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

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Watergate Vs. All The Bullshit This Maniacal Shithead Has Pulled

Slapdicks and scrimpthoughts, Enthusiasts. Always recall this when dealing with the Pundit Class. They see a shiny object, and they fuck the shiny object. Today, that which glitters but is not gold is the comparison between Watergate and All The Bullshit This Maniacal Shithead Has Pulled. (Hereafter known as ATBTMSHP.) The analogy is, as one would expect, facile to the point of fallacious, and shoddily-constructed.

I prove my argument thusly:

IT’S EVERY FUCKING DAY WITH THIS GUY Watergate was just one crime. (Technically, it was several. Breaking & Entering and Wiretapping are separate offenses. What I’m saying is that all the individual felonies were parts of an overarching scheme.) Bunch of schmucks broke into an office. Whereas every day, Basketball Head commits at least four impeachable offenses.

THE CHEEKINESS Watergate was adorable, admit it. Idiots in black turtlenecks and ski caps crouch-sneaking into darkened offices. Security guards patrolling the halls with flashlights. Scotch tape on the latch to keep the door from locking. Cops are called, and it’s 1972 so the cops have mustaches and .38 service revolvers. I bet they said “Get your hands up!” Even better, this initial burst of criminality had ramifications of pure delight: meetings in shadowy parking lots; envelopes stuffed with hundos; dramatic revelations during televised hearings, code names. CODE NAMES!

Like I said: adorable.

But none of ATBTMSHP has been even cute. Where’s the panache in bribing the President of Ukraine for dirt on your political rivals? Funneling money to one’s own properties? Pedestrian, don’t you think? Common.

We don’t go to the moon anymore.

WATERGATE, NOT BOUNTYGATE Russkies didn’t pay for American scalps when Richard Fucking Nixon was in charge. There was respect, by God.

RED LIGHT BLUES This latest spate of “Is Nixon like Turnip” takes come because the Pundit Class saw “Bob Woodward + Tapes” and went ass-over-teakettle in a thousand uncontextual words. The tapes in consideration are not related, save by both featuring a sitting President. There is an chasmic difference between private recordings obtained using hidden microphones that the Supreme Court had to force Nixon to turn over, and Trump just ring-a-dinging Bobby Dubs in the middle of the night all hopped up on Fox News and Filet-O-Fish to confess crimes.

Say what you will about Richard Nixon, but the man never called up a reporter at the Washington Post and said, “I did it.”

THE KUSHNER FACTOR Nixon wouldn’t have stood for Prince Milkdick. Nixon would have had Haldeman and Ehrlichman kick him half-to-death in the Oval Office. “Keep the bleeding internal, boys,” Nixon would say. “He has to walk out of here.” They’d stomp his kidneys with the heels of their well-laced broughams. Good boys, H & E. Good listeners, and loyal.

SHAME AND ITS BENEFITS Nixon was smart enough to try covering up his crimes. That’s basic self-preservation. Whereas Trump, I remind you once again, called Bob Woodward 18 times for the sole purpose of admitting to shit.


“Bob Woodward speaking.”

“Bob, it’s your favorite President. I’ve done crime.”

“I’ll be recording this.”

“Super. Record my crimes.”

And so on. That’s what the doofus did.

Actually, let’s have a thought experiment. Nixon was a savvy political operator, so he’d naturally know better than to call up a journalist and confess to impeachable offenses, but what about you? You’re no grizzled gladhander. You’re just some spaz. But what if–via some sort of topsy-turvydom–you were tomorrow morning to wake up in the Residence of the White House? What if you–dimbulb that you are–magically became the President?

You’d know better than to midnight-dial Bob Woodward and start spilling your guts, wouldn’t you? Or, failing that instinct, perhaps you’d have installed a staff that would talk you out of doing such a thing. Or maybe you’d call him once or twice. But not 18 times.

SPELLING BEE Nixon would ravage Trump in a spelling bee. It would be brutal.

Thusly, my argument has been proved.

Reaching Out


Oh, no.

“–Heist, you beef jerky-looking motherfucker.”


“This bitch, too.”


“Why not?”


Stop that!

“I was kind to the crackers.”

What about your wife?

“Don’t ask me about my personal business. I ever ask about you?”


“So don’t ask about me.”

How is laying out the First Couple and your wife part of the Murder Heist?

