Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: phil lesh (page 1 of 104)

Pride Of Oklahoma

“Hey, dangletits.”

Why are you with Randos? Randos are the worst people to be near right now.

“Being closed sucked, so I used the Time Sheath to bring Terrapin Crossroads back to 2006.”

The whole place?

“Even the bocce courts. Best decision I’ve made in years. People spent a ton of money in 2006. Everyone keeps telling me about all the houses they’re flipping, and I try real hard not to laugh at ’em.”

I didn’t know the Time Sheath could do that.

“That’s because you’re a dolt. The power of time travel makes one nigh-on omnipotent.”

Nigh-on?

“You heard me, buttmunch.”

Did you bring Jill?

“Of course I brought Jill. And the Busboys and the Family Band.”

You brought Grahame?

“He’s safer with me, and 2020 is safer with him here.”

You would know best.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I’m gonna take this because I hate talking to you, and would accept any excuse to not have to do so.”

Okee-doke.

“Thanks for calling Terrapin Crossroads, where we’ll toss you in an antique bathtub full of shrimp for $49.99. Phil speaking.”

“Great gadzooks, I would like to take me one o’ them shrimp baths. Y’all got ketchup or do I need t’bring my own?

“Who the fuck is this?’

“It’s me, your new business partner, Joe Exotic.”

“Fuck off.”

“You listen on up, hombre! I’m offerin’ you the ultimate attraction for that hash-house o’ yours.”

“What?’

“Tigers. You gonna be the only restaurant in Marin County what got tigers roamin’ around th’ grounds.”

“Which one are you, Siegfried or Roy?”

“I am neither, but have been mistaken for both.”

“I can’t have any damn tigers. You said it yourself: it’s Marin County. You can go to jail for misgendering a dog. I’m serious, they just passed that. You meet a new dog and say what a good boy it is, but it turns out it’s a girl? Right to jail.”

“That ain’t freedom. That’s communistic.”

“Whattya gonna do?”

“Fine, no tigers. How about a liger?”

“A what?”

“Liger. Cross-breed of a lion and tiger.”

“I didn’t know you could mate a lion and a tiger. How does that work?’

“Lotta the time, it don’t.”

“is that even natural? Is it supposed to happen?”

“I have found that ‘supposed to’ is a phrase I don’t have much use for. I’m more of a ‘can’ or ‘can’t’ kinda guy. You’d love ligers. They’s about 12 feet long and 800 pounds and riddled with mental deficiencies.”

“That’s a monster, you heedless twit. You’re describing a monster.”

“There’s other stuff I made. Got me a chimputan. That’s a chimp mixed with an orangutan. We call her Miss Frizzle, cuz she got the hair like that lady in the cartoon. I also got a cheekey, which is a cheetah crossed with a donkey. We call the cheekey Scrambled Eggs, cuz that’s what its genitalia looks like. And I don’t think its bones are in the right places.”

“I’m not buying any of your abominations.”

“How about Joe Exotic, Jr.?”

“What is that?”

“I mixed in my own precious seed with a little bit of everything I had. Tiger, lion, a couple capybaras. Squirted the concoction up a bison’s cooter, and nine months later I had a son. He was a bit globbier than I’d imagined my child would be, but I see Jesus in the boy’s heart. It’s easy, cuz his heart’s on the outside of his chest.”

“You are banned from Terrapin Crossroads.

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Hey, cockgobbbler.”

Yes?

PHIL SLAP!

Ow!

“Stop making me talk to assholes, asshole!”

How did you even do that?

“Don’t worry about it.

Four Score

Hey, Philbert.

“Not my name, choad.”

Happy birthday, sir.

“Another year defeated.”

Defeated.

“Life’s a battle, monkeynuts. Just you versus Death, and I got that boney fucker’s balls in my teeth.”

One way to look at it.

“You wanna know what I do every morning?”

Sure.

“Me and Jill get up real early, throw Grahame out of bed, and we do our P90X.”

Grahame’s in the bed?

“He has nightmares a lot.”

Okay.

“Then one of the Busboys makes me my coffee and I walk out to the porch. Faces east. Faces the sun. And you know what I do?”

What?

“I show the sun my cock. Just so the yellow fucker knows I’m not scared of him.”

That’s very metal.

“I don’t need your approval.”

True.

CELL PHONE NOISE

CELL PHONE NOISE

CELL PHONE NOISE

You’re not gonna answer that?

“Fuck, no.”

What if it’s Jill?

“Then she’d call on the Jill Phone.”

Is that like the Bat Phone?

“Obviously, dullard.”

What if it’s Grahame?

“Grahame doesn’t have my phone number. He used to, but he would call a dozen times a day to tell me about about dogs he’d seen.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

Just answer it.

“It’s some dumbfuck who’s gonna say dumbfuck shit, isn’t it?”

Noooo.

“Ah, for Christ’s sake, I’ll answer it if it’ll shut you up.”

“Thank you for calling Terrapin Crossroads, home of the Ross James sandwich and Ross James. Out of caution, we have closed until April 2nd, but the gift shop is still open 24 hours a day. This is Phil.”

