Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: richard nixon (page 1 of 4)

Bob Weir and His Daughters Talk About His Iconic Grateful Dead Looks

TotD: Okay, this is somewhere in the late ’80’s. What do we think, girls?

Monet: This was before we were born. I feel like I would have put a stop to it. Tried to, at least.

Chloe: Are those Bobby Shorts?

Monet: I don’t think so. I think Bobby Shorts are strictly jean shorts.

Chloe: So what are those?

Monet: They’re just shorts.

Bobby: Now, uh, what you gals aren’t realizing is the amount of storage space those babies had. I could carry a dozen peoples’ stashes in ’em. A solid short. Obviated the need for a fanny pack.

TotD: Obviated?

Bobby: Yuh-huh.

TotD: Chloe, these are Bobby Shorts:

Chloe: Dad.

Monet: Dad.

Chloe: Dad.

Monet: Dad.

Chloe: Mom!

Monet: Moooooooom!

Natascha Monster: Oh, my God. Snake Tee-Shirt! He’s still around here someplace, isn’t he?

Bobby: I think he’s in the room where you wrap presents.

Natascha Monster: We don’t have one of those, hon. You’re thinking about the Spelling Mansion.

Bobby: You got a room just for wrapping presents, you live in some swanky digs. We live in a nice neighborhood, but that’s real high-end.

Monet: Dad, concentrate. This was before you married Mom, and way before we were born. So, like, we didn’t know this guy. Tell us about this guy. And help us understand his choices.

Bobby: So, uh, as you can tell from Uncle Mickey’s wife-beater, it’s pretty hot.

Chloe: Don’t say “wife-beater.” It’s a problematic term.

Bobby: Okee-doke. As you can tell from Uncle Mickey’s spouse-beater, it’s pretty hot. And I just wilt in the heat, man. Much prefer a temperate clime. And, uh, don’t gimme any of that “dry heat” horseshit. Humid heat is worse than dry heat, but any kind of hot is awful. That’s where the shorts came from.  Plus, you know: someone had to be the eye candy.

Monet: Daaaaaad.

Chloe: Ew. Did girls in the crowd ever, like, throw their underwear at you?

Bobby: Not that I recall. And that seems like something I would recall. And, uh, a lot of the women who came to our shows couldn’t throw their underwear cuz they weren’t wearing any.

Monet: The boots, Dad.

Chloe: Dad, the boots.

Bobby: You see the circumferential bulges? Those boots were an experimental temperature-regulation system called Podiatherm. They wick sweat away from your feet, distill the water from the sweat, then cool and circulate the water. They were based on the stillsuits from Dune. But, uh, just for your feet.

Monet: Did they work?

Bobby: Very well, very briefly. Then they heated up to an alarming degree. Which you’ll recognize as irony. Precarious had to cut me out of ’em right onstage. As you’d imagine, none of your uncles shut up about it for months.

Nixon: Dammit, boy, who taught you to dress yourself?

Nixon: This is how you wear shorts. Genie-style! Never let your enemies see your bellybutton. That’s not an option for men like us.

Chloe: Dad, where did Nixon come from?


Nixon: Silence your daughters, Bob. Join me in Puerto Rico. You don’t even have to change your money. They take the dollar here. By God, they take the dollar here. Other islands, tropical locales, they’ve gone straight Red. Terrible situation. But the, uh, Puerto Rican is by nature family-oriented. Familia is their word for family, I’m reliably informed.

Bobby: Girls–


Monet: Where’s the gun!?

Bobby: –are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?

Breaking News

Goddammit, Josh Meyers, you slaphead: did you use the Time Sheath to go back to the 90’s and perpetrate a literary hoax?

“How could you tell?”

Jawline. What the fuck, chief?

“Don’t call me ‘chief.'”

Fuck you, slugger. I can’t believe JT LeRoy was actually you.

“The pop singer is deceitful above all things.”

Seriously, this is weird even for this universe.

“Hey, man: I had fiction in me. And, for some reason, all of that fiction was about blowing truckers in West Virginia.”

I feel like I’ve lost control.

“‘Lost’ implies you ever had control.”



“Saw that coming.”

Oh, yeah. You’re being a dick.

“A little, sure.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Ah, Christ. I knew you were a goddamned queer.”

“Offensive and incorrect, Mr. President.”

