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

Tag: mickey hart (Page 1 of 71)

Hell In A Basket

Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?

“Murder Heisting!”

Looks like you’re playing drums.

“Yes. That’s my role in the plan.”

Fits you.

“I didn’t need any prep time at all. Jumped right in with both feet.”

Good job.

“Tough to pull off a Murder Heist without at least a 30-minute drum segment.”

That’s where you come in.

“That’s where I come in.”

Is the hat related–

“I just like the hat.”

–to the Murder Heist? Oh.


“I gotta take this. It might be a member of the Zildjian family.”

Great cymbals.

“The best!”

“Hart here.”


“No, Mickey.”

“I meant to call Kevin Hart.”

“Very funny man. I like when he yells about being short.”

“That’s, like, 90% of his act.”

“Right! I’m a fan!”

“Okay. Are there any black celebrities you can hand the phone to?”

“Lemme look.”


“All right, then. Let’s just pretend this was a butt-dial.”

“I have Branford Marsalis’ number, if that’ll help.”

“It will not.”

‘What about Merl Saunders?”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Well, if you meet him: Don’t call him Melvin. That pisses him right off.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Gotta go.”

“This is Dr. J, right?”


Heist In A Bucket

Aw, come on. The duck doesn’t need to be–

“He’s, uh, part of the Murder Heist.”

–part of the Murder Heist. This is not right, Bobby.

“He’s integral. No duck, no luck.”

Why have you time travelled to the Hell In A Bucket video?

“Well, you remember that last Revenger movie.”


“If you say so. They, uh, went back and visited themselves in order to defeat Anus.”


“Was that the purple guy’s name?”


“Probably a better name for a super-villain than ‘Anus.'”


“Although some anuses can be scary as all get-out.”

I suppose. Bobby, please stop jaunting through time to pull off a Murder Heist.

“Too late to stop now. It’s a lit-fuse situation.”

Okay. Can you at least tell me what the duck has to do with the plan?

“We’re going to be coming up on some 3D approximations of reality. But, uh, real realistic ones.”

Right. And?

“And ducks’ quacks don’t echo. So if we’re somewhere that we suspect of being composed of hard-light holograms, we just get have the duck quack at it a couple times.”


“And, uh, problem solved.”

I’m ignoring that. Is that Billy?


Did he end up kidnapping Robert Redford?

“Sure did.”

Is Robert Redford in the trunk of that Cadillac?

“Sure is. But, you know: It’s spacious as heck back there. We wouldn’t have put him in a, say, a Miata’s trunk. The man’s a star.”

Thoughtful of you.

“There’s always enough time for good manners.”

I suppose.

How’d You Get Up Here?

“They’ll write anything you want, but it’s not a monogram unless it’s your name.”

“I can dig that.”

“And you get to choose what kind of script you want it written in.”

“Do ya now?”

“Oh, yeah. Four different kinds! Five? No, four. Obviously, you pick the color, too.”


“They do it in the shop. Right there in front of you.”

“Fun day, man.”

“I bet they do tee-shirts, too. I could maybe bring a couple of yours down and–”

“Do you hear a drum circle?”

“–have my guy…shit, I gotta go.”

“See ya, Mick.”

Paint By Drummer Morning Guy

Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?

“I have no idea! Gonna be honest with you: The fans are not enough ventilation. I’m inhaling a lot of fumes here.”

You look a little woozy.

“Might have had a few Brown Russians, too.”

What’s a Brown Russian?

“Vodka and Yoo-Hoo.”


“Don’t knock ’em until you’ve had eight or nine of ’em. They’ll get on top of you.”

Eight or nine of anything will get on top of you.

“Yeah, but Yoo-Hoo is delicious.”

No, it’s not. Yoo-Hoo is the only beverage that produces thirst. You need a drink after you drink a Yoo-Hoo.

“That’s what the vodka’s for!”

Sure. Mickey?


There’s paint on your face.

“You should see my balls.”


I Know My Momma’s Proud Of Me

Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?

“I’m creating magic by using the building itself as a drum. Or I’m trying to find the bathroom. Maybe both!”

Should you be touching everything right now?

“I don’t have any charges pending.”

Not that. The coronavirus.

“Oh, yuck. Mexican swill. Never touch the stuff. I only drink Kahlúa.”


“Yeah, until you get enough Kahlúa in me.”

Not you. I mean: You drink that shit straight? It’s like fermented Yoo-Hoo.

“Nectar of the gods. Perfect for a hot day.”

I disagree strongly. And getting back to my original point: What are you doing about the coronavirus?

“And I made it clear I thought you were talking about beer. What’s going on with the corona-whatsis?”

Have you really not heard about the global pandemic?

“Billy sent me a text telling me to be careful, but I thought he was talking about the clap.”

The coronavirus is a newly-introduced pathogen that originated in Wuhan, China, and has now spread around the globe at alarming speed. It is highly infectious, and lethal to a troublingly high percentage of old folks and people with underlying conditions.

“Besides you and me, who knows about this?”

Everyone, Mickey. Literally everyone knows about the coronavirus.

“I’ve been so busy.”


“Drumming, yeah.”


“I should take this. It might be about percussion.”


“Howdy. You’re on the Hartline.”

“Which one this?”


“Which Grateful Dead this? The drummer or the other drummer?”

“Oh. I’m the other drummer.”

“Close enough. Kim Jong-Un cure coronavirus. Also learn how do root canal, but that not important. Coronavirus is main thrust of conversation.”

“Man, everyone keeps talking about this corona thing. Or maybe I’m just noticing it more. You ever heard about the 23 conspiracy?”

“Quiet, other drummer. Kim Jong-Un announce discovery to the world at big concert. Dead reunite.”

“I dunno, man. There’s a lot of hurt feelings, plus there’s legal shit.”

“Fifty million dollar each. Cash.”

“It’s a ‘yes’ from me. That kind of offer would elicit a ‘yes’ from me. Any chance we could do it at Levi’s Stadium? Very convenient to my house.”

“We do in Only Korea.”

“You got Kahlúa there?”

“Can get.”

“I’m in.”


This One’s In B

One must assume that Mickey only brought underwear and socks on tour, and each day wandered–bare-chested and half-cocked–by the merch table to yoink himself a fetching top.


If Mrs. Donna Jean had balls, they’d fall out of those shorts. Balls are always looking for a way out; they’re like Papillon.


What the hell is Bobby playing? It’s an Ibanez, but it’s not Cowboy Fancy. Anyone?

A Lovely View Of Oakland, But I’d Rather Be With You

Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?

“I’m on Godzilla Duty.”

What now?

“Someone’s gotta watch out for that rice-eating son of a bitch. He’s a bridge-fucker.”

Not that bridge. No monster has ever taken out the Oakland Bay Bridge.

“Is that not the Golden Gate?”


“How can you tell?”

By looking at it.

“Agree to disagree.”

Whatever. What the fuck are you wearing? Is that a toppermost?

“Oh, wow, no. I don’t have that kind of money. This is just a toppermore.”

Christ, this site is dumb.

“Guess how many bottles of Drambuie I got in here.”



I dunno, Mickey. Four?

“Yeah. Four. How’d you figure that out?”

Just a good guesser.

“About to be three, though.”


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