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

Tag: slash

And The Three Men I Admire Most, They Caught The Last Train For The Coast

“Slasher, you’re a mess. Let me buy you a hooker to vomit on.”

“I’m fine, Bob.”

“You’re better than fine, baby: you’re high-caliber and long-stemmed. God ain’t makin’ ’em like you any more, and this town knows it. Have you ever thought about acting?”

“I’ve played myself a couple times, and I’m not real good at it.”

“Bullshit! Never let me hear you say that! Acting is just lying while handsome. Any schmuck could do it. Hell, I did.”

“Sure, maybe.”

“I see you as a modern-day Bob Hope. Can you dance?”

“Not even a little.”

“This is not a problem. We can fix that in post. Tremendous talent, Hope. The skits, the soft-shoe, the whole schmear. And pussy. No one got more pussy than Bob Hope. That’s why he golfed. Man loved holes.”

“It’s weird to think of Bob Hope that way.”

“Bali, Morocco, Rio; pussy, pussy, pussy. That was Hope, and that’s Hollywood! The whole business is built on pussy, Slasher, and don’t you forget it. Who’s got it, who wants it, and who’s gettin’ it! It’s all a game, but it’s deadly serious, too. Man’s gotta measure himself, so how does he do it? Pussy. And Oscars. Some say family. Y’know who says family? Losers say family. We know, don’t we? Pussy and Oscars, Slasher.”

“Uh-huh. You holding?”

“Not personally, but my English butler, Kippers, has an entire pharmacy sewn into the lining of his morning coat. Kippers!”


“I gotta take this, Bob.”

“If it’s Coppola, tell him to go fuck himself.”


“This is Slash.”

“Slasher! You talk pussy?”

“How do you know what we were talking about?”

“Put Bobby Evan on phone. Am big fan.”


“He stay in picture so good.”

“Yuh-huh. Is there a reason for this call?”

“I join band. Kim Jong-Un have squeezebox, Only Korea no sleep at night.”

“There’s no accordion parts in any of my songs.”



“Pretty sure.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Agree disagree.”



“Who was that, Slasher?”

“You wouldn’t believe me, Bob.”

“Kid, I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. Richard Pryor on fire off the shoulder of Mulholland. Valerie Bertinelli glittering by the Paramount Gate. Now all those spectacular, only-in-Hollywood moments have been lost. Like cocaine in the rain.”


“If it’s even cloudy outside, bring your coke in the house. Hard lesson!”

“Yeah, okay, sounds good. That was Kim Jong-Un.”

“Why didn’t you let me talk to him!?”

“You want to talk to Kim Jong-Un?”

“I want to talk to anyone with an entire country’s treasury at his disposal!”

Appetite For Legislation


Hey, Slash.

“I need to leave here. You know I got a family, right?”

They won’t know you’re missing. Time works differently for them than for you.

“What now?”

Well, you’re kinda…next…to time.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Everything happens at once, but causality also rules.

“Those two states of being are mutually exclusive.”

Or complementary. Imagine a stripper rotating around a pole, except she’s not moving; the whole of reality is. And she’s got big cans.

“I can imagine the last part.”

I like to call her a Möbius stripper.

“That may be too clever by half, man.”

I didn’t have full confidence in it. But, anyway: don’t worry about your family or any appointments you might have. A week in here is like an hour out there. Or a year.

“In here or out there?”


“I’m beginning to resent you.”

Good instinct.


“Is it Kim Jung-Un?”

If I say “no,” would you believe me?


Then I’ll remain silent.

“Slash here.”

“Slasher! Guess who join band?”

“You can’t be in Guns N’ Roses.”

“I new Izzy.”

“You are not the new Izzy.”

“Fine. I new Gilby.”

“You’re not even Gilby, man.”

“Got axe. I shred. Wear leather pant. Many bracelet.”


“Do all the Rock Moves. I windmill. Play behind back. Say ‘Hello, Cleveland.’ All the moves.”

“Hanging up.”


“Please let me go home.”

No. You made an album I enjoy 35 years ago, so now I’ve trapped you in a slightly comic hell. That’s how it works.

“No, it’s not.”

Trust me, Slasher.

My Way, Your Way, Steny Way Goes Tonight

Hey, Slash. Still here, huh?

“Do you mean at the Capitol, or in this stupid fucking universe of yours?”



Don’t get cranky. It’s a lot of fun in here. You wanna meet Elvis?


I can absolutely, positively introduce you to Elvis. Gotta warn you, though–


–he’s crazier than Judy Garland in a pharmacy.

“I’m used to it.”

True. Hey, lemme ask you a question.

“Yeah, all right.”

You dye your hair?

“Ah, I gotta. I’d look silly gray.”

No arguments here.


“Is that Elvis?”

Could be! Definitely could be!


“This is Slash.”

“Slasher! You ever been Mar-a-Lago?”

“Ah, Christ.”

“We go. Is season. Florida like heaven now.”

“I don’t wanna go to Florida with you, man.”

“Yes. Slasher and Kim Jong-Un hit Palm Beach. We golf. Maybe fish. You ever have fried chicken from Publix?”

