Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: mickey hart (page 1 of 68)

Mind The Gap

Mickey’s selling doobies, because of course he is, and I’m not writing about it until I get a sample. Or at least a tin. The tin’s nice.

The Main Tenihana

Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?

“Trying to get free shrimp.”

You can yoink shrimp?

“You can yoink anything if you put your back into it. Or, you know, no one’s looking.”

Mickey, Steve Aoki is a respected deejay.

“Oh, yeah. I respect the shit out of the way he plays other peoples’ records. I don’t give a fuck about deejays. What I do give a fuck about is that the guy’s dad owns Benihana. I want one of those ‘eat-free-for-life’ cards.”

Like Carvel gave to Lindsay Lohan and then had to take back because her mother was abusing the system?

“That didn’t happen.”

It did.

“That family’s a mess.”

Oh, yeah.

“I wouldn’t do that. I would be courteous. I’d tip well. But I’ve got a Grammy, I’m in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, I porked Joan Baez…there are no more mountains to conquer except eating my weight in free shrimp. And it’s gotta be flipped into my mouth by a Guatamalan dude pretending to be Japanese.”

You’re a man with a plan.

Fister On The Mountain

Hey, Mickey. What’s the fist for?

“You know why.”

Jesus, man.

Bobby Knobby

Hey, Mickey. Looking flexible.

“I’m lithe, and my tendons are supple.”

Gross. Hey, Bobby.

“Howdy.”

Buddy, you’re the worst clown I’ve ever seen. You look stern.

“I was going for whimsical.”

You missed it and hit morose.

“I gotta cut down on the botox.”

Sure. I mean, look how happy Mickey is. That’s how you wear a clown nose.

“Yeah, sure, but Mickey’s drunk.”

You’re not?

“I am, but off a different liquor.”

That does make sense.

There’s Not Enough Question Marks For This One

The important questions, Enthusiasts. We concern ourselves with only the most vital of the day’s issues. Let lesser sites finger their rosaries over peace, war, coffee cups left on tables, et cetera. These are trifles. No, we’ll not be spending our ever-shrinking lives boodling about in the intellectual shallow end. We’re gonna get down to what’s really real, you and me.

And, thus, we come to our question: Did Phil yoink Bobby’s BMW shirt?

I told you it was important.

Philia

“Hey, Billy?”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“If you could measure love, would you do it with a scale or a ruler?”

“What kind of love we talking about here? Agape? Storge? Eros? You definitely measure eros with a ruler. Eros is the boner-love. You measure boners with rulers, I know that.”

“No question.”

“An argument  could be made that boners are weightless.”

“A good one. Weight has to do with gravity, and boners say ‘No, thank you’ to gravity.”

“Right. I mean, it’s still got mass.”

“Sure.”

“But no weight.”

“Far out, man.”

Don’t Say I Never Warned You When Your Drummer Gets Lost

Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?

“Can I be honest with you?”

Please.

“I’m lost.”

Sure.

“Here’s what happened: I woke up this morning, and I thought Today’s all about nature. Also, my wife threw me out of the house.”

Why?

“Have you tried a Moscow Mule?”

Ah.

“You need a special cup to drink them! That’s wild, man. But, yeah, apparently I pissed on the dogs.”

Ew.

“So I go to take my nature walk, and instead of grabbing my phone, I took a drum.”

Very on-brand of you.

“You have to admit: it’s the Mickiest thing I could do.”

Yup.

“I’ll be okay, though. There’s a puma tracking me. They’re helpful animals, right?”

No. The opposite.

“Then why are they called ‘the St. Bernard of Big Cats?'”

They are not.

“Nature is really something.”

It is.

“Should I drink my own piss?”

How long have you been out there?

“About an hour.”

You should drink your own piss.

I Don’t Wanna Work…

“Tell me about this drum, Uncle Mickey.”

“It could be a coffee table.”

“But it’s not.”

“No. It’s a drum. Everything in here is a drum, Justy.”

“Justin.”

“Now, just help me with this one last time–”

“I’m Billy’s son.”

“–who exactly are…ahhhh. Okay. That would explain why you look nothing like Phil.”

“Sure. Back to the drum, Uncle Mick.”

“I never have to get back to drums. Because I never leave them. Would you like to see my pocket bongos?”

“It depends.”

“They’re my balls.”

“Then, no, I do not want to see them.”

Triple H

Who are these two hobohumpers?

“They’re in Congress!”

The real one or like when the Road Crew used to have slapfights with their dicks and call it Congress?

“The real one!”

Awesome. Who are they?

“Well, the guy next to me looks like your friend’s dad.”

He does.

“And I wanna call the other fellow ‘Branford.'”

You shouldn’t want that.

“Gummy Joe?”

That’s just rude, Mickey.

“Stating facts here, man. Lot of gum in that smile. And differing heights, too! It’s like a fleshy skyline in there.”

Stop that. You’re no prize, either.

“I’m gonna ask him if I could play his gums.”

This is why you don’t appear a lot.

Someone Steal That Man’s Razor

A reminder: Never wear your boots like that unless OSHA demands that you do so.

A further reminder: “Body Positivity” is a scam invented to sell products–some cheese-covered, some not–to fat people.

A farther reminder: Nick Paumgarten fucking loves mountains. Climbing ’em, sliding down ’em, getting drunk with rich fuckers at the base of ’em: the man’s a catholic slopist.

A father’s reminder: Get your hair cut and tell your mother you love her.

A farmer’s reminder: The Grange meeting is Tuesday night.

A Farnsworth reminder: I INVENTED TEEVEE, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARDS!

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