Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: kim jong un (page 1 of 7)

And The Three Men I Admire Most, They Caught The Last Train For The Coast

“Slasher, you’re a mess. Let me buy you a hooker to vomit on.”

“I’m fine, Bob.”

“You’re better than fine, baby: you’re high-caliber and long-stemmed. God ain’t makin’ ’em like you any more, and this town knows it. Have you ever thought about acting?”

“I’ve played myself a couple times, and I’m not real good at it.”

“Bullshit! Never let me hear you say that! Acting is just lying while handsome. Any schmuck could do it. Hell, I did.”

“Sure, maybe.”

“I see you as a modern-day Bob Hope. Can you dance?”

“Not even a little.”

“This is not a problem. We can fix that in post. Tremendous talent, Hope. The skits, the soft-shoe, the whole schmear. And pussy. No one got more pussy than Bob Hope. That’s why he golfed. Man loved holes.”

“It’s weird to think of Bob Hope that way.”

“Bali, Morocco, Rio; pussy, pussy, pussy. That was Hope, and that’s Hollywood! The whole business is built on pussy, Slasher, and don’t you forget it. Who’s got it, who wants it, and who’s gettin’ it! It’s all a game, but it’s deadly serious, too. Man’s gotta measure himself, so how does he do it? Pussy. And Oscars. Some say family. Y’know who says family? Losers say family. We know, don’t we? Pussy and Oscars, Slasher.”

“Uh-huh. You holding?”

“Not personally, but my English butler, Kippers, has an entire pharmacy sewn into the lining of his morning coat. Kippers!”


“I gotta take this, Bob.”

“If it’s Coppola, tell him to go fuck himself.”


“This is Slash.”

“Slasher! You talk pussy?”

“How do you know what we were talking about?”

“Put Bobby Evan on phone. Am big fan.”


“He stay in picture so good.”

“Yuh-huh. Is there a reason for this call?”

“I join band. Kim Jong-Un have squeezebox, Only Korea no sleep at night.”

“There’s no accordion parts in any of my songs.”



“Pretty sure.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Agree disagree.”



“Who was that, Slasher?”

“You wouldn’t believe me, Bob.”

“Kid, I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. Richard Pryor on fire off the shoulder of Mulholland. Valerie Bertinelli glittering by the Paramount Gate. Now all those spectacular, only-in-Hollywood moments have been lost. Like cocaine in the rain.”


“If it’s even cloudy outside, bring your coke in the house. Hard lesson!”

“Yeah, okay, sounds good. That was Kim Jong-Un.”

“Why didn’t you let me talk to him!?”

“You want to talk to Kim Jong-Un?”

“I want to talk to anyone with an entire country’s treasury at his disposal!”

Runnin’ Up That Hill

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?


Is that different than running?

“Much steeper.”


“Reminds me of something Rolling Thunder once told me. He was, uh, my shaman buddy. Not a lot of people have shaman buddies, but they tend to accumulate when you’re in the Grateful Dead. By the time we broke up, I had about half-a-dozen.”

What did he say?

“He said, ‘Bobby, please don’t ask me too many specific questions about being an Indian.’ No, wait. That wasn’t the thing I was thinking of.”


“He said, ‘When you run, don’t do it with your legs.'”

What should you run with?

“Well, generally at that point in the conversation he would try to cadge ten bucks off me.”

Sounds like Rolling Thunder.



“Not mentally. I could do a crossword puzzle right now. Sudoku, whatever.”

What about physically?

“Little bit.”

Are those proper running shoes?

“Well, so far none of the piggies are complaining. Market, roast beef, wee-wee-wee all the way home: all very happy with my choice in footwear.”

Can’t argue with the piggies.


“I, uh, should take that. It might be a reporter I could describe last night’s dreams to.”


“Weir here.”

“What happen to gym?”

“It’s like my man said, ‘All the world’s indeed a gym, and we are merely guys in sweatpants.'”

“I no say that.”

“My other man.”

“Hairy Garcia, you come back to gym. We do free weights. Get yoked.”

“I’m not looking to put on too much mass.”

“You need juice?”

“Gonna pass on that.”

“We be huge. Like Rock. You know Rock? We be Rock.”

“I can’t eat that much cod.”

“You come. We lift. You win Mr. Only Korea contest.”

“I don’t think I’m in that kind of shape.”

