Not if you care for me.
Not if you care for me.
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.”
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.”
“What the fuck was that?”
It sounded very cosmic.
“Right? That was the word that I would use. Cosmic.”
“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.”
“I’M A HOLE. ONLY ONE THING YOU CAN DO TO A HOLE.”
“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.”
“GAZE DEEPLY! LOOK WITHIN ME!”
“DO YOU SEE WHAT IS AT MY HEART? CAN YOU WITNESS THE BLACKEST THING IN THE UNIVERSE?”
“The blackest thing in…ah, shit.”
“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.”
“You having fun. man?”
“Fuck, man, I had no idea about you motherfuckers.”
“Yeah, we get it on for white boys.”
“This is a blast, Jerry. You do this every night?”
“Except for when we suck, yeah.”
“That happen a lot?”
“You’d be shocked.”
“Well, not tonight. I feel like I can’t play a wrong note.”
“You’ve got an open invitation, man. Hell, you can join the band if you want.”
“Lemme think about that, man. I’m really gonna–
“–think aboutWHAT THE FUCK?”
“WHAT JUST HAPPENED!?”
“What’s up, Branford? Do you need some Fret-Eeze?”
“No! Where am I? What year is it? BOBBY? What the fuck? Where’s Garcia!?”
“Ah. What, uh, year do you think it is?”
“Ah. Did you, uh, play a D-flat?”
“I think so.”
“Well, there you go. It’s 2018, Jerry’s dead, I’m the Garcia now, Josh is me, and our new bass player is also named Branford.”
“What kind of white person bullshit is this?”
“What the fuck?”
“Bobby? Damn, he’s quick.”
“I got you now, Wynton, you corny motherfucker!”
“STOP SHOOTING! I’m not Wynton! It’s Branford!”
“Hate that fucking brother of yours.”
“Hey, motherfucker. Why you hanging out with those old white motherfuckers?”
“I wasn’t! I was hanging out with middle-aged white motherfuckers and then I got shoved sideways through time or something!”
“Chill the fuck out before I slap you.”
“I was calm!”
“You was getting to calm. I helped you along the fucking way. C’mon, let’s go for a ride and I’ll take you back to wherever the fuck you came from.”
“You can do that?”
“I’m Miles Davis, motherfucker. Course I can travel through fucking time.”
“I’m so confused.”
“That fat bitch die?’
Oh, this is gonna go well.
“Bitch carried that purse with her so she could steal from buffet tables.”
Please stop talking about Aretha Franklin that way.
“Didn’t care for her. Sang too much. Leave some notes for the rest of the world.”
Mr. Davis, Aretha’s voice–
“Her name is Miss Franklin. You respect that fat bitch.”
You’re just all over the place today.
“That gospel shit. ‘Love you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus. Lemme suck on your nuts, Jesus.’ Bunch of bullshit crackers taught the black man to keep him happy in poverty. ‘Blessed are the meek.’ What the fuck kind of pussy bullshit is that? ‘Turn the other cheek.’ You ain’t even gonna hit me on my first cheek, you mayonnaise-dicked bog dweller.”
I take it you’re not a Christian.
“Used to get dragged to church when I was a kid. Hated that shit. Preacher in his tacky fucking suit mopping his stinky head. Could smell him from the pews. Always talking about getting saved. From who? Only motherfucker I need saving from is the white man.”
“And the Jew.”
Saw that coming. Did you ever consider another religion?
“Say it, motherfucker.”
Nation of Islam?
“Saw that bullshit coming, too, you racist motherfucker.”
It was very big when you were around.
“Hell, no. Fuck them bean pie-eating motherfuckers. You gonna tell Miles Davis he can’t drink his Heineken and sniff his cocaine? The fuck did Allah make it for, then? Hell, no, I wasn’t no fucking Nation of Islam motherfucker. I used to donate some money, though.”
“White people hated ’em so much that I figured they must be doing something right.”
Can’t argue with that.
“No, you can’t, you dumb fucking cracker.”
Always a pleasure, Mr. Davis.
Why are you back in the hospital?
“YOU KNOW WHY!”