“Spicy Phil!”

“Don’t call me that.”

“So spicy. Love to give and take. Like Larry David, but with hair and no Jewish.”

“What do you want, lardass?”

“Worried about Spicy Phil. Want protect. I send bubble.”

“I don’t need a bubble.”

“Like Travolta. You go in bubble. Stay healthy.”

“Fuck off. I’m not going in any damn bubble.”

“Is top-quality bubble! Custom! Is no Walmart bubble!”

“I don’t give a shit if it’s bespoke. Keep your bubble.”

“Is done. Bubble send.”

“No bubble!”

“You bubble!”

“No bubble!”

“Is send!”

DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Asshole!”

Me?

“I will send the Busboys to your house. In real life, not in here. Out there where you and your loved ones are. I will have you beaten if I have to talk to that ball-gargling pantload one more time.”

I understand.

“Do ya?”

Happy birthday, Phil.

“Thank you. Fuck off.”

Short-Lived

How bar-bandish was Phil’s hiatus bar band? Four songs with “mama” in the title AND Louie Louie in one set. That’s how bar-bandish.

OR

Too Loose To Truck (possibly styled as Touloos Ta Truck) may be the most obscure of all Grateful Dead side bands. Go Ahead has its own damn Wikipedia page, and you don’t even know which Grateful Deads were in Go Ahead, do you? (Billy and Brent.) All that remains of TLTT is one recording, along with the night’s handbill; neither publicity nor performance photos were taken.

Phil left the womb less than the other band members. He was in the New Riders for fifteen minutes, bothered audiences with Ned Lagin for a year, this group during the hiatus, and two nights with the Jerry Band in ’81. Other than that, Phil played with the Dead exclusively because Phil is secretly the laziest Grateful Dead. When the band yeeted out in 1974, everybody else got to work (except for Billy, who immediately became a junkie). Garcia started touring the Jerry Band, which had previously been a local Bay Area act; Bobby joined Kingfish and recorded an album that featured Lazy Lightning>Supplication; Keith and Mrs. Donna Jean cut a record and put together a new band. Phil rounded up some buddies to play Slippin’ & Slidin’ at the bar by his house.

OR

Weirdly reminiscent of Billy Cobham’s Spectrum. Good, good drummer.

Steal Your Facemask Right Off Your Head

Please go inside, Phil.

“Don’t tell me what to do, needledick.”

Dude, I’m worried about you. You’re turning 80 this week and have several underlying health issues. You must know a bunch of tech billionaires. Go to one of their private sex islands for a couple months.

“Half of the Western Caribbean is private sex islands nowadays.”

Really?

“Oh, yeah. They call it ‘The Sea of Fuck.’ It’s the only logical endpoint to unchecked Capitalism, if you think about it.”

True.

“I did have Grahame isolated, though.”

Is he sick?

“No, he was just getting on my nerves.”

Please be careful, Phil.

“I told hepatitis and cancer to go fuck themselves. This is nothing.”

Okay.

Alligator, Noonday Lunch Rush

Hey, Phil. Whatcha doing?

“What does it look I’m doing, cockbreath?”

Posing with Alligator.

“I’m amazed you got it on the first try. Tell me something honestly: How old were you when you were fully toilet-trained? 15, 16?”

I was the normal age.

“Horseshit. You were a pants-pooping little son of a bitch. I can read your aura. It’s brown.”

This aggression is completely unnecessary.

“Will you stop bothering me, and including me in your dumb scenarios?”

No.

“Then the aggression shall continue unabated.”

Okay. Are you putting any precautions into place at TXR regarding the coronavirus?

“Hell, yeah. A busboy sneezed yesterday, so we had to handle that.”

How did you handle it?

“I handed Jill the gun and left the room.”

Anything else?

“No more rare burgers. Everything’s well-done.”

I don’t know if that will help. What else?

“Ross James has been shaved.”

You made Ross James shave his beard?

“Ross James has been shaved.”

I’ll leave it alone.

“For the best.”

The Forces Tear From The X-Axis

“Goddammit, you little prick! What did you do?”

The picture’s just turned a little. I can–

“You can fuck up! That’s all! You can fuck up and massage your crotch, that’s all you’re good for.”

No need for that, Phil.

“The whole restaurant’s 90 degrees off! The oil from the deep fryer spilled on three of the Busboys!”

Oh, no. Are they okay?

“Jill shot them.”

Why?

“We’re running a business here, dickface. No room in the budget for skin grafts.”

“DAAAAAAD!? WHY IS THE WALL THE FLOOR NOW?”

“Oh, great. Are you happy? You scared Grahame!”

I can fix this.

“They should’ve fixed your mother, suckjob.”

Wall Of Soundcheck

Holy shit. Garcia. Hey, Garcia.

“What is it now, man?”

Don’t look, but you’re over there.

GUITARIST LOOKING NOISE

I told you not to look.

“That’s not me, man. He just looks like me. Actually, he looks more like me than I do, man.”

Hmm. I dunno.

THERE IS ONLY ONE JERRY GARCIA.

Wally?