“You win. Trust me.”

Appetite For Legislation


Hey, Slash.

“I need to leave here. You know I got a family, right?”

They won’t know you’re missing. Time works differently for them than for you.

“What now?”

Well, you’re kinda…next…to time.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Everything happens at once, but causality also rules.

“Those two states of being are mutually exclusive.”

Or complementary. Imagine a stripper rotating around a pole, except she’s not moving; the whole of reality is. And she’s got big cans.

“I can imagine the last part.”

I like to call her a Möbius stripper.

“That may be too clever by half, man.”

I didn’t have full confidence in it. But, anyway: don’t worry about your family or any appointments you might have. A week in here is like an hour out there. Or a year.

“In here or out there?”


“I’m beginning to resent you.”

Good instinct.


“Is it Kim Jung-Un?”

If I say “no,” would you believe me?


Then I’ll remain silent.

“Slash here.”

“Slasher! Guess who join band?”

“You can’t be in Guns N’ Roses.”

“I new Izzy.”

“You are not the new Izzy.”

“Fine. I new Gilby.”

“You’re not even Gilby, man.”

“Got axe. I shred. Wear leather pant. Many bracelet.”


“Do all the Rock Moves. I windmill. Play behind back. Say ‘Hello, Cleveland.’ All the moves.”

“Hanging up.”


“Please let me go home.”

No. You made an album I enjoy 35 years ago, so now I’ve trapped you in a slightly comic hell. That’s how it works.

“No, it’s not.”

Trust me, Slasher.

My Way, Your Way, Steny Way Goes Tonight

Hey, Slash. Still here, huh?

“Do you mean at the Capitol, or in this stupid fucking universe of yours?”



Don’t get cranky. It’s a lot of fun in here. You wanna meet Elvis?


I can absolutely, positively introduce you to Elvis. Gotta warn you, though–


–he’s crazier than Judy Garland in a pharmacy.

“I’m used to it.”

True. Hey, lemme ask you a question.

“Yeah, all right.”

You dye your hair?

“Ah, I gotta. I’d look silly gray.”

No arguments here.


“Is that Elvis?”

Could be! Definitely could be!


“This is Slash.”

“Slasher! You ever been Mar-a-Lago?”

“Ah, Christ.”

“We go. Is season. Florida like heaven now.”

“I don’t wanna go to Florida with you, man.”

“Yes. Slasher and Kim Jong-Un hit Palm Beach. We golf. Maybe fish. You ever have fried chicken from Publix?”

“I have, actually.”

“Is best!”

“It’s pretty damn good, yeah.”

“Father invent chicken.”

“Your father invented fried chicken?”

“No. Father invent chicken.”

“Any way you could stop calling me?”

“Is settled. We go Mar-a-Lago. Get adjoining room. Leave door open. Izzy come?”

“Izzy probably won’t come.”

“Okay. I kidnap Izzy. See soon.”


“You said it was gonna be Elvis.”

You should know something about me, Slash: I lie almost constantly.

Good N’ Latte

Hey, Slash. Still on the Hill?

“They each gotta get a picture. There’s, like, a lot of them.”


“Not that many. Mostly dudes, too. I was hoping that cute Latina chick would show up.”

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez?

“She looks like this chick who used to mud wrestle at the Tropicana.”

She’s a Congresswoman, dude.

“No disrespect.”

That guy you’re sitting with is named Bob Goodlatte.

“Interesting name.”

Not cool, though.


How sick are you of telling the story about why you’re called “Slash?”

“Eh. I can do all my stories in my sleep nowadays. Nickname, how I stole my hat, meeting Axl. It’s like muscle memory.”

Makes sense.


“Excuse me. This might be Sammy Hagar.”

Gosh, he has a lot of friends.

“Slash speaking.”

“Where shades, Slasher!?”

“Ah, shit.”

“Slasher needs sunglass! Kim Jong-Un replace! Stop at gas station.”

“I have my–”

“Wait. No gas station in Only Korea.”

“–sunglasses. I just took them off–”

“I build gas station. Then can buy sunglass.”

“–for the picture.”

“What else I bring Slasher? You tried Claws yet?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“No laws with Claws, Slasher. Girls get frisky. Business get risky.”

“Listen, man–”

“Axl look terrible.”

“This is not Axl, man. Can you see me? How does any of this work?”