“I have, actually.”

“Is best!”

“It’s pretty damn good, yeah.”

“Father invent chicken.”

“Your father invented fried chicken?”

“No. Father invent chicken.”

“Any way you could stop calling me?”

“Is settled. We go Mar-a-Lago. Get adjoining room. Leave door open. Izzy come?”

“Izzy probably won’t come.”

“Okay. I kidnap Izzy. See soon.”


“You said it was gonna be Elvis.”

You should know something about me, Slash: I lie almost constantly.

Good N’ Latte

Hey, Slash. Still on the Hill?

“They each gotta get a picture. There’s, like, a lot of them.”


“Not that many. Mostly dudes, too. I was hoping that cute Latina chick would show up.”

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez?

“She looks like this chick who used to mud wrestle at the Tropicana.”

She’s a Congresswoman, dude.

“No disrespect.”

That guy you’re sitting with is named Bob Goodlatte.

“Interesting name.”

Not cool, though.


How sick are you of telling the story about why you’re called “Slash?”

“Eh. I can do all my stories in my sleep nowadays. Nickname, how I stole my hat, meeting Axl. It’s like muscle memory.”

Makes sense.


“Excuse me. This might be Sammy Hagar.”

Gosh, he has a lot of friends.

“Slash speaking.”

“Where shades, Slasher!?”

“Ah, shit.”

“Slasher needs sunglass! Kim Jong-Un replace! Stop at gas station.”

“I have my–”

“Wait. No gas station in Only Korea.”

“–sunglasses. I just took them off–”

“I build gas station. Then can buy sunglass.”

“–for the picture.”

“What else I bring Slasher? You tried Claws yet?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“No laws with Claws, Slasher. Girls get frisky. Business get risky.”

“Listen, man–”

“Axl look terrible.”

“This is not Axl, man. Can you see me? How does any of this work?”

“You hang with Axl. Keep party popping. Kim Jong-Un there soon.”


“Horse say he big fan.”


“Um, excuse me? Guy I was talking to before?”


“What’s happening?”

Slash, are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?

“I keep getting asked that, and it keeps not making sense.”

(The Opposite Of) Paradise City

Hey, Slash. Whatcha doing?

“I’m at Congress. Like, the one in Washington.”

I see that. Why?

“Y’know how you heard Guns N’ Roses, like, nine times on six different stations during your commute today?”


“I wanna get paid for that.”

That sounds reasonable.

“Right? But it’s the music business, so the reasonable solution is rarely chosen. Never, actually.”

It’s a terrible racket.

“I see what you did there.”

Thank you, Slash.

“And, later on, I’m gonna get the tour that regular people don’t get. The chief of the Capitol Police is a giant fan. He’s gonna take me into the secret tunnels and all that cool shit.”

You used to be scary.

“I was never as scary as Congress.”

True. Hey, man, I’m sorry about this.

“Sorry about what?”


“I should get this.”


“Slash here.”

“Slasher! Where top hat?”

“Who is this?”

“Is Kim Jong-Un. Someone steal top hat?”

“No one stole it. I’m just wearing a beanie-type deal today.”

“Hat safe?”

“Yeah. Listen, how did you get this–”

“Slasher and Kim have backstory. We have connection.”

“What is that?”

“We both in Guns. I Buckethead.”

“You are not Buckethead.”

“Yes. I Buckethead. Under bucket? Kim. I Buckethead.”

“He’s like six-and-a-half feet tall.”

“Trick shoes.”

“I Buckethead.”

“Okay, I got no idea what’s happening here.”

“Slasher, you familiar with concept of semi-fictionality?

Looks Like November Rain

“Don’t tell me. Soupy.”



Also no.

“Derpy Hooves.”

Slash. His name is Slash.

“Well, you can’t blame me for blanking on him. He’s not wearing his hat.”

That’s true.

“I know who he is. He was in that reprobate heavy mental band with the little angry fellow. And he loves his hat. He’s, like, the male Holly Bowling.”

Also true.

“Has something gone awry? Because, uh, I could lend him mine. I know it’s not his style, but one of the things I learned on the ranch was A hat’s a hat. Unless it’s a yarmulke. No offense.”

None taken. The yarmulke should not be included in the category of [hat]. It doesn’t regulate the temperature of your skull, and doesn’t shield your eyes from man’s ancient enemy, the sun.

“My thoughts, exactly. But, uh, without the solar-based anger.”

Did you hang out with Slash? Is he cool?

“Well, uh, I don’t know if you know this, but the old ears aren’t what they used to be.”

No. Stop. I don’t believe you.

“I mean, it’s not Mickey-level. Just what you’d expect from 60 years of standing next to amplifiers.”


“And, uh, Slash is a mumbler. I didn’t get a word of it. I think maybe he was telling me about a Dead show he saw when he was a kid. That’s what everyone else says to me when they me, anyway. But, yeah: nothing. Just a low murmuring.”


“I could just bop over and pop it right on his head. Give him the ol’ bop-and-pop.”

Kind of you, Bobby, but I don’t think he needs your hat.

“Giving is my bliss.”

You’re the tits, man.