“You remember that time Ghost Rider tried to fuck the White House?”

Nicolas Cage.

“He fucked Peggy Sue, too.”

Nicolas Cage.

“Yeah. This shit is like that shit. There’s a desk with a puzzle built into it, or a riddle carved into the floorboards. Nothing may be as it seems. I gotta solve some shit.”

Can you be more specific?



“Bet your ass you are. Sorry-ass motherfucker. You’re lucky I don’t call you a Jew bastard. We know each other a long time, so I won’t say that shit out loud, but we both know it’s in the air.”

I apologize, Mr. Davis.

“Between you and me, who you trusting on a Murder Heist?”

“You say ‘neither of us,’ I’ll shoot at your ass again.”

I would trust you, sir.

“Damn straight. I’m thinking maybe the paintings have been arranged to form some sort of pictocryptic clue, or even a warning. I’m gonna have Stevie Grossman look at it. Jews are good at deciphering.”

Stevie Grossman’s part of this?

“Stevie Grossman’s part of a lotta shit.”

Okay, sure. If there’s riddles and whatever, then you’re part of the “heist” section of the Murder Heist.

“Never know. Could be the answer to the riddle is ‘Murder some motherfucker.’ Never wanna anticipate the Murder Heist. You gotta listen.”

Did it tell you to punch the President, the First Lady, and your wife?


“I told you my marriage ups-and-downs are off-limits.”

Sorry, Mr. Davis.

“You’re a shining example of how fucking mediocre a white man’s allowed to be in this world. You think Caspar Weinberger is here?”


“I wanna punch Caspar fucking Weinberger.”

Is that part of the Murder Heist?

“Let’s find out.”


“Mr. Brown, we can’t have it. Not this administration, not the people of America, not the Black community. The unrest in the streets has got to stop, and I would, uh, greatly appreciate your counsel on that. But, firstly, I want you to get MIles Davis to stop coldcocking Republicans”

“A man can act th’ fool sometime, but not always and not in some places. Man’s gotta be dignified in th’ White House! Man’s gotta be respectable and serious. Can’t be punchin’ on old white people.”

“Yes, yes. We’re of a mind about this. He, uh, just nut-shotted George Schultz.”

“We can’t be havin’ it!”

“No, no. All of this is out of the question, the events of the past few days. We’re informed this is all part of something called a, uh, Murder Heist. That is the name. Whether it is euphemistic is yet to be seen. As of yet, no one has died.”


“Gonna be honest, Mr. President: Nancy looks dead.”

“She’s a very slight woman. I can’t imagine her taking much of a beating before succumbing to her wounds. The nation mourns.”

“She was the eleganzo bean in America’s stew.”

“Yes, well, all right. Please, Mr. Brown. Go calm Miles Davis down before he kneecaps Lawrence Eagleberger.”

“The Jew is a man who can be partnered with!”

“I’ve not found that. My dealings with them have been less than sound. You may, of course, have had different experiences. I can only speak to my personal experiences with members of the race. Incidental to his people’s beliefs is the fact that he cannot be pummeled by a trumpeter at a White House banquet. How does that look to the Chinese?”

“They on the come-up.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Wanna go in they house, gotta take off your shoes.”

“Also correct.”

“Lumpy eggs.”

“Afterwards, for sure. Consider it done.”

“Counter-attack on the attack!”


“I ain’t kiddin’:Nancy dead!”

“We’ll take care of it. Just bring order, son.”

Men Of The People

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Well, judging from the sign, I’m waiting on my spring rolls.”

Nice that you’re not letting unfounded and racist fears about the coronavirus affect your eating habits.

“Let’s not turn a pandemic into a moo goo gai pandemic.”

I have no idea what that means.

“It means that the Chinese character for crisis is the same as for For sale, baby shoes, never worn.

I don’t know Mandarin, but that’s not true.


“Gonna take this. Might be Johnny Depp.”

You know Johnny Depp?

“I was just in Miami.”

“Weir here.”

“Weir! I need you immediately! And your country needs you.”

“Is this Bernadette Peters?”

“It’s your President.”

“Very similar voices.”

“You, son. You’re the only one who can help me save America.”

“From whom?”



