Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: john mayer (page 1 of 39)

Put That Away Or I’m Cutting It Off

I know what you’re doing.

“Excuse me?”

You’re pulling the Thornton Mellon routine. Trying to make yourself look handsomer by hanging out with uggos.

“Please don’t call my friends ‘uggos.'”

Tell your friends to stop being ugly.

“This man happens to be a celebrity chef.”

Great. Tell him to make me a grilled cheese.

“He doesn’t do that.”

He’s too good to grill me up a cheese? Fuck him and his Gilligan hat, then. I bet he’d grill Garcia up a cheese.

“Probably.”

I hate all your friends except Bob Saget.

“Saget fucks. I bet he’s fucking right now. Or he’s showering, or going to the ATM, both of which activities are related to his fucking.”

Uh-huh.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Is this Nixon?”

No. You would literally never guess who this is.

“Now my interest is piqued.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Johnny, it’s Young Frank Langella.”

“Wow. He was right. Totally would not have guessed.”

“I see you’re admiring my potato salad.”

“Not ‘admiring.’ Just looking.”

“Look deeply. Denim is the most masculine of fabrics, is it not?”

“I’m getting a creepy vibe from you.”

“Well spotted. I’m in 1977, and I’m allowed to do the creepiest stuff imaginable to people. Including you.”

“I’m hanging up the phone.”

“Fine. Send the uggo to my dressing room.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Excuse me.”

Yup?

“That was weird and unpleasant even by your standards.”

I didn’t enjoy it, either.

Breaking News

Goddammit, Josh Meyers, you slaphead: did you use the Time Sheath to go back to the 90’s and perpetrate a literary hoax?

“How could you tell?”

Jawline. What the fuck, chief?

“Don’t call me ‘chief.'”

Fuck you, slugger. I can’t believe JT LeRoy was actually you.

“The pop singer is deceitful above all things.”

Seriously, this is weird even for this universe.

“Hey, man: I had fiction in me. And, for some reason, all of that fiction was about blowing truckers in West Virginia.”

I feel like I’ve lost control.

“‘Lost’ implies you ever had control.”

True.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Saw that coming.”

Oh, yeah. You’re being a dick.

“A little, sure.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Ah, Christ. I knew you were a goddamned queer.”

“Offensive and incorrect, Mr. President.”

“Beyond the sodomy, which there is quite a bit of, they love dressing up. That’s how you can tell, and you can always tell. A lime-green pocket square. Fanciful socks. They always give themselves away. As if they wanted to be caught out.”

“Can we change the sub–”

“New York does it right, as far as that goes. San Francisco, too. Put all the queers in one neighborhood. Everyone’s happy that way. The fags can tug each other off on the sidewalk, and the rest of us–people with families, women, children–can avoid it. That’s a win/win. Life isn’t always zero-sum, son. You have to remember that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Los Angeles, too. Wonderful police force out there. The homosexual who, uh, resides in Los Angeles knows that there are certain establishments–bars, restaurants, that sort of thing–that he will be beaten for entering. And that keeps the peace. Everyone knows where he stands. This does not, however, stop Hollywood from being full of them. Just full of them. And, you know, they don’t know how to shake hands properly. It’s like you’re cradling a baby bird. The handshakes might be worse than the buggery.”

“Sir.”

“They’re compelled to do that foul act. They must. They’re like old rummies in the convalescent home calling for their bottles. Have to have it, you see. But you can learn how to shake a damn hand. That’s a choice they make.”

“Sir.”

“They can grip a stranger’s todger, they can grip a hand.”

“You drinking, sir?”

“It’s Christmas, son.”

Line Dancing In A Burning Room

Is that Charley Pride’s grandson?

“No, it’s–”

Blazing Saddles cosplay?

“This young man is–”

The only bigger schmuck than a white man in a sombrero is a black man in a cowboy hat.

“That’s racist.”

So be it. Let Desus and Mero drag me from here to Yankee Stadium. I don’t care. Black guys look stupid in cowboy hats.

