Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: rando (page 1 of 11)

Put That Away Or I’m Cutting It Off

I know what you’re doing.

“Excuse me?”

You’re pulling the Thornton Mellon routine. Trying to make yourself look handsomer by hanging out with uggos.

“Please don’t call my friends ‘uggos.'”

Tell your friends to stop being ugly.

“This man happens to be a celebrity chef.”

Great. Tell him to make me a grilled cheese.

“He doesn’t do that.”

He’s too good to grill me up a cheese? Fuck him and his Gilligan hat, then. I bet he’d grill Garcia up a cheese.


I hate all your friends except Bob Saget.

“Saget fucks. I bet he’s fucking right now. Or he’s showering, or going to the ATM, both of which activities are related to his fucking.”



“Is this Nixon?”

No. You would literally never guess who this is.

“Now my interest is piqued.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Johnny, it’s Young Frank Langella.”

“Wow. He was right. Totally would not have guessed.”

“I see you’re admiring my potato salad.”

“Not ‘admiring.’ Just looking.”

“Look deeply. Denim is the most masculine of fabrics, is it not?”

“I’m getting a creepy vibe from you.”

“Well spotted. I’m in 1977, and I’m allowed to do the creepiest stuff imaginable to people. Including you.”

“I’m hanging up the phone.”

“Fine. Send the uggo to my dressing room.”


“Excuse me.”


“That was weird and unpleasant even by your standards.”

I didn’t enjoy it, either.

Kiss And Makeup

This is unacceptable.

“The rando or the makeup?”

Is he wearing white jeans?


Both. Both the rando and the makeup are unacceptable.

“The makeup is fun and vibrant.”

You look like Vinnie Vincent.

“I do not look like Vinnie Vincent.”

Have Mark Slaughter and Dana Strum recently left your solo band, The Vinnie Vincent Invasion, because of your shitty attitude and thieving ways?


You sure? Cuz you look like Vinnie Vincent, dude.

“You can’t bring down my good mood, man.”

Holy shit, does the rando have the Twin Towers on his shirt?


You need a Parish.

Say “Cheese”

Hey, Garcia. Gonna stop by the lunch counter at Kresge’s after this and buy yourself a grilled cheese?

“That’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had, man. Might send Parish over for one.”

Can’t go wrong with grilled cheese.

“Oh, sure you can. Some folks wanna get fancy with it. Fresh baked bread, artisanal cheese. And that ruins your sandwich, man. You want Wonder Bread and Kraft Singles. Everything you need for a good grilled cheese is available at 7-11. Don’t get frou-frou.”

I agree completely.

“I know how to play a little guitar, and how not to fuck up lunch. Beyond that, you wanna ask someone else.”

DUDE! Someone just yoinked your briefcase!


“It’s sitting right there, man.”

I know. I was fucking with you.

“This is the kind of shit that makes people not like you.”

I know.

Grateful, Dread

What’s happening here, Bobby?

“What’s, uh, happening here is that I still got it.”

Who said you didn’t?

“I can still pull, man.”

Good for you.

“And, uh, I don’t know if you noticed the particular brand of legging she’s wearing, but they’re sending a signal.”

What’s that?

“Everything’s in play.”

Is that what those mean?

“Oh, yeah.”



Aren’t you married?

“Nobody’s married on the tour bus.”


“One of the oldest rules there is.”


The Keys To Success

Why did you agree to do this?

“Alicia Keys is a friend and–”

Stop talking right there. Just stop it.

“What’s your problem with Alicia Keys?”

There’s something off about that woman. She may be an Information Droid controlled from within the chest cavity by a super-intelligent possum.

“I’ve seen her in really low-cut stuff, so I don’t think so.”

The chest cavity is obviously well-concealed, man.

“Alicia Keys is a human woman. And a very talented one, too.”

She is the female John Legend.


Oh, you thought that was a compliment.

“I don’t know why I would care about your musical taste. She’s a brilliant musician and you’re just a dick for the sake of being a dick.”

She’s a pirate.

“Stop it.”

Make a joke about it. Call her a pirate. Poke her in the eye and lay your dick on her shoulder and call it a parrot.

“What the fuck, dude?”

Okay, yeah, that was sexual assault I just described.

“And just regular assault.”

The eye thing? No, that was sexual assault, too: I wanted you to use your dick to poke her.


What the fuck are you doing, anyway?

“We’re doing a bit. See, Alicia had been nominated for a Grammy in 2009 for–”

Holy shit, I already don’t care. Don’t tell stories about how you know other famous people, John. I speak for the rabble: we hate that.

“May I continue?”

And you split one of your Grammys in half and gave it to her, some shit like that? And now you’re doing a bit?


Dude, you’re doing bits?