Did your appendix and Miles–
–Davis hunt you down? Okay, no need to be so zesty about the situation. Lower your zest.
“Fuck you and fuck your zest! I had surgery at the beginning of the week and you PROMISED to not pull any stupid bullshit while I was recuperating.”
“I went back to Montana to rest up. I have a little cabin there, 23,000 square feet, real cozy, next door to Harrison and Calista. All I wanted to do was take it easy and watch a little teevee and maybe fly a couple porn stars in. And–if I may remind you–I was promised that I’d be left alone.”
I did promise that.
“So what happened?”
My promises are not worth much.
What did your appendix and Miles Davis do to you?
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I won’t tell anyone.
Cross my heart.
“Miles Davis forcibly penetrated me using my own removed appendix as a dildo.”
Oh, that’s not right.
“IT’S FUCKING NOT, MAN.”
“I don’t wanna settle, asshole. All of this is bullshit.”
They let you wear your toppermost in the hospital.
“Yeah, that’s pretty cool, but it doesn’t make up for the organ-rape.”
Probably not. Hey, lemme talk to Miles. See if I can work this out.
“Just keep that lunatic away from me.”
Sure. Mr. Davis? You around?
“Don’t go calling for me, motherfucker. I ain’t your dog.”
Mr. Davis, did you sexually assault John Mayer with his own appendix?
“Yeah, I did that shit.”
Why are you smiling?
“That shit was some funny shit. Little bitch was squealing and squirming.”
None of this is funny. If you hadn’t died in 1995, you’d be criminally liable.
“Nah. Bitch liked it.”
“Yeah, he did. Shot his load all over his toppermost.”
“Couldn’t have hated it too fucking much.”
I regret bringing you into this universe.
“You knew who the fuck I was.”
I thought you’d be cranky and maybe punch some people. I didn’t in my wildest dreams imagine you’d be molesting John Mayer with his own innards.
“That’s why I’m a fucking genius and you ain’t.”
“Yeah, yeah. Like you’re such a prize.”
Who the hell are you?
“I’m John Mayer’s appendix.”
Oh, COME ON. It’s not bad enough I chat with abstract concepts, dead famous animals, and stools; I gotta talk to pop stars’ internal organs now?
“Hey, I’m not internal anymore.”
“I’m getting a lot of visceraphobia here.”
Not a thing.
Whatever. So what’s your deal, anyway? 40 years of doing absolutely nothing and you explode?
“But I didn’t explode. Didn’t even get a chance to fulfill my destiny.”
“Murdering John Mayer.”
“Me and his spleen have been talking about it for years. Fuck that guy.”
“Ever hear his songs?”
Yes, but that’s no reason to murder the guy.
“No, no. Who does he talk about in his songs? The heart. Eyes. Ears. Lungs. Hands. Every fucking body part gets a song, but me? What do I get? Bupkiss, that’s what I get. Fuck that guy.”
“I will not be ignored.”
You will be now. You’ve almost certainly been thrown away.
“Oh, no. I got rescued. Someone came and got me, and then plan’s still on. John Mayer will pay for how he treated us.”
Someone? Us? Who is “someone?” Who is “us?”
“You know who, motherfucker.”
“Me and the bitch’s appendix won’t be treated this fucking way.”
I hate everything about this universe.
“Appendix, get in the fucking car.”
“Can I drive?”
“You ain’t got no hands, motherfucker. No, you can’t drive.”
“If you want one, I’ll get you one.”
I would have nowhere to wear a toppermost.
“Yeah. And I was just kidding. You’re not even supposed to know these exist.”
There’s a lot going on with that one.
“Summer Morning In The Fields?”
“All toppermosts have names. This one is Summer Morning In The Fields. I think it’s apropos. Fascinating story behind her.”
“All toppermosts are female.”
“I had to travel to Japan to persuade a retired master tailor to create one last piece. His name was Hattori Hando.”
“No. Hando. Completely different guy than the guy you’re thinking of.”
If you say so.
“He had retired to a fishing village outside Okinawa, where he ran a non-sushi bar.”
“He cooked the fish.”
“Place smelled delicious.”