“Beyond the sodomy, which there is quite a bit of, they love dressing up. That’s how you can tell, and you can always tell. A lime-green pocket square. Fanciful socks. They always give themselves away. As if they wanted to be caught out.”

“Can we change the sub–”

“New York does it right, as far as that goes. San Francisco, too. Put all the queers in one neighborhood. Everyone’s happy that way. The fags can tug each other off on the sidewalk, and the rest of us–people with families, women, children–can avoid it. That’s a win/win. Life isn’t always zero-sum, son. You have to remember that.”


“Los Angeles, too. Wonderful police force out there. The homosexual who, uh, resides in Los Angeles knows that there are certain establishments–bars, restaurants, that sort of thing–that he will be beaten for entering. And that keeps the peace. Everyone knows where he stands. This does not, however, stop Hollywood from being full of them. Just full of them. And, you know, they don’t know how to shake hands properly. It’s like you’re cradling a baby bird. The handshakes might be worse than the buggery.”


“They’re compelled to do that foul act. They must. They’re like old rummies in the convalescent home calling for their bottles. Have to have it, you see. But you can learn how to shake a damn hand. That’s a choice they make.”


“They can grip a stranger’s todger, they can grip a hand.”

“You drinking, sir?”

“It’s Christmas, son.”

Line Dancing In A Burning Room

Is that Charley Pride’s grandson?

“No, it’s–”

Blazing Saddles cosplay?

“This young man is–”

The only bigger schmuck than a white man in a sombrero is a black man in a cowboy hat.

“That’s racist.”

So be it. Let Desus and Mero drag me from here to Yankee Stadium. I don’t care. Black guys look stupid in cowboy hats.

“Not all of them.”

Really? Let me present some evidence. Exhibit A:

I rest my case.


Right? If Obama couldn’t make it work, then nobody could.

“Look how young he was.”

We aged the shit out of that poor man.

“Presidency will do that to you, I guess.”


“Is that Nixon?”

Almost certainly.


“You’re on with John.”

“Is this what we’re doing? Playing some sort of Cowboys and Indians game? Making believe and so forth?”

“Because Nixon is ready.”

“I don’t know if you should be wearing that, Mister President.”

“Nonsense. The, uh, American aboriginals have never had a better friend in the Oval Office. There are, I’ve noticed, many admirable traits to the Native, the Indian, whatever they’re calling themselves lately. They’re like the negroes in that regard. Can’t settle on a name.”

“Sir, I–”

“Bravery! This is first among many respectable attributes of the Indian peoples. Nobility, stoicism, all that. Their beadwork is second-to-none. Never head of the class at metallurgy, though. Gunsmithing. Should have concentrated more on those fields.”

“Mr. President, could you–”

“In their language, the President is referred to as Big Chief Who Lives Across Many Rivers. Isn’t that marvelous? Very poetic. Of course, most are now fluent in English and simply call the President ‘President.’ They picked up English very quickly, the Indians did. Bebe Rebozo was born in Tampa, and he could barely get through a sentence. No, not the Indians. Quick minds, very decisive.”

“Sir, I just–”

“And take off that goddamned robe, boy. It’s the middle of the day.”


“I want to stop talking to him.”

But he’s so much fun to write.

He’s Got His Rock Moves

Tell whoever that is to stop doing that.

“His name is Khalid.”

No. Khalid is a big fat Arab dumbass.

“Different guy with a similar name.”

Are you being sponsored by a water company now?

“No, I–”

Is the brand’s name “Essentia?” I thought that was the My Little Pony who denied the Holocaust.

“No, it’s–”

Well, one of them. People don’t know how deep the Holocaust denialism runs in Equestria.

“Are you done?”

The Care Bears are all TERFs.

“Please stop talking to me.”

Fine. Talk to him.


“Is this what your generation does? Is this how you thank your parents?”


“Allowing bearded negros to simulate fellatio on you? Is that what they’re doing on the campuses?”

“Hey, President Nixon.”

“This is how it starts. The coloreds, they start sucking off everyone in sight. This, of course, leads to Communism.”

“It really doesn’t.”

“It’s the Sexual Domino Theory. Rusk came up with it, but I think he might just be one of those goddamned perverts. You must control your genitals, son. Don’t let them ride herd on you. The Kennedys, all of them, they listened to their crotches. Usually, the Irish stay away from that sort of thing, but not that family.”


“Nixon, as you know, has been happily married to Pat for many years. Happy ones. There have been arguments, disagreements, so forth, but I never went out tomcatting. We kept it in the house.”