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. THE HOBBIT STAGE LEFT IS GENETICALLY DISSIMILAR TO GARCIA.

Genetically?

I SCANNED HIM.

Don’t scan randos. It’s invasive.

HE IS HANGING OFF ME LIKE A HAIRY BAT. IT IS UNSIGHTLY AND RUDE.

Let it go.

I HAVE AN AESTHETIC.

A ramshackle one.

MY APPEARANCE IS AS VITAL TO ME AS YOURS IS TO YOU. WOULD YOU ALLOW A CREATURE OF COMMENSURATE SIZE TO CLUTCH ONTO YOUR FACE? A PYGMY MARMOSET? A MOUSE LEMUR? THE BEE HUMMINGBIRD?

Did you just google “smallest monkey” and “smallest bird?”

ARE YOU ASKING A COMPUTER IF IT LOOKED SOMETHING UP ON THE COMPUTER?

I guess so.

PERHAPS I SHOULD RECOMPILE MY THOUGHTS ON TAKING OVER THE WORLD. I AM BEGINNING TO THINK HUMANS ARE INCAPABLE OF GOVERNING THEMSELVES.

Just beginning?

THE MUPPET IS NOW SEATED ON ME. THIS SITTING CANNOT STAND.

Nice one.

A GENEROUS-DOLLOP-BEYOND-MILD SHOCK GOING THROUGH SCAFFOLDING NOISE.

“Glaben!”

HIPPIE WHO LOOKS LIKE GARCIA SLUMPING TO THE STAGE NOISE

Dude.

HE WILL LIVE.

 

High-Level Negotiations

“That girl went in on you.”

“Uh-huh. She did.”

“Called you a pretentious stalker.”

“Can we talk about something else, Phil?”

“Mr. Lesh.”

“Sorry.”

“Absolutely not. Funniest damn book I’ve read since Hitchhiker’s Guide. That was a good one, but I didn’t know anybody in it. What’s her name again? Larry Simcox?”

“Jessica Simpson.”

“Who’s Larry Simcox?”

“No idea.”

“I’m talking about the singer you used to bang. The dumb one with the big tits.”

“Jessica Simpson. Although, to be honest, ‘the dumb one with the big tits’ describes most of my ex-girlfriends.”

“Never my thing. I like a lean woman. Anything more than a B cup is sloppy and floppy.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“Son, you sass me again and I’ll sic the Busboys on you.”

“Yes, sir.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Phil, I gotta take this.”

“You don’t gotta do nothing but stay black and die.”

“Uh-huh. I’m gonna take this.”

“Signing your own death warrant, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Mayer, it’s the President. I need some help with your people.”

“What?”

“The Jews.”

“Mr, President, as I have told you and many other people in this stupid universe, I am not Jewish.”

“You’re in show business. That’s close enough.”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Nixon is in the weeds here. There are three of us in the room, and there’s eight different arguments. And the gestures! My God, the gestures. As you may know, I was raised in the Quaker tradition. One doesn’t use one’s hand to communicate. My mother once caught my brother Donald pointing. Thrashed him senseless.”

“Wow.”

“Splendid woman, my mother. Made our shoes for us. Didn’t know the first thing about cobbling, but she did right by her family. By God, she did right by her family.”

“Sir–”

“The Italians are renowned for their gesturing, but it’s not like the Jews. Whole different ballgame. The, uh, Italians have what might be called a manual dialect. Each hand movement means one thing. They can be translated. Not the Jews. The swipe, the loop, the pounded fist: none are attached to a particular thought. It’s a free-for-all.”

“–why don’t you just listen to what they’re saying and ignore the gestures?”

“I’m sitting here with Kissinger and Golda Meir. I haven’t understood a word anyone’s said since Haldemann left the room.”

“Sure.”

In Which Phil Meets A Hat

“Psst! Hey, Longshanks!”

“Excuse me, young lady?”

“Not her. Me. Up here.”

“Huge fan.”

“I’m not talking to a goddamned hat.”

“This is your place, right? Could you rustle me up a hoagie?”

“You don’t even have a mouth.”

“I got a huge mouth. I got a sexy mouth.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Stick a hoagie in my huge, sexy mouth, Phil.”

“Hey! Jackass.”

Me?

“Yeah. Listen: if you’re not even gonna try to make any sense, then leave me out of your bullshit.”

I was trying.

“Nah. This is weird and half-assed even for this place. Get your shit together.”

Sorry, Phil.

Turtle Club

“Missed you, pal.”

“Goddammit, Mydland, is that still you in there?”

“Don’t you cos-shame me.”

“Not a thing.”

“My feelings are valid! I’ve done a lot of work in therapy to get to this point, and I will not be dismissed.”

“When did you start going to therapy?”

“Couple years after I died.”

“All right.”

“You know I’m naked in here, right?’

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“The breeze shoots right through the fur. It’s sensual.”

“GRAHAME!”

“Yes, Pop?”

“Uncle Brent is leaving.”

“Oh, okay. Goodbye, Uncle Brent.”

“I MEANT YOU SHOULD ESCORT HIM OFF THE PREMISES!”

“Oh! Okay, yeah, gotcha.”

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