Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: richard nixon (page 1 of 5)

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.

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.”

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