“Not like Hoover. We all knew about him, about him and Tolson. The Lord judges, not Nixon. Those people, they’re born like that, they can’t help it. Keep it away from the kids and I don’t care. But they would flounce around in get-ups. All kinds of, you know, outfits and such. And you just can’t have that.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Go fetch Manolo. Remind him what time it is.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Fine, fine. You do it. Cottage cheese and gin. Equal portions. Hop to it, let’s go.”



“Am I Richard Nixon’s personal valet now?”

Appears that way. He likes ketchup on his cottage cheese.


Hey, man: even Nixon had faults.


An Expert Opinion

“My God.”

The Trump speech?

“The entire situation. The, uh, appropriate term for it is unsayable with Mrs. Nixon in the room.”

Hello, ma’am.

“Pat received your warm wishes, and she, uh, returns them. By my side, Mrs. Nixon is. Not just in a physical sense, but morally and religiously, so forth. Man needs a good wife in this game. It’s why Booker has no shot. Americans will stand for many things, but not a bachelor. If he’s queer, well, that’s apparently fine now. I don’t care about that. But you can’t be single.”

Astute observation, sir. And we don’t say ‘queer’ any more.

“I only used that description because, again, of Mrs. Nixon’s presence. Among the company of my aides, Haldeman, Kissinger, those sorts, I use much earthier language. Erlichmann does an impression of the homosexual mannerisms that, uh, is a source of much laughter in the Oval Office. He waves his arms around, the whole deal.”


“Nixon was never any good at impressions. They never came naturally. I had to work all my life just to do a passable Jimmy Cagney. Not like those Kennedy boys. Each one of them, a Rich Little with a hundred-dollar haircut.”

Mr. President, have you been drinking?

“Of course I’ve been drinking! The chaos this fool is causing! Bad for business, bad for the country, bad for everyone. Confusion? Now, confusion is a tool. Many political strategies rely on keeping various parties to a plan in the dark, but there’s no plan here. The baboon is pissing on the radiator and laughing at the smell.”

Do you think he could salvage a political win here, sir?

“Win? No. The best he can now hope for is to not lose too badly. He promised the morons a wall, and they believed him. They’ll hold him to it. The judges mean nothing. The tax cut is forgotten. No one chanted for those things, anyway. The wall. If he cannot deliver it, then his base will turn on him.”




“Hello, King. Goobers.”


“Well, uh, King: during our last visit together, you led me to believe that this universe was, I believe the term you used, semi-fictional and therefore outside time.”


“Ah. Perhaps Mrs. Nixon has some leftovers in the fridge.”


“Good to know, King. Excellent information. And, uh, happy birthday.”


“Yes, that’s right.”

Tanned, Rested, And Reddish

Oh, for fuck’s sake. What are you doing here, Senator Warren?



“Me big-um chief Massachusetts tribe. Me bring much wampum to honor the Great Duck.”

The Great Duck?

“Him have powerful magic.”

Okay, knock this shit off.

“I’m embracing my Cherokee heritage. Would you care for some maize?”


“That’s what my people call ‘corn.'”

I know, and this has to stop.

“Yes, it does have to stop. That’s why I released the results of my DNA test today. To prove that I’m actually Cherokee.”


“Don’t yell at me. Do you want to smoke a peace pipe?”

GODDAMNED DEMOCRATS! Every last one of you is as useless as dollars in the desert! The facts don’t matter here! Do you think the nimrods that have been chanting ‘Pocahontas’ at you since Basketball Head started that racist bullshit care about the facts!? These are people who voted for Donald Trump! Your fucking SCIENCE isn’t gonna sway ’em!

“Your words are foolish, young brave. I walk with the spirits of–”


“–the ancestors and…an arrow?”

“Ha! Dead in the sternum. Always was a crack shot.”

Dammit, President Nixon. You can’t bow-hunt Senators.

“I couldn’t handle the amateurishness of the woman. Never explain, you understand? Once they have you explaining, then they have you by the balls. These are, uh, metaphoric balls, of course.”


“I was, uh, not implying that Senator Warren possesses testicles.”

No, sir.

“Although there’s an awful lot of that going around. Especially in Massachusetts. This is the Irish influence, of course. The night does something to those people. People blame the drink, but that’s a symptom. Darkness. The Irish fear the night.”

I guess?