“Lincoln said it. No foreign interloper could ever step foot on our soil. Our great oceans prevent this, you see. Only we, ourselves, might bring about our own doom. I believed our end would come via the hippie, the communist, the psychiatrist. I, uh, employ the term ‘psychiatrist’ as a placeholder for another group.”

“The White Sox?”

“The Jews, Bob.”


“But Nixon has learned, strategized, rethought. A politician must calibrate. Never losing sight of his core principles, of course, but a man without his eye on the ball is a man soon out of the league. Here, we must side with the Hebrews.”


“It’s Biden. The decrepit wretch isn’t fit for public display any longer. Sentences are beyond him, let alone paragraphs. He fumfers, he flails. You mark my words: that man is going to take it out. He’s going to become disoriented, and out will come the meat. I’ve seen that look. Muskie had it, and then he took it out. The Democrats covered it up, but these aren’t those days. Too many cameras around.”

“Oh, yeah. We have to give Billy the camera talk before each tour.”

“It’s bad business, that. The mind gets loose. Biden’s already white-knuckling it. The pressure of the general will do him in by July.”

“The road’s not for everyone.”

“You’re much wiser than your facial hair suggests. Come and get me, son. The country needs Nixon.”

Dirty, Trix

Hey, Trixie. Whatcha doing?

“Holding up my dead dad’s stuff. Living the dream.”

It could be worse.

“Listen, I’m not comparing myself to a Uighur here.”

You’re doing better than the Uighurs.

“And I’m not Meghan McCain.”

In no way, shape, or form. Plus, your father wasn’t a war criminal.

“I thought McCain was a war hero.”

Fucker was on his way to blow up a power plant when he got shot down.

“My dad never blew up anything. Unless fireworks count. Jerry enjoyed a good cherry bomb same as the next guy.”

Trixie, do you think Billie Eilish is an industry plant?

“I don’t know who that is, and I don’t know what that is.”



“Is that me?”

Yes. You should take it.

“Hold on.”

“Trixie here.”

“What is that, one of those WASP nicknames?”

“Who is this?”

“You know damn well who it is. Many young people today, I’m told, can do an impression of my voice. The timbre, my particular locution, phrases of speech, so forth. Perhaps they do it at parties to, uh, entertain their peers. Nixon has always had an identifiable sound.”

“Uh-huh. I was gonna ask you how you got that number, but then I realized how many other questions I have.”

“Trixie. Trixie. Nonsense. If it weren’t an election year, I’d have your parents arrested. Roughed up, maybe. The liberals frown on those sorts of actions nowadays, but it keeps the world honest. A good beating would do most of the world quite well. Quite well. I learned this playing football. Nixon was not the biggest, not the strongest, but by God I was the toughest.”

“Why are you calling me, Richard Nixon?”

“I was looking for Elvis.”


“That is his last name. Some refer to him as ‘The King.’ Not an official title. He’s of common blood, incredibly common.”

“I don’t know Elvis.”

“Dammit, this is Ziegler’s fault.”


“Excuse me. Dickhead?”


“Yeah. I did not enjoy that and it’s not gonna happen again.”

Sorry, Ms. Garcia.

“You need to learn about boundaries.”

I sincerely apologize.

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.”


“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.”


“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.”


“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.”


“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.”


“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.”


Other Kippurs Of Note

Foam Kippur For 24 hours, no Jew is permitted to attend one of those freaky Ibiza parties where they pour the foam all over the dance floor.

Noam Kippur From sunset until sunset, no consent may be manufactured.

Frome Kippur Eight days after Rosh Hashanah, all men of Bar Mitzvah age must pretend to have read Edith Wharton’s Ethan Frome.

Zsa Zsa Kippur A total proscription against being famous for no reason, and marrying a dozen rich guys.

“That’s enough, enough of this. Son, you’re floundering.”

Hey, you can’t be here.

And he really can’t be here.

“You pay Orenthal the respect he’s due. My God, the yardage he churned up! And with Buffalo, no less. Imagine that, knowing you’ve got no shot at the title, but still running your heart out every Sunday. You could take lessons.”

I am not taking any lessons from OJ.

“The Juice. I am, uh, informed that he is called by that name. The Juice.”

Yes, sir.

“Many of them have nicknames. The blacks, I mean”

I figured.