“I’m a triple-threat.”

Why didn’t you perform? You could have joined the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Post Malone.

“Me and Post fell out.”

Oh, no. How about a tribute to XXXtentacion?

” I pitched it, but the producers kept bitching about time.”


“You’re just jealous.”

I am objectively judgmental and jealous.

“You’re on with John.”

“Rando War keeps rolling…who did you say this was?”

“America’s sweathog, John Mayer.”

“Ah, shit, now I’m crank-calling myself.”

“Where are you?”

“The NAMM show. Where are you?”


“I was trying to call Bobby.”

“Lines got crossed, I guess.”

“We shouldn’t be talking.”

“Not according to all the books and movies.”

“Hanging up now.”

“Take care of our dick, bro.”

“You, too.”



“Don’t do that again.”

Didn’t really go anywhere, did it?

“Creeped me out, dude.”

Christmastime Is Weir

“Christmas randos.”


“They, uh, come around once a year.”

Spreading joy and cheer?

“No. A lot of ’em cough on me.”

So what makes a Christmas rando different from a regular one?

“The tinsel.”


“There’s a quality of gingerbreadishness.”

That is not a concept. Are you wearing suspenders?

“They’re called braces.”


“Went crazy over the holidays. Need ’em to hold up the old shortaloons. Thinking about making it my thing. Maybe add some pins.”

Please don’t.

“Just like Mork.”

Do not go Full Mork, Bobby.

“I dunno. Recently, I’ve added Giant Western Hat into the mix, and that’s been a complete success.”

Just get a belt.

How Oteil Are You Now?

Hey, Oteil. Happy birthday, buddy!

“Thank you, sir. Having a good one.”

Is that your present?

“What now?”

The slim teen boy.

“He is not my present.”

You can do stuff on them and make them think they deserved it.


Little tip? Get yourself some pliers and pull those braces off first.

“Can we be done?”

What are you gonna name him? How about Toby?

“I’m leaving.”

Can I borrow your slim teen?

“Get away from the boy.”

But I’ll buy him beers!

“You’re a monster.”

Happy birthday?

My Angel Is A Centerfold

Is that James Toback’s skinny brother?

“I don’t know.”

Has he asked you to let him jerk off on you?


Probably no relation, then. That sort of thing runs in families.


I can almost smell you wanting to talk about your clothes.

“Oh, thanks for asking. God, I wish you could see my shoes.”

Ironically, I am thanking God that I cannot.

“Each sock was made by a separate artisan. One just does left socks, and the other only sews right socks. The specialism at that level is amazing.”


“The pant is a Gordon Gartrell piece.”

Oh, is he still designing?

“Just small batch stuff. He keeps his hand in, and we’re all better for it. But you know what the piece de resistance is, right?”

The toppermost?

“Ha! I knew you would think that! This is not a toppermost. See how it only goes to the waist? It’s a toppermore”

Ah. Still made in Japan?

“Of course. This one was handcrafted by Wasabi Godzilla–”

Not an actual Japanese name.

“–on the sacred slopes of Mount Tempura–”

Not a real mountain.

“–using the famed Needle of Nakamura.”

That was the building from Die Hard. John, I think someone is pulling the incredibly expensive, sumptuously soft wool over your eyes.

“Oh, no. I do my research.”

Like with the watches?

“Better than that. I got a guy who does my research for me now. Trust me, this is a genuine toppermore.”

Okee dokee.


“What was that?”



“Take your fucking pants off!”

“That sounds like Billy from 40 years ago.”

“Hey, it’s Billy from 40 years ago! Take your pants off and lemme get a good snap of your nuts.”

“What? No. What? Billy, where did this come from?”

“When I travel forwards in time, I turn gay.”


“It’s a long story. Guy from Stanford told me it was called TTH: Temporary Temporal Homosexuality. Doesn’t happen when I go backwards, though. Weird fucking world. Anyway, show me your dick.”

“No! Billy, knock this off.”

“Whip it out, Twink Martindale.”

“Billy, I am not going to…did you call me a twink?”

“I did. You look so young.”

“Well, I guess I could take the shirt off.”

“That’s a boy.”

Driving Music

That is a wild face.

“I just got loose with it. I started an improv class this week.”

Oh, God, no.

“Yes, and?”

No, you don’t just say it.



You should stick to the faces.

“That’s what the teacher said. She was nicer about it, though. She said that my comedy lived in my silences.”

She’s smart. Are you at UCB? Groundlings?

“James Franco’s acting school.”

Of course.

“And I’m gardening.”


“Of course. Also, I’ve been washing my face 40 or 50 times a day. And learning to cook.”

What I’m hearing is that you’re having a hard time filling the hours in between tours.

“I didn’t used to be like this.”

