Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: richard nixon (page 1 of 5)

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.”

Yorba Linda Waits

Yorba Linda waits for us all.

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.”

And Co-Starring Katy Perry As Pepper Potts

Why are you Iron Man, Josh Meyers?

“Someone has to be. Plus, an Iron Man suit is literally the most expensive outfit in the world.”


“I have pants that cost twenty grand, but these suckers are seven figures a pop.”

Do you get concierge service with that?

“It’s extra, but it’s available. I recommend it.”

Is it comfortable?

“It makes terrycloth feels like canvas. The only word is ‘sumptuous.’ Plus, I can take out a major city with it.”

Don’t do that. Are you gonna wear that on Dead & Co’s next tour?

“No. I wore it at a soundcheck, and Billy kept sticking fridge magnets to me. Really explicit ones, too.”

Sounds right.


Cell phone?

“Yeah. I can’t get the suit’s Bluetooth to shake hands with my phone.”

The perils of the modern world.

“You’re on with John.

“Ah, good boy. You’ve acquired the, uh, weapon.”

“The Iron Man suit is more than a weapon, Mr. President. Why are you pointing at Cambodia?”

“I want you to blow it up for me, son. Blow up Cambodia for Nixon.”


“These are the hills within which the rebels, the Communist rebels, led by Ho Chi Minh are hiding. Right here about a hundred clicks east of Phnom Penh. Hills are crawling with rebels. We want you to take them out.”

“I’m not taking out any rebels, sir.”

“Not the rebels, son: the hills. You, uh, deny the enemy ground upon which to stand, and you eliminate his fighting ability. The entire landscape has to go: hills, valley, lakes, rivers. Take it all down to the bare grain. The Cambodians will cease to be a problem once there’s no Cambodia. That’s realpolitik, son. Ugly, yes, but it provides for the long-term peace. Cambodia must die so Laos can live.”

“How did Laos get into this?”

“How does Laos get into anything? Via the Great Game. We all play it. You, for example, didn’t read the owner’s agreement of that suit, which clearly states that the Sokovian Accords are in effect for purchasers. This, uh, grants me the authority to order you around. Now put your helmet on and obliterate Cambodia for America.”


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.

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