“Never explain! Then you’re playing their game. Change the game by attacking. You must counter, never defend. Go after his finances. Accuse him of being jealous of Indians, because their casinos don’t go bankrupt. One learns this during childhood. This is basic.”

I agree, sir.

“And this is what the Democrats have to offer in 2020? My God. It will be a bloodbath. There’s only one option to free the country from the degenerate’s tiny paws.”

And that is?

“Nixon will run as a Democrat.”

Sir, that’s absurd.

“Look at Nixon’s policies. Gun control. Universal health care. Disastrous foreign wars. If anything, I would have to swing to the right. It’s settled, yes. Nixon’s the one. Bring me the Time Sheath.”

No, sir.

“You’ll regret this, boy. I’ll get it some other way.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Black, White, Blue, Black And White

See, now, this is the type of company you should be keeping, John.

“I didn’t ask your opinion.”

Sooooo much better than your fashion friends.

“My fashion friends are great.”

They deserve a bullet apiece, John. All of your fashion friends should be executed for heterodoxical leanings and crimes against the state.

“When did you become a Bolshevik?”

I read a book about The Weavers and BOOM: Communist.

“Wow. The American government was right to be worried.”



“Is that your phone?”



“You’re on with John.”

“Hi, John. This is Ronan Farrow.”

“My God, it’s like you were born to wear that tux.”

“You…you can see me?”

“Don’t worry about it. What can I do for you, Ronan?”

“I have several questions about the things you’ve been doing with your penis.”

“Oh, sure. Can you hold on a sec?”



Dude, you’re fucked.

“Is he prettier than me?”

THAT’S what you’re worried about?

“A little.”

You’re such a mess of a man.

“I got him beat on the chin. My chin is clearly more chiseled. But, Christ, those eyes. Should I do the colored contacts thing?”

Dammit, I can’t believe you’re making me do this. Gimme the phone.


Ronan the Barbarian!

“Very original. Never heard that before. Is this the asshole who zapped dinosaurs into my apartment?”

Yes, it is.

“Well, I got rid of them and now I’m back on the Grateful Dead story.”

Sure, cool.


“What the hell was that?”


“Did a golf ball just hit me?”

“Hell of a shot, Gleason. Right off his pretty little noggin.”

“Ten bucks says you can break his nose with your five-iron, Mr. President.”

“I will, uh, take that wager.”


Mr. Farrow?

“This is just fucking weird, man.”

This is nothing. This is the skin; we haven’t even gotten to the pudding. It gets so much worse.

“I’ll do a different story.”

Ooh, how about outing Lindsey Graham?

“That’s not a story. The story would be if he were straight.”

You’re good, Ronan Farrow. Now go away.

Ace, Cups

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“I’ve joined Fleetwood Mac.”

That is not Fleetwood Mac, Bobby.

“Then I owe this woman an apology. I’ve been calling her Stevie all day.”

I think she’s from the Ace Of Cups. The all-girl rock band from back in the early days.

“Ah. Tight band. They had some tunes. I, uh, also liked Vixen.”



The hair metal band?

“They had some tunes, too. Considered joining the group when Jer was in the coma because, at the time, I was also living on the edge of a broken heart.”

I swear you’re getting weirder.

“Jammed with ’em a few times, but it didn’t work.”

Why not?

“They don’t know any cowboy tunes.”


“And, uh, they used to have pyro effects. You know: boom! And, you know, that’s exciting for the kids but it scared the bejeezus out of me.”


“I gotta take this. It might be another excuse not to go home.”

Go to it.

“Weir here.”

“Weir? Good. This is the President.”

“Which one?”

“The right one, dammit.”

“Oh, hello, President Nixon.”

“Weir, I’ll get right to it. I know you’re a busy man. Appearances, recording dates, that sort of thing. The itinerant life, you musicians.”

“Minstrels do tend to wander, sir.”

“Ha! Well, uh, well-said. That’s what Nixon never had, that quick wit. The rich boys, the blond boys, they looked down on Nixon for that. Mocked Nixon. Well, who’s the President now?”

“That depends on which ‘now’ you’re talking about.”

“Never mind that hippie talk. Bob, your country needs you.”

“I know. That’s why I tour.”

“Listen, boy. You get to Washington, chop chop. Hop on the next DC-3 and get here. Bring that time doohickey of yours.”

“The Time Sheath?”

“That’s the one, yes. Make sure you bring it, you hear?”

“What’s the scam?”