“Very informal people. As you can see. Most guests to the White House wear suits, ties, they dress properly. But, uh, Orenthal has chosen to show up looking like Bing Crosby. This is not a sign of disrespect in their culture.”

We are veering dangerously close to the rocks here, sir.

“The black believes that suits are for court appearances.”

Annnnnnd we’ve crashed onto said rocks.

Hard, Men

Why are you being so stand-offish? Get in there, fucker. That’s your Bobby.

“I’m being appropriate.”

Fuck that. That man saved your career.


You get in his sweaty nook. Nuzzle in, douchewad.

“This is fine.”

How’s Sammy?

“Good. The usual.”

What does that mean?

“He keeps yelling WOO! and asking if we could play Three Lock Box.”

3LB is a slapper, Josh.

“Don’t call me that. We’re not doing Three Lock Box.”

What about There’s Only One Way to Rock?

“I don’t know that one.”

You could figure it out. We’re not talking about The Black Page.

“Bob and Sam are coming out for one number. Fire on the Mountain. That’s it”

Did Sammy bring any rum?

“Like, five cases worth. Sammy Hagar is like a Boy Scout, but for partying.”

He’s prepared.

“That’s what I’m saying.”


“Dude, we were getting along so well.”

I know. But this is how the bit works.

“Such a hack.

I know.

“You’re on with John.”

“Son, this is the President.”

“Oh. Hey, Mr. President. I’m just glad you’re not Miles Davis.”

“Nasty business, that man. Fabulous horn player, no one would deny that, but as a man he’s trouble. As a man. And he is, from my experience, the type of man that riles up others, uh, of his kind. His fellows. They see his attitude, and they mimic him. I’ve told Hoover to look into him several times, but Hoover says that his agents are scared of him. Heavily-armed and unreasonable, they report.”

“That is an accurate report on Miles Davis, sure.”

“He’s not like Sam. Sam Davis, Jr. There’s a negro that should be looked up to by any young man, whatever the color.”

“I guess.”

“Friendly, hard-working, can take a joke. It’s not always about race with him. And his pronunciation! My God, you would think you were talking to a Princetonian, for all that’s worth. On the phone, you cannot tell. You simply cannot tell.”

“Mr. President, please stop discussing race relations. Why are you in a hard hat?”

“Meeting with the Teamsters. Many people have, uh, forgotten just how mobbed-up I was.”

“I just assumed.”

“You want to keep your hands clean, go into the priesthood. Politics is for men, son.”

“But we’re a nation of laws.”

“Written by men. The laws were written by men. Remember that, and you’re halfway home before you begin.”

Huey Lewis Doesn’t Deserve This Kind Of Treatment

“All right, that’s it. We’re going outside.”

“Bob, we’re at a press conference.”

“Good! The world needs to know.”

“Know what?”

“You’ll find out. Let’s go, pal. I’m gonna knock the butt off your chin.”

“We’re trying to raise money for AIDS, man.”

“I’ll AIDS you.”

“Nope. Doesn’t make any sense.”

“You are my sworn enemy, Hewis Lewis–”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“–and I’m gonna thump ya. Parking lot time, buddy.”

“I really don’t wanna, Bob.”


“What the hell was that?”

“Your cell phone, HuLu.”

“That’s even worse than Hewis. What’s a cell phone?”

“Oh, right. Your band doesn’t have access to Time Sheath technology.”

“I regret ever meeting any of the Grateful Dead. All of you are weirdos.”


“How did this thing get in my pocket?”

“Just answer it, and I’ll explain the concept of semi-fictionality to you afterwards.”

“Huey Lewis speaking.”

“Lewis, it’s the President. Do you need backup to fight the hippie?”

“I’ll send Robocop.”

“What the fuck is happening?”

“Dammit, Lewis, you’re gonna lay that hippie filth out. You, son, are what’s good with America, and the fairy next to you is what’s wrong. I’ll bet he’s wearing sandals. I’ll bet you can see his toes. Not you, Lewis. You wear shoes like a man. You lace them up in the morning, and don’t remove them until the day’s work is done. I don’t understand much of the youth music, but I can tell a decent Christian man when I see his haircut.”

“Is this Richard Nixon?”

“It is. Elvis refers to me as ‘Nix.’ You, uh, may not do so.”

“I truly wish I had not become involved with the Grateful Dead.”

“That’s it: I’m sending Robocop.”

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