“You hang with Axl. Keep party popping. Kim Jong-Un there soon.”


“Horse say he big fan.”


“Um, excuse me? Guy I was talking to before?”


“What’s happening?”

Slash, are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?

“I keep getting asked that, and it keeps not making sense.”

(The Opposite Of) Paradise City

Hey, Slash. Whatcha doing?

“I’m at Congress. Like, the one in Washington.”

I see that. Why?

“Y’know how you heard Guns N’ Roses, like, nine times on six different stations during your commute today?”


“I wanna get paid for that.”

That sounds reasonable.

“Right? But it’s the music business, so the reasonable solution is rarely chosen. Never, actually.”

It’s a terrible racket.

“I see what you did there.”

Thank you, Slash.

“And, later on, I’m gonna get the tour that regular people don’t get. The chief of the Capitol Police is a giant fan. He’s gonna take me into the secret tunnels and all that cool shit.”

You used to be scary.

“I was never as scary as Congress.”

True. Hey, man, I’m sorry about this.

“Sorry about what?”


“I should get this.”


“Slash here.”

“Slasher! Where top hat?”

“Who is this?”

“Is Kim Jong-Un. Someone steal top hat?”

“No one stole it. I’m just wearing a beanie-type deal today.”

“Hat safe?”

“Yeah. Listen, how did you get this–”

“Slasher and Kim have backstory. We have connection.”

“What is that?”

“We both in Guns. I Buckethead.”

“You are not Buckethead.”

“Yes. I Buckethead. Under bucket? Kim. I Buckethead.”

“He’s like six-and-a-half feet tall.”

“Trick shoes.”

“I Buckethead.”

“Okay, I got no idea what’s happening here.”

“Slasher, you familiar with concept of semi-fictionality?

Sometimes We Ride On Kim Jong-Un’s Horses, Sometimes We Ride Alone

Hey, Bobby. Happy birthday, pal.

“Yup. Another, uh, spin around the sun. You don’t feel the earth circling the sucker, but it does.”

You’re 72.

“Not when I am. I’m around 40.”

The real you.

“I am the real me. David Lee Roth wouldn’t smoke cigars with a doppelganger.”

That’s not David Lee Roth, Bobby. It’s Rickie Lee Jones.

“Well, that explains why he doesn’t have any cocaine.”


“I, uh, gotta take this. It might be Sammy Hagar.”

It’s not.

“Weir Here.”

“Hairy Garcia! I come get. We be cowboys.”

“That is an intriguing offer.”

“Hairy Garcia already think he cowboy. Come be with Kim Jong-Un. You be Butch. I be Sundance Kim.”

“I’m still listening.”

“We rope. We ride. Chuckwagon follow. Coffee in tin cup.”

“Gosh, I’m tempted, but I got gigs with the Wolf Brothers coming up.”

“No more gig. I have Don Was executed.”


“Yes. Tired of looking at feet. Flip-flops for beach! Is not rock and roll!”

“Well, now I’m a little peeved.”

“Take out frustration on prairie. We shoot Injun.”


“I dress up political prisoners like Navajo. Then I shoot.”

“That’s awful.”

“Is better than starving to death! Which is what they were gonna do!”

“I don’t want to play Cowboys and Indians with you, Kim Jong-Un.”

“Grateful Dead no fun no more.”

Harry, The Horse

Hey, Josh. You cheating on Shawn Mendes with Harry Styles?

“Dude, fuck off. It’s my birthday.”

Is he your present? Are you unwrapping him and blowing out his candle?


By “candle,” I meant “penis.” And by “blowing out,” I meant–

“I got it.”

Bro, I get it. He’s very pretty.

“Our relationship is not sexual.”

You should make it sexual. Honestly, it would be the best career move you’ve made since Katy Perry dumped you.

“She didn’t dump me. It was a mutual thing.”

Sure, buddy. I’m not judging you for porking Harry Styles.

“Not porking him.”

Giving him the beef.


Roasting his rump.

“No more meat-related sex euphemisms, please.”

That chicken is tender.

“I said not to do–”


“–that anymore. Is that Nixon?”





“You’re on with John.”

“Hot Dog Dick!”

“Ah, fuck.”

“Where you at? I come get. Room for two on horse.”

“Well, I was not expecting this.”

“I your knight in shining armor. Come to get on fine Arab charger.”