“Not all of them.”

Really? Let me present some evidence. Exhibit A:

I rest my case.

“Yeesh.”

Right? If Obama couldn’t make it work, then nobody could.

“Look how young he was.”

We aged the shit out of that poor man.

“Presidency will do that to you, I guess.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Is that Nixon?”

Almost certainly.

“Fucker.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Is this what we’re doing? Playing some sort of Cowboys and Indians game? Making believe and so forth?”

“Because Nixon is ready.”

“I don’t know if you should be wearing that, Mister President.”

“Nonsense. The, uh, American aboriginals have never had a better friend in the Oval Office. There are, I’ve noticed, many admirable traits to the Native, the Indian, whatever they’re calling themselves lately. They’re like the negroes in that regard. Can’t settle on a name.”

“Sir, I–”

“Bravery! This is first among many respectable attributes of the Indian peoples. Nobility, stoicism, all that. Their beadwork is second-to-none. Never head of the class at metallurgy, though. Gunsmithing. Should have concentrated more on those fields.”

“Mr. President, could you–”

“In their language, the President is referred to as Big Chief Who Lives Across Many Rivers. Isn’t that marvelous? Very poetic. Of course, most are now fluent in English and simply call the President ‘President.’ They picked up English very quickly, the Indians did. Bebe Rebozo was born in Tampa, and he could barely get through a sentence. No, not the Indians. Quick minds, very decisive.”

“Sir, I just–”

“And take off that goddamned robe, boy. It’s the middle of the day.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“I want to stop talking to him.”

But he’s so much fun to write.

Blessed Be The Musicmakers

Why does the black guy have to be pointing at the white guy?

“He doesn’t have to be.”

And yet he is. Why don’t you hit him with an axe handle, Bull Connor?

“Why are you like this?”

Like how? Like a non-racist? I don’t know. Some of us were born woke, man.

“Please stop it.”

I’m Josh Meyers and I make black guys point at me. That’s what you sound like.

“Mocking impressions of my voice don’t really work in print.”

YOU DON’T WORK IN PRINT, MONSTER.

“Leave me be. Please. Why won’t you leave me be to enjoy my collectible possessions and membership in exclusive dating apps?”

You were the one who wanted to be in the Grateful Dead.

“Please.”

You really can’t grow a beard, can you?

“Please.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Is it Nixon?”

Yeah.

“Has he been drinking?”

Oh, yeah.

“You’re on with John.”

“Get your guitar, boy. Bring it here. Your country needs you.”

“I cant join your band, Mr. President.”

“It’s this or Vietnam, boy. I, uh, have that power. It was granted to me by the founders. Brilliant men, the founders. Not one Italian in the bunch, and I think that says something. Some types need to be kept outside the room where the decisions are made. They’re too passionate for government work, but they make a hell of a shoe. By God, they make a hell of a shoe.”

“I have no idea how to respond to that.”

“You fetch your guitar and join your president, that’s how. Hearts and minds, son. Free the hearts and minds, and the, uh, ass will follow. Kissinger says that all the time, but he says it in that accent and no one knows what the hell he’s on about. Man sounds like he’s going down on a bratwurst. Anyway, get down here to Nashville. We’re at the Grand Ol’ Opry. Obviously, your friend there cannot join you.”

“Wow.”

“Not my rules. Nixon has always been a friend to the negro, in public. You may recall Sam Davis hugging me quite tightly. He is, uh, known in the business as ‘Sammy.’ Many entertainers go by those sorts of names. Johnny, Kenny, Sammy, so on. Little boys’ names. Not me. Nixon has always been a Dick.”

“I’m just gonna let that one go by, Mr. President.”

“Yes, yes, fine. Do you know The Chattahoochie Stomp?”

“No.”

“What about Momma’s In The Kitchen, Daddy’s In The Ground?”

“No.”

“You’ll pick it up. Get here or the next call comes from the IRS.”