You didn’t used to be in the Dead. You will now find yourself strangely untethered at home.

“All of my homes?”


“Dammit. How did the Dead cope?”

Mostly, they drank.


One filled the downtime by obsessively playing bar gigs and smoking dope in darkened rooms.

“Neither of those are healthy suggestions. I’m going to use this time to better myself. Write some new songs. Kill it on Insta. I’m thinking about getting into, like, really good shape. Put on eight or ten pounds of muscle. Get the body-fat way down. I’m gonna look like I was in a Marvel movie.”

You know what you should do?

“I don’t want your advice, honestly.”

Call up Lovato.

“I tweeted out support.”

No, no, no. Call her. Slide into her DMs.

“This is going nowhere pleasant, is it?”

Hey, you were the one complaining on teevee about famous women not wanting anything to do with you.

“So I should hit on a woman who just overdosed in public?”

This is your shot, man.

“This is not my shot.”

She’s making bad decisions this week, and I think you could get to second base.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Maybe sloppy second.

“Shouldn’t my phone have rung by now?”

Oh, no. There’s a new thing.


“Watch this drive, Mr. President.”

“Your skills on the links greatly, uh, outpace mine, Gleason.”

“Couple years from now, sir, you’ll retire and be out here every day with the rest of us degenerates. Your game’ll never better, but your liver will never be worse.”

“Ha! Yes, again with the jokes. I love them so. I once employed a gag-writer, but he was Jewish. And, uh, Erlichmann and Haldeman smelled it on the kid. They went at him like hyenas. He stopped showing up to work. I always assumed those two maniacs ate the boy.”

“Tough to find good writers. Mine are mostly from Brooklyn.”

“I have mostly boys from Yale.”

“Excuse me. Excuse me, excuse me, hey. Down here. Jackass.”


You sound just like Andy Cohen when you yell.

“What garbage bullshit is this?”

It is Richard Nixon and–

“I know who they are.”

–Jackie Gleason playing golf.


Why? Why? We haven’t even established when and where yet.

“Are they going to start killing people again? Andy’s blazing. That’s how mad he is. ‘I’m blazing, dude.’ That’s every conversation with him since you roped him into your shameful little doings.”

Did you tell him that everyone in here is functionally immortal?

“I did.”

You explained to him that Benjy Eisen could bring people back from the dead?

“I did?”


“Didn’t help.”


“Gleason, are those hippies?”

“The six over there?”

“Dammit, man, slow down on the scotch! There, there! Those youngsters, are they hippies?”

“Yeah, uh-huh.”

“Agent Heintz! Pistols!”


“Was he talking about us? Did he mean ‘six’ because he’s seeing double and there are three of us?”




“Holy shit! Where even is he?”



“Where even is they?”


“Are they, like, in my home studio? Or am I out on the golf course with them? Or do our realities abut one another?”

These are excellent questions, John Mayer.

“You’re so fucking lazy.”



“NO! Rando!”

Which one?

“The guy.”




Was that the girl?

“Yeah, it was. Both the randos are gone. They’re all gone.”


“Jesus! Come on, just tell me what direction the shots are coming from.”

You can’t see?

“I can see the two of them on the tee everywhere, but it seems natural. Like, I’m looking left so I should see the bathroom and the kitchen, but instead it looks exactly like I opened the house up and installed a golf course that famous murderers are playing at. I look right, I should see the jacuzzi and the theater, but it’s the same golf course. My brain is reshaping the architecture to make it seem more normal.”

That sounds disconcerting.

“Well, you did your usual C-minus job of creating a universe, and now nothing makes sense.”


Shut up.

“Fuck you.”

And What Will Your Niece Be Having, Sir?


“Talk to me, bud.”

Hey, Garcia. You layin’ your rap down in hopes of snarin’ a fox?

“That was Pig.”

Oh, right.

“I’m just making a new friend.”

I like her haircut. There was a plan there.

“You’re just kinda off, aren’t you?”

Little bit. Cop a feel.


Squinch on that booble.


Check on the meat. Sometimes, the meat is rotten. Gotta check on the meat.

“Don’t talk to me in front of girls anymore.”

Probably a good call. Dude?

“Are you still here?”

I’m in the process of going, but dude? Dude?

“What, man?”

I don’t think she’s wearing a bra.

“What are you, 12?”

She’s free. She can live. She can love. She maybe can’t run without holding herself down or that would hurt, but she can live and love. She’s easy in herself, Garcia, and in the fact that she’s a woman. She’s probably a Wiccan. Ask her about her menstruation; it’s holy to them.

“You said you were leaving.”

I say lots of things. CUP HER YUMBOMBS.

“Get out, man!”

What about the First Amendment?

“Doesn’t apply here.”

It should.

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