Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Other Guinness Records Held by the Dead:
Hey, pal.
“Oh, hey. Merry Christ–”
Not you.
“You wanna talk to the dog?”
Could it be that much worse than talking to the rock star?
“Not a terrible point.”
…
Who’s a good dog?
“Oh, that would be me. Been killing it lately. Ate a squirrel, pooped on the bed. Just really seeing the ball right now; I’m in the zone.”
Good to hear. How’s your holiday season going?
“I ate a squirrel and pooped on the bed: those were the highlights. I completely don’t understand any of this nonsense: these are familiar smells and the lights ring a bell, but my relationship with reality is of an episodic nature and I am just stymied by all of this.”
Yeah, there are around two dozen layers of abstraction in the concept of Christmas.
“Right. I’m a tactile learner.”
Which means?
“I enjoy chewing on stuff and/or humping things.”
Right. You get any presents?
“Bone.”
Nice.
“Squeaky monkey.”
Score.
“Shoe.”
Bobby gave you a shoe for Christmas?
“Let’s just say ownership of a shoe was transferred from Bobby to myself today and leave it at that.”
What else you been doing?
“Walks: always awesome. The park. Go into town. Ride in the car.”
Cool.
“This morning? Or maybe last year? Or possibly this morning?”
That time thing really is your Waterloo.
“It’s why so few dogs are NFL head coaches.”
…
Managing–
“Managing the clock.”
–the clock, right.
“Anyway: this memory smells recent, so I think it was this morning. Me and Bobby go out real early and the smells are all different from they are when we usually go out, so I was having a blast. Then, all the church bells started ringing.”
That must have been beautiful.
“Are you shitting me? It was fucking terrifying. You know how much more powerful my hearing is than yours? Church bells sound like the gates of hell opening up.”
Oh. Sorry
“No big deal. Big guy was right there. Nothing that bad could happen with the big guy there.”
Speaking of the big guy, what’s with the white tube socks and penny loafers?
“Saw Dennis Miller do it and liked the look.”
Ah.Anyway, nice talking to you, Otis.
“Back at ya.”
You might be my favorite Grateful Dead.
“I’m a very good boy.”
Who is?
“I am.”
Who is?
“I am!”
Hey, Otis. How was your day?
“Rough.”
…
“Ah, I’m fucking with you. I can’t complain, y’know? No pants, no bills, no concept of mortality: being a dog’s just aces, honestly.”
I read something interesting about you, Otis: were you originally John Kahn’s dog?
“True, true. Yeah, me and Kahn liked each other just fine, but we were different people. I liked not doing heroin, but he didn’t not like doing heroin.”
Wait…okay, I figured that out.
“Good guy, Kahnny, but an indoors kinda cat. Not just indoors – he would find the smallest room within the house and hang out in there with the door closed.”
You’re a nature dog.
“Right on, man: yeah. I like hikes and running alongside bikes and sticking my nose in strange asses. Eating stuff, throwing it up, then eating it again.”
Sure.
“Dog stuff.”
Well, some dogs like to lay around.
“Hey, don’t get me wrong: I can’t get enough of laying on stuff. The bed is great, or the couch. Rugs are okay, but the floor will do just fine. Anywhere I can be most in the way of everyone.”
Dogs love doing that.
“Keeping an eye on the guy. Number one rule: always know where your Bobby is.”
Bobby’s a good dog guy?
“Ah. man: I lucked out with Big Bob. We hike and run and go to parks and he brings me everywhere in the car: me and Bob hang heavy and hard.”
I’m getting that.
“That man is MY BRO. My Peter Bro-Toole.”
Don’t do that.
“Every night, I sing him Brohemian Rhapsody.”
Stop it.
“Call me Norman, cuz he’s my Broklahoma.”
Weird.
“How would you characterize my slide playing, Otis?”
Ruff!
“Good boy!”
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