“You can do that?”

“The, uh, President can do whatever he wants.”

“Seems like it.”

He’s Got His Rock Moves

Tell whoever that is to stop doing that.

“His name is Khalid.”

No. Khalid is a big fat Arab dumbass.

“Different guy with a similar name.”

Are you being sponsored by a water company now?

“No, I–”

Is the brand’s name “Essentia?” I thought that was the My Little Pony who denied the Holocaust.

“No, it’s–”

Well, one of them. People don’t know how deep the Holocaust denialism runs in Equestria.

“Are you done?”

The Care Bears are all TERFs.

“Please stop talking to me.”

Fine. Talk to him.

“Who?”

“Is this what your generation does? Is this how you thank your parents?”

“Dammit.”

“Allowing bearded negros to simulate fellatio on you? Is that what they’re doing on the campuses?”

“Hey, President Nixon.”

“This is how it starts. The coloreds, they start sucking off everyone in sight. This, of course, leads to Communism.”

“It really doesn’t.”

“It’s the Sexual Domino Theory. Rusk came up with it, but I think he might just be one of those goddamned perverts. You must control your genitals, son. Don’t let them ride herd on you. The Kennedys, all of them, they listened to their crotches. Usually, the Irish stay away from that sort of thing, but not that family.”

“Sir–”

“Nixon, as you know, has been happily married to Pat for many years. Happy ones. There have been arguments, disagreements, so forth, but I never went out tomcatting. We kept it in the house.”

“Sir–”

“Not like Hoover. We all knew about him, about him and Tolson. The Lord judges, not Nixon. Those people, they’re born like that, they can’t help it. Keep it away from the kids and I don’t care. But they would flounce around in get-ups. All kinds of, you know, outfits and such. And you just can’t have that.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Go fetch Manolo. Remind him what time it is.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Fine, fine. You do it. Cottage cheese and gin. Equal portions. Hop to it, let’s go.”

“Dickhead?”

Yo.

“Am I Richard Nixon’s personal valet now?”

Appears that way. He likes ketchup on his cottage cheese.

“Ew.”

Hey, man: even Nixon had faults.

 

He Used To Be 6’1″

So sweet of you to spend time with your grandpa.

“This is Eric Clapton.”

Does he tell you war stories and pluck quarters from your ear?

“Not my grandpa.”

He’s racist like a grandpa. You gotta give me that: guy is grandpa-level racist.

“The man happens to be one of the greatest guitarists who’s ever lived.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

“You’re such a dick.”

He wasn’t even the best guitarist in Derek & the Dominos. He was third-best in the Yardbirds. Also third-best in the Traveling Wilburys.

“Clapton wasn’t in the Wilburys.”

He wasn’t?

“No.”

He could have been, though.

“Oh, sure. Definitely could’ve been. Like, in the next reality over.”

Right. Where they had three British guys and two Yanks, instead of the other way around.

“Townshend.”

Oh, yeah. Pete Townshend definitely was in the Rambling Weatherstone-Bumbleberries.

“Cliff Richard as Roy Orbison.”

Sure. Bowie taking the Dylan part?

“Maybe. Is Garcia in the band?”

Replacing George Harrison?

“Yeah.”

Could be. Ray Davies is in.

“Oh, no doubt. Ray Davies is the linchpin of the Rambling Weatherstone-Bumbleberries. Who does the Jeff Lynne part?”

Don Was.

“We nailed this.”

We did. Is your grandpa asleep?

“He’s not my grandpa. And, yes, he’s snoozing a little.”

Is he talking in his sleep?

“Murmuring.”

Can you make it out?

“Something about rivers of blood.”

Sounds right.

All Black

Is that BTS? I thought they were supposed to be cute.

“It’s not BTS.”

My favorite is Jungkook. Who’s your favorite BTS?

“I don’t really have one.”

Racist.

“No.”

Not having a favorite member of BTS is incredibly racist. It’s pretty much worse than lynching a guy.