“Stop quoting Emotional Rescue to me.”


“Emotional Rescue is not underrated at all.”

“Disco Stone is best Stone.”

“I’m not having this discussion with you.”

“I come get you. We ride. You my Little Potato.”

“Do not come and get me.”

“You wrap arms around Kim Jong-Un. All sort of bouncing and rubbing.”

“Hanging up now.”

“Father invent horse.”


“He’s gonna call back, isn’t he?”

Dude, I got around a half-dozen pictures of him on that poor animal.


Let’s Get A Picture

Ah! Time-Traveling Clapton!

“It’s not Eric Clapton.”

Took that fucker forever to grow a beard.


Yeah. Usually guys with chins that weak have whiskers early. Garcia sure did.

“You know I love Garcia, but the man would not have made a good Batman.”

No. Just didn’t have the jawline.

“Or the physique, if we’re honest.”

He did watch one of his parents die right in front oh his eyes as a child, though.

“True. Do you feel like the importance of that event gets glossed over in biographies?”

Oh, yeah. That’s a primal scene right there. You don’t get over that shit.

“Poor guy.”

Poor Garcia. Hey, is that Slim Shady’s cousin, Skinny Ugly, on the left?

“Had to be a dick, huh?”

Yeah. The readers expect it.

“All dozen of them?”

It’s eleven now. I pissed one off on Twitter.

“Sounds right.”


“You’ll die alone.”

We all will.

“Yeah, but you’ll die in, like, an abandoned warehouse in Troy, New York.”

Oh. Yeah, probably.




“You’re on with John.”

“Hot Dog Dick! Come get Dotard! He no will leave!


“Come get! Kim never thought Kim would say, but: feel bad for America.”

“Well, unlike the Dotard, you’re human.”

“We try to ditch. No tell him which club we go to. He show up anyway.”

“You guys are going to clubs?”

“Buy bottles. Fuck bitches.”

“That’s no good.”

“No! 김치 똥 make bitches uncomfortable.”

“Excuse me?”

“김치 똥. Does not translate directly. Basically means ‘gastrointestinal distress caused by too much fermented food.’ Is what we call him. We tell him means ‘Master of this and all Universes.’ His translator say, ‘No, it means Kimchi shits’ I say to Dotard, ‘Who you believe, me or him?’ Guess who he believe?”


“Is almost not fun. Like having fight with baby. No satisfaction in winning.”

“Have you ever actually fought a baby?”

“Fight baby all the time. Every Tuesday, fight baby.”

“What? Why?”

“Keep sharp. On edge. Where I gotta be.”

“Did you just quote Heat at me?”

“Still hold up! Pacino, De Niro, Kilmer. Fichtner!”

“Gotta go.”

“Fichtner kill it every time! Even when movie bad, Fichtner great!”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Come get 김치 똥! He your problem!”


Wardrobe Concerns

You can’t be in the Grateful Dead anymore.

“Not your decision.”

It is. I’ve staged a coup. Like in Venezuela.


Seriously, though: you’re out of the group. This is disqualifying behavior.

“You’re telling me none of the Dead ever did fashion spreads back in the day?”

Not one. Each of them walked around like a tatterdemalion.

“Whatever. I have a distinct taste that I like to inject into the zeitgeist. Would you like to discuss the intersectionality of meme culture and streetwear?”

God, no.

“For me right now, what trousers are all about is modality. Of seams. Of cuffs. My wardrobe has to shift and bob weave, and this on multiple planes. So, really, we’re talking about modality and planality. And temporality, if we’re gonna be clothes-nerds about the whole thing, because maybe I’m rocking a bandana from Massive Tongue from 2006 and combining that with a Visvim superbelt from 2012.”


“It’s like a belt, but better.”



“You’re becoming predictable.”

Becoming? These bits ran out of juice years ago. Answer the phone.

“You’re on the can with a stylish man.”

“Little Potato!”


“Why you not come to Only Korea on Asia tour, bro? Not cool, bro! You hit Pyongyang Stadium! Be epic!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Residency at casino.”

“You have a casino?”

“I build casino.”

“Kim, I can’t play Only Korea. It’s against the law.”

“Not here. You come. Rock out. Green room will be so nice for you.”


“Spacious. Airy. Tasteful. Kim Jong-Un pack with skank.”

“Hanging up.”

“Father invent skank.”


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