Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: miles davis (page 1 of 6)

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.”



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.”


“Who is this?”


“Ah, for Christ’s sake.”




“Stick things–”


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


“What now?”


“I’m looking.”


“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.”

Time After Time

“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’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, someone’s–”

“Bobby? Damn, he’s quick.”

“I got you now, Wynton, you corny motherfucker!”


“STOP SHOOTING! I’m not Wynton! It’s Branford!”



“Not Wynton?”


“Hate that fucking brother of yours.”

“I know!”

“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.”

…And Her Prince

“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.”

I guess.

“And the Jew.”

Saw that coming. Did you ever consider another religion?

“Like what?”


“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.

“I know.”

Black, Mann

  1. If it were truly illegal to take white women across state lines for immoral purposes, and not just an excuse to lock up uppity negros, then the Grateful Dead would still be in jail.
  2. Jack Johnson would have some interesting things to say about Trump.

An Unhealthy Relationship



“Yes, you!”

Why are you back in the hospital?


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.”

What happened?

“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.



“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.”

He didn’t.

“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.”

You Had To See It Coming


“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.”

Same difference.

“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.”

Your 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.”


Reunited And It Feels So Goat

“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?”

What now?

“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.”

I’ll bet.

“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.”



“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.”

“The lonely.”

“Godammit, Benjy.”


“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.”



“Oh, no.”

“I see you came back from the fucking dead. That’s good. I like that.”

“Not you.”

“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.”

“Absolutely not.”

“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.”


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.”

I know.

An Expected Conclusion With An Unexpected Postscript

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.”

Oh, God.

“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.”

For Mayer Or For Poorer

They spelled your name wrong, Josh.

“This is going to come as a shock to you, but I’m a highly respected artist.”

You paint?

“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.

“Excuse me?”

The Search for Everything. Didn’t go Gold?

“It did.”


“In Canada.”

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.”

“What now?”

“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!”



“That better?

Could you stop beating him, please!?

“When he acts right.”

Mr. Davis, may I speak to your wife, John Mayer?


Josh? Buddy?

“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.


Yeah. Johnny?

“Just 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.

In Which, Through Fits And Starts, A Twist, Undreamt Of By The Typist ‘Fore His Sitting, Occurs

I don’t even know what to say to you at this point.

“How about ‘What a splendid toppermost, John?'”

No. Definitely not that.

“I like to look on the outside how I feel on the inside, and today I feel like an Albuquerque dentist’s office in 1978.”

Nailed it.

“Thank you. Honestly, man? I don’t know what I love most about clothes: buying them, wearing them, or washing them. But, you know, if you think about it: those three things are intertwined. I have a really involved metaphor comparing tee-shirts to the Holy Trinity, if you’d like to hear it.”

I would not. Seriously, what the fuck is that garment?

“I can’t keep telling you this. It is called a toppermost. It’s neither a kimono nor a robe, and it’s certainly not a coat.”

You can’t define words that way.

“Just watch me.”

Got me there.

“The toppermost is one of several articles of clothing that poor people don’t know about. Like footkerchiefs.”

Are those like handkerchiefs?

“Sort of.”

What else?

“An aglellon.”

What is that?

“It’s like a hat for your neck.”

You’re making this all up.

“I will send you a video of my aglellon closet. I’ll edit it into a trying-on-outfits montage like in chick flicks.”

I would like to see that. Hey, speaking of chicks: you have to make it to the end of this tour without getting accused of anything.

“It’s like a feeding frenzy.”

Just gotta make it to the end of the tour. You know that we’ve all grown fond of you, but if drag the Dead into the Problem Attic with you, Deadhead assassins will be dispatched.

“Deadhead assassins?”

Yeah. They’re not the best. Far more dangerous to themselves than to you. But you’ll be in a very odd state of existence forevermore: nonstop attempts on your life, but all of them doomed to fail.

“Dude, it’ll be fine. And nothing’s happening this tour, anyway. I’ve settled down.”

Oh, God.

“Bitch, who you talking to?”

“No one important, Daddy.”

“I forgot my fucking robe. Gimme your toppermost.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I simply do not know what’s going on here.

“It’s called love, you simple motherfucker. Bitch was respectful, educated. Learned how to cook my food right. Asshole real tight. Talked too fucking much, but I trained that out of him. Moved him in to the house in the City.”

You’re gay now?


Saw that coming.

“Miles fucking Davis ain’t a fucking sissy. Nothing gay about fucking a man. Getting fucked by a man? That’s some gay-ass shit.”

I don’t think that’s how it works.

“No one asked your opinion on my fucking love life.”


“Yeah. I didn’t see it coming. Surprised me.”

Me, too.

“Thinking about letting him get gay married to me.”

“It would just be married, Daddy.”


“What the fuck did I tell you about correcting me in public?”

“That you appreciated constructive criticism?”


“That was in private, you dumb bitch.”

“Oh! Right! I got them confused. I thought ‘Speak up in public and be quiet in private’ but now that I think about it, it just makes no sense. I’m a scatterbrain.”


“Not in the face, Daddy! I need that!”

Please, Miles Davis, stop beating your fiance, John Mayer.

“When he stops needing a fucking beating.”

This is getting truly dark.

“Shouldn’t have fucking brought me here, you didn’t want me to be myself.”

None of this is my fault.

“Now fuck off. We going aglellon shopping.”


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