?”

“No idea.”

“I’m talking about the singer you used to bang. The dumb one with the big tits.”

“Jessica Simpson. Although, to be honest, ‘the dumb one with the big tits’ describes most of my ex-girlfriends.”

“Never my thing. I like a lean woman. Anything more than a B cup is sloppy and floppy.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“Son, you sass me again and I’ll sic the Busboys on you.”

“Yes, sir.”


“Phil, I gotta take this.”

“You don’t gotta do nothing but stay black and die.”

“Uh-huh. I’m gonna take this.”

“Signing your own death warrant, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Mayer, it’s the President. I need some help with your people.”


“The Jews.”

“Mr, President, as I have told you and many other people in this stupid universe, I am not Jewish.”

“You’re in show business. That’s close enough.”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Nixon is in the weeds here. There are three of us in the room, and there’s eight different arguments. And the gestures! My God, the gestures. As you may know, I was raised in the Quaker tradition. One doesn’t use one’s hand to communicate. My mother once caught my brother Donald pointing. Thrashed him senseless.”


“Splendid woman, my mother. Made our shoes for us. Didn’t know the first thing about cobbling, but she did right by her family. By God, she did right by her family.”


“The Italians are renowned for their gesturing, but it’s not like the Jews. Whole different ballgame. The, uh, Italians have what might be called a manual dialect. Each hand movement means one thing. They can be translated. Not the Jews. The swipe, the loop, the pounded fist: none are attached to a particular thought. It’s a free-for-all.”

“–why don’t you just listen to what they’re saying and ignore the gestures?”

“I’m sitting here with Kissinger and Golda Meir. I haven’t understood a word anyone’s said since Haldemann left the room.”


Never Meet Your Heroes


“Stop that.”

Who said that? I see only a set of legs in a pair of ludicrous trousers and overpriced trotters.

“We get it. The jacket’s camouflage.”

See what I did?


Although see ing as how you’re in the Hollywood Hills, wouldn’t it be better camouflage if your coat had a picture of Laura Dern’s house on it?

“She lives right up the street.”

Under-appreciated talent.

“Banged her.”

Nice. So that’s the Nomad 3L from Visvim, right?

“Oh my God, yes! I never thought you’d start showing some interest in my–”


“–collection of…you’re a prick.”


“Is it Nixon?”


“Kim Jung-Un?”


“Am I gonna enjoy this conversation?”

Maybe at first.


“You’re on with J–”

“Baby sweetie honey this is your old friend and confidant Diamond DAAAAAAAVE comin’ atcha live and in person dispersin’ ALLLLLL the hits and good-time groovinary hijinks and grabass that you’ve come to demand from the brand. David Lee Roth: Accept no substitutes, especially if they’re named Sammy Hagar, HAHAHAHAHA!”

“Man, I wish you called me when I was 16. I don’t know if 45-year-old me has enough energy for you.”

“Want some coke?”

“No, I–”

“You got any? I got some, but some turns into none real fast when Diamond Dave’s in the house.”

“No coke.”

“More for DAAAAAVE!”

“Do you always refer to yourself in the third person?”

“Little trick Ricky Henderson taught me! Now, Joshy Boy, you strap on a chair and tell your ol’ Uncle Dave what’s happening with the computers. I was on a visionquest with two Mayan rock climbers I know from Piscataway and Miss March 1984 when I was informed the computers were talking about me.”

“Quick question: Do you know what Twitter is?”

“Sure, that’s what the guys in AC/DC call cocaine.”

“I’m not even gonna try to explain social media to you. What happened was that a 17-year-old didn’t know who you were.”


“A young woman.”

“How the yobbos?”

“She’s 17.”

“Yeah, I gotta get in there quick before she wears out.”

“I’m not discussing this any more. What’s with the Confederate flags?”

“It’s a party, man.”

“Not when I am.”

“When are you?”

“The future.”

“Well, shit. Can’t fuck teenagers, can’t fly the Rebel flag. Future sounds like it’s full of pussies.”

“Yes and no.”

Somewhat-Less-Than Hallowed Eve

Hey, Josh. Love your costume.

“I’m not wearing a costume.”

No? I thought you were Guy With Terrible Friends.

“I didn’t miss talking to you.”

Well, you’re back on tour with the Dead (Or What’s Left Of ‘Em) and so now we have to chat more regularly. Does Jimmy Fallon smell like scotch?





“Hey, man: alcoholism is not funny.”

Makes it perfect for Jimmy, then.

“Are you this relentlessly negative about everyone?”

I’m nice to your friends that don’t suck. Which in this group, ironically, is the gay guy.

“Stop it.”

I’m pretty sure all your Santa has in his bag is herpes.

“He’s not a Santa.”

He looks like if a yoga studio were homeless. Andy Cohen tripping? Those people love their drugs.

“What? That’s just homophobic, man.”

I didn’t mean gays love drugs. I meant “rich Hollywood Jews at Dead shows” love their drugs.


Although, throwing “gay” in there doesn’t make it less true. He candyflipping?

“I don’t know what that is.”



It’s like Robodosing, but you have a homeless guy buy the cough syrup.

“He’s not doing that.”



Andy Cohen boofing the roofs?

“You’re making these things up.”

Some toot for his snoot?

“Stop it with your rhyming lies!”


“Oh, thank God. Wait. This isn’t Kim Jong-Un, is it? I know he’s been calling around lately.”

It’s not Kim Jong-Un.


Yeah. It’s much more annoying.


“You’re on with John.”

“Josh, how do you like your kebab?”

“Mickey, for the ninth time: I do not want kebabs from a truck.”

“I’m here! It’s kebab time!”

“Pass. Pass on the street food, Mick.”

“Ask Johnny Carson and Paul Lynde.”

“Their names are Jimmy Fallon and Andy Cohen, and neither of them want kebabs.”

“What about bibimbap? The guy also does Korean.”

“Do not bring me ethnic food from a rando in a van, Mickey.”

“I’ll buy some extra churros.”

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