“We’re going to kill Baby Bob Woodward.”

“Yeah, I dunno.”

“Weir, you listen to me. Listen to your President. This man, Woodward, he’s bad news. Think about it: what if you had the ability to go back and stop World War II from starting?”

“I do, but I don’t. Phil kept trying, but it always ended up worse. And then Mickey got on a kick where he tried to save Lincoln. It turns out that Final Destination rules are in effect in this reality.”

“Dammit, boy, you bring me that Time Sheath.”

“Huh. Mr. President, are you, uh, threatening a man with a time machine?”

“Just stating facts, son. If you don’t bring me that–”


“–Time Sheath, I’ll…My God! Brontosaurs!”

“Give my apologies to the Rose Garden.”


“I don’t wanna talk to him again.”

I can understand that.

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.”

Andy Was

“Oh, fuck off.”

You’re back on the Bud Light. I like that.

“Seriously, fuck off.”

Were there not bottles of water for sale? Or someone who could piss in your mouth for a dollar?

“Forget about the Bud Light.”

I can’t! It’s fascinating to me! You’re in the closest thing 2018 has to the parking lot of a Grateful Dead concert in Colorado and you’re drinking a Bud Light. There’s gotta be a more acceptable beverage available. Jesus, man, it’s not even ironically bad.

“I need you to stop talking to me.”

But you’re the only one of John’s friends I like. And Chapelle.

“Him and John called me real late one night to pitch a show. Real Housewives of Wherever The Fuck In The Middle Of Ohio Chapelle Lives. Dave and John were gonna be Housewives.”

You mean househusbands.

“Nope. Full-on Bosom Buddies routine.”

That sounds terrible.

“Dreadful. They really wanted to do it.”

What did you do?

“Called their bluff. Told ’em we’d rush the show into production and sent over the shooting schedules. As I anticipated, neither wanted to spend 14 hours a day making a fake reality show.”

Very smart.

“Yes, I am. Now go away.”

“Would you like some mango to go with your Bud Light?”

“Oy. Fuck off with the…oh, hi.”

“I am Michael Gordon. I perform with the Phish. We’re from Vermont. Please enjoy these succulent and nutritious fruits and berries.”

“Ugh, you’re a lifesaver. My blood sugar dropped out of my asshole ten minutes ago.”

“They are from my garden, which I cultivate and fertilize.”



“Did you use your own feces to fertilize this fruit, Mike?”



“You should maybe tell people that first.”

“I consume many plant-based calories, as you can see from my torso. Much like a gorilla, I am evolved to slowly digest leaves and grasses in my elongated gut.”


“May I photograph you, Andrew?”

“Sure, shoot away.”

“Can you remove your shorts?”

“I can’t, no.”

“What if I dress you in a frilly bathing suit and have a small dog tug at it like in the old Coppertone ads?”

“You don’t have a dog.”

“I have access to dogs. Dogs can be procured.”


“Would you like to see my trick?”


“I manipulate my belly into the shape of a giant mouth. Then I speak through my bellymouth in the voice of a character I call The Admiral. He will say anything!”

“I don’t want to see that.”

“Many people enjoy it. I am going to find them.”


“What the fuck was that?”

It was Mike Gordon.

“No, I know who it was.”

Where are you?

“Another Rando got me.”

His shirt is very clever.

“I’m thinking about buying it.”

And so is yours.

“It’s Bobby’s shorts! But stylized. Anyway, what the fuck was up with Gordon?”

Nothing. He’s just like that.

“He made me eat poopfruit.”

He didn’t make you. More like tricked you into it.

“There’s no difference.”

Of course there is. A guy swindling you out of a thousand bucks is different than getting mugged at knifepoint.

“I ate Mike Gordon’s doodyberries and you’re arguing semantics. This is why I hate you and this whole little summer stock thing you’ve got going.”

Hire me.

“No! You’re talentless and weird.”

I’m sorry.

“You’re sorry for what? What did you…oh, shit.”

“Look at the beard on the tall one, sir. I know you’re a poker player.”

“I am, Gleason. A damned good one. And, uh, you are correct. The beard is what’s called a tell.”

“There is almost certainly an explosive device in Little Tim Leary’s fanny pack!”

“My God, Gleason! Assassins!”



Andy, you should run.

“I hate you!”

I’m sorry, Andy Cohen. Someone has to be Daffy Duck in this routine, and it’s just your turn.

“Fuck you.”

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