“No one knew his true identity. I bowed deeply, and then removed my overcoat to reveal one of his early masterpieces, Snowing On The Old People. He said nothing, and brought me some bass. I usually don’t like bass, but he poached it and it was just salty and creamy and I knew I should be eating my chicken breasts but I finished the whole plate. Oh my God, so yummy.”
I get it. Good fish.
“Hattori Hando sits down with me and we banter. So much tension.”
“He asks me why I want a Hattori Hando toppermost.”
What’d you tell him?
“I said, ‘Because I want to look fancy.'”
That was it?
“It worked. He let me stay in his attic while he sewed. I spent my time practicing wearing clothes. At the end of a month, Hattori Hando came to me and we had a very Japanese ceremony. Like, if a layman saw it, he would totally know how Japanese it was. He presented the garment to me and said, “John Mayer, if you meet God while you are wearing this toppermost, then God will not know if it’s a robe or a kimono, but He’ll be pretty sure it isn’t a coat. You owe me like a trillion yen for the food and rent.’ It was a beautiful, spiritual moment.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“I hate you.”
You’ve got every right.
“John Mayer, fashion is my passion.”
“I’m not gonna tell you again.”
“What do you know about goats?”
“There’s nothing to know! Very easy animal. Eats anything and won’t stop fucking. Goats are the opposite of pandas.”
“Why are we talking about goats? Why do you have a goat?”
“Why do WE have a goat!”
“Dammit, Benjy, did you buy a goat?”
“No! I invested in a goat. And I didn’t invest in just one. The key to goats is volume.”
How many goats do I now own?
“It’s gonna sound like a big number out of context.”
“I told you: volume.”
Just because you keep saying it, doesn’t mean it makes sense.
“John, bubby, you can’t play your guitar forever. The concussions are adding up. These goats are our future.”
How do you make money off them?
“How do you not make money off them? Meat, milk, fur, odds and ends. Scrap cost alone is in the five figure region. And while they’re alive, you rent them out.”
“Rent them out?”
“To petting zoos. Children’s parties.”
“Am I a goat pimp now?”
“That’s such a small part of it. It’s barely even worth mentioning. And it’s an upscale clientele!”
“An upscale clientele of goatfuckers?”
“These are very successful men who grew up on farms and had formative experiences in barns. Don’t you judge them.”
“I will absolutely judge goatfuckers.”
“No offense, but that’s why Trump won.”
“Benjy, sell the goats.”
“You’re not seeing the upside here.”
“Sell the damn goats!”
“I’ll get rid of the motherfuckers.”
GOAT DYING SOUND
“I see you came back from the fucking dead. That’s good. I like that.”
“Look how fucking sad I am.”
“Miles, you murdered me. I don’t wanna talk to you.”
“I like that toppermost.”
“Oh, thank you. That’s so sweet ofHEY wait a minute.”
“Get over here and take off your drawers and get freaky with yourself. Do it on top of the lion.”
“Mr. Davis? Hi. My name is Benjy Eisen and I’m John’s manag–”
“Who the fuck did I just murder?”
“Benjy. Don’t worry about it. He’ll be fine.”
“Come back to me, John Mayer. I’m sorry I shot and killed you.”
“You didn’t just kill me, Miles. You killed our love.”
BROKENHEARTED GUITARIST RUNNING AWAY NOISE
Sorry it didn’t work out, Mr. Davis.
“Never know what’s gonna happen.”
That’s true. You might get back together.
“Yeah. I think I’m gonna stalk him.”
Please don’t stalk John Mayer, Miles Davis.
“I do what the fuck I want.”
Hey, Mr. Davis. You look…I don’t know how you look. I can’t read your expression.
“Pissed off at white motherfuckers.”
That’s a given.
“Nah. Got a special anger right now. Hey, you’re a Jew.”
No good conversation has ever started this way.
“You must know motherfuckers at the New York Times.”
I don’t. I know people who write for music magazines.
“Yeah, some of my friends are losers, too.”
That’s just rude.
“I wake up. Do my stretches. Go downstairs. John got my breakfast the way I like it.”
How do you like it?