“It is not. Not in the slightest.”

If anyone asks, just say J-Hope.

“Which one is J-Hope?”

He’s the pretty Korean one.

“That doesn’t help.”

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMM

“What the fuck was that?”

It sounded very cosmic.

“Right? That was the word that I would use. Cosmic.”

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMM

“It’s a little disconcerting.”

“LOOK UPON ME, JOSH MEYERS. I HAVE CHOSEN YOU TO BE MY HERALD ON EARTH.”

“Who is this?”

“IT IS I, THE BLACK HOLE. YOU CAN CALL ME BH.”

“Ah, for Christ’s sake.”

“YOU SHALL PREPARE THE WORLD FOR MY ARRIVAL. IT’S GONNA GET FREAKY.”

“Freaky?”

“I’M A HOLE. ONLY ONE THING YOU CAN DO TO A HOLE.”

“Stick things–”

“STICK THINGS IN ME.”

“–in you? Ew. Please don’t bother Earth. We have enough problems.”

“MY PRESENCE WILL SOLVE THEM ALL. I WILL BRING PEACE AND FREAKINESS. BUT YOU, JOSH, WILL BE THE FIRST TO LOOK UPON MY TRUE FACE.”

“What now?”

“GAZE DEEPLY! LOOK WITHIN ME!”

“I’m looking.”

“DO YOU SEE WHAT IS AT MY HEART? CAN YOU WITNESS THE BLACKEST THING IN THE UNIVERSE?”

“The blackest thing in…ah, shit.”

“Hey, bitch.”

“You’re at the center of a black hole?”

“What the fuck is blacker than me?”

“You got a point, I guess.”

“Now fetch me some cocaine before I spaghettify you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Watch What Happens Next

“John Mayer, thank you for joining me again on The Radio Randy Show here on SiriusXM Channel 29.”

“29? Wait, that’s JamOn. I thought we would be on the Dead’s channel.”

“They’ve changed format. It’s all Parish, all the time over there now.”

“The guy’s got a ton of stories.

“So we’ll be on JamOn for this interview.”

“Radio Randy, could I talk to you off the radio for a second?”

“No. I cease to exist when I’m not broadcasting.”

“Huh.”

“Incredibly lazy universe we exist in, buddy. Anyway, you’re on The Radio Randy Show on JamOn. In a couple minutes, we’ll be playing an out-of-context, mostly-dialogue segment of Trey’s musical about a pickup truck, and after that we’ve got an entire set from Twaddle.”

“I thought their name was Twiddle.”

“This is a Twiddle side-project.”

“Sweet Jesus, I don’t want to be associated with that. I sell out arenas all over the world, man. Can’t we do this on any other channel? What about the one my solo work usually appears on?”

“Channel 31. It’s called Pussyboy, Unlimited.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You, that Sheeran kid, John Legend, That’s what’s great about satellite radio: the variety. You can have comedy or gospel or 90’s grunge or soppy little pissboys.”

“Pussyboys.”

“Both.”

“Can we talk about my watches? I’ve brought many of my finest timepieces here to share with you and the audience. These watches are, like, my life told in horology.

“The study of hookers.”

“Not whoreology.”

“I bet that’s a fun major. Makes me want to go back to college. John, let’s take a call.”

“How? We don’t even have microphones.”

“You really should have learned to ignore details like that so far into this nonsense, John. Caller, you’re on Radio Randy and John Mayer.”

“FIRE. GRRRRR.”

“Shut up, you! I told you I vould do all the talking!”

“Can I get your name, caller?”

“GRRRR.”

“Shut it! Don’t ruin this for us, you dumb motherfucker! Our names are not important. Vhat is important is that Josh Meyers vill purchase us and carry us villingly into his home.”

“GRRRR!”

“Do what you’re told, brute! All your parts are from Jews and homos!”

“GRRRR!”

“Vhat the fuck? You kick me? Don’t kick. I’ll kick you.”

MONSTER KICK-FIGHT NOISE

“Radio Randy, could we not take any more calls?”

“I had fun with that one. And it was watch-related.”

“Only vaguely.”

“Let’s keep it going, then. Watch. Watch. That is a Xhosa word, I believe.”

“No.”

“Yes. Means Wearable descriptor of what is conceptual yet provable. Fascinating language, Xhosa. That’s the one with all the clicks. I bet those folks are natural beatboxers.”

“The word ‘watch’ is English. Or maybe Germanic.”

“And the word ‘wrist,’ of course, comes to us from Eugenides Wrist, a Revolutionary War hero who was the first man in America to have wrists.”

“Highly implausible. John, I happen to be a bit of a timepiece enthusiast myself.”

“Oh, really? You’re into watches?”

“Nah, man. Sundials. They’re making a comeback.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“It’s a whole new street fashion thing called cavecore. It’s new, like I said, so you probably haven’t heard of it.”

“Radio Randy, I am on the bleeding edge of streetwear in this and many other countries. I’ve never heard of cavecore.”

“Sundials, raw leather, wild faux fur. It’s Paleolithic and it’s Paleo-with-it. Very in.”

“No. You’re making that up. Let me show me you a special piece. This is a 1963 Tank Rolex that Sammy Davis, Jr., gave his agent’s son for a Bar Mitzvah present.”

“You think he performed at the party?”

“Radio Randy, you and I both know that the Candyman couldn’t leave a crowd alone.”

“The man had show business in his blood, John. Tell us about this watch here.”

“Good eye. This is an Ernotszch Clouzeau. piece called the Montaine 7222 Quad-Tourbillon Diver’s Free Chronograph. There are 800 moving parts in the big hand alone. This might be the most pointlessly complicated piece of technology on the planet.”

“It’s a beautiful piece.”

“Thank you, Radio Randy.”

“I want it inside me.”

“What? No.”

“Shove your watch up my ass, John. Do it live here on SiriusXM. Channel 29 on your dial, number one in your heart. The only place to hear String Cheese Incident’s newest project, a jam opera about John Roebling entitled Take Me To The Bridge. JamOn!”

“The guy who built the Brooklyn–”

“STICK IT IN, LITTLE POTATO!”

–Bridge? Wow. Okay, we’re done.”

Blew

Dammit, Meyers, put your potato salad away.

“I’m not doing it on purpose.”

Ask her about Art Nouveau.

“The design movement?”

Just ask her. Or google “Joni Mitchell + blackface.”

“Do you not like Joni Mitchell or something?”

She’s no Rickie Lee Jones.

Sneaking Maori Through The Alley

Why are you making your backing band dress like that?

“They’re Maori. I’m in New Zealand, and we’re doing a tribute to the shooting victims.”

How’s it going?

“Not well. I suggested that they replace their native garb with Visvim.”

Did you actually use the phrase “native garb?”

“I did, yeah.”

Smooth move, Ex-lax.

“And I offered to buy them all desert boots and they started in with the whole ‘our bare feet connect us to the earth’ thing.”

Native gab.

“Right. What connects me to the earth is a good pair of $9,000 shoes.”

What you’re saying is you didn’t hit it off with the Maori.

“No. Also, they tried to teach me the Haka and I started doing the Electric Slide.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Yeah, I might deserve that.”

You totally do.

“You’re on with John.”

“Hey, ace. Wanna make it with my girl?”

“What?”

“She’s real fast. Nothing under that vest, right bro?”

“I have no idea what’s going on here.”

“Take her in the alley and finger her. I promise I won’t sneak up behind you and beat you senseless.”

“What?”

“MAKE IT WITH MY GIRL!”

“Excuse me, please.”

“Dickhead?”

Yes?

“I’m literally in the middle of a tribute to the dead.”

They’ll still be dead when you get back from making it with his girl. Hit the alley, big time.

“I hate this site.”

Most just ignore it.

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