“Small lines. Motherfuckers wanna lay out big-ass rails the size of Hercules’ dick. Show they’re tough or something. I don’t appreciate that. Low class. Gimme six itty-bitty lines. And some fruit. Gotta start the day healthy.”
“And a Heineken. Love that shit.”
Sounds like your day began well.
“Then I opened the fucking paper. And I found it. The shit I been looking for all my life.”
“Proof that the white man is the fucking devil.”
The blowjob about the Nazi?
“What the fuck is wrong with you motherfuckers? How many chances you motherfuckers give each other? N—-r sits down for some fucking song and he can’t get a job. White man wants to kill everything darker than a fucking cuticle, and you talk about his favorite fucking teevee shows.”
I have no defense.
“The fuck is wrong with you motherfuckers?”
Again: I do not know.
“I start shooting off my mouth about how I wanna kill all the honkies, you think the fucking Times is gonna be so nice to me?”
“This angered me. Then I finished my Heineken and there wasn’t another one there for me. That angered me, as well. I needed to do something with my feelings.”
“I shot and killed my wife, John Mayer.”
“You knew it was coming.”
I didn’t think it would happen off-screen.
“This dialogue bullshit don’t lend itself to fucking action scenes.”
Oh, Mr. Davis. Is he really dead?
“If he isn’t, then he’s in for a hell of a surprise when he wakes up in that landfill.”
You dumped John Mayer in a landfill? He’s a Grammy winner!
“I know. I traded his awards for pills.”
You’re a horrible man.
“Don’t listen to him, Miles! Everyone’s wanted to shoot Josh for years. Grab your racket and let’s hit around.”
“Who the fuck is that?”
“I don’t know if we’ve met. I’m Mickey Hart.”
“Yeah. Airto told me about you. Said you crazy. Like crashing sports cars and getting in fights and sniffing cocaine.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“I like that. Fuck tennis, though. Let’s just take the balls and throw ’em at old Chinese ladies.”
“That sounds much better, honestly.”
“Gimme five minutes to change.”
They spelled your name wrong, Josh.
“This is going to come as a shock to you, but I’m a highly respected artist.”
“Not that kind of artist.”
What is this for?
“And record sales. I move product like Escobar.”
You do sell a lot of units. I don’t see the last album on there.
The Search for Everything. Didn’t go Gold?
Does your girlfriend live in Canada, too, Josh?
“Y’know, your shitty little attitude and hateful disposition can’t bother me today. I’m happy. I’ve got, like, nine bands; millions of dollars worth of probably-not-counterfeit watches; my tattoos are so sexy; and I’m happily married. I’m objectively winning at life.”
How is Miles?
“I am so in love. Bought him a present.”
Oh, God. Lemme guess.
“Look at this fucking toppermost my bitch bought me.”
I was right.
“I’m clean as a motherfucker. Bitch got a good eye.”
That is a hell of a toppermost, Mr. Davis.
“Best wife I ever had. Shops more than Cicely did, but he pays for his own shit. Brings me presents. Washes all my shit real good. Gets all freaky on my armpits.”
You’re into that?
“I wasn’t, but now I am.”
“He’s a good wife. Strong on the inside. Very spiritual. And powerful legs. Boy can take a pounding. I like that. I got a hard stroke. I stroke long, I stroke hard.”
Sounds like you got something good going.
“Love that motherfucker. Traded some of his watches for coke.”
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m fucking talking.”
“But you said–”
“Which watches did you–”
“Did you at least save any coke for–”
“Stop slapping me!”
Could you stop beating him, please!?
“When he acts right.”
Mr. Davis, may I speak to your wife, John Mayer?
“Daddy was right. I shouldn’t talk back like that.”
Josh, I need you to know how serious I am, so I’m going to call you John.
He’s going to kill you.
“He’s not. He loves me.”
He may very well love you. Most people get killed by people who love them.
“You’re just speculating.”
I’m not. I write this bullshit. I decided he was going to shoot you a couple days ago.
“It is the logical dramatic progression.”
I go where the muse takes me.
“I really think I’ll be fine.”
I promise you that you are not.
“Bitch! Get over here and grease up.”
“I gotta go.”
I warned you.