Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: snake t-shirt

A Challenge To John Mayer

Dear John,

Hi. How are you? I’m fine. It is very hot here, and there are iguanas everywhere. The animals will not take to befriendment. If you’ve ever met an iguana, you know what I mean!

Anyhoo.

You’re a coward, Meyers. You’re a toe-dippin’ son of a bitch. You fear the depths, my butt-chinned friend, and instead float atop the waters. It’s a low quality in a man. It’s the reason Steve Aoki doesn’t return your texts. He can smell a dilettante a mile away; everyone knows that about Aoki. You dabble. You’re a nibbler. Dude, you’re Cliff’s notes.

You think wearing Madonna Tee-Shirt makes your bones, Meyers? Not on my watch. Not even on your stupidly-expensive watch. You wanna impress us?

You go Full Bobby, or you got no balls, Meyers. Do it. You wanna. You know you wanna. You’re dying to do it, so do it. Release him. Release all of him. Go Full Bobby.

Only then, can you truly become New Bobby.

Sincerely,
ToTD, DDS

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?

Monet: WHAT THE FUCK?

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–

Chloe: AHHHHHHHHH!

Monet: Where’s the gun!?

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

Semper Reptilis

Hey, Snake Tee-Shirt. Long time no see.

“How’sss it hanging?”

Can’t complain. You?

“Sssad.”

Aw, buddy. What’s the matter?

“Worried about the United Ssstatesss.”

We all are.

“I’m a patriot. You know I wasss in the Marine Corpsss.”

You don’t pronounce the S in that word, let alone pronounce it like that.

“You don’t ressspect veteransss.”

Yes, I do. And you are not a veteran.

“I ssserved my country, boy! Not like sssome pussssssiesss I could mention.”

You did not.

“I wasss at Khe Sssan.”

NO, YOU WERE NOT.

“Sssometimesss, I’m ssstill there. My buddiesss died in my handsss!”

You don’t have hands.

“Ssslevesss.”

You don’t even have sleeves. You were not a Marine.

“Thisss isss my rifle, thisss isss my gun.”

YOU DON’T HAVE HANDS.

“Audie Murphy didn’t have handsss. They let him be a Marine.”

First of all, he was in the Army. Second of all, he lost his hands in combat. He didn’t show up at the draft office and open the door with his foot. Third of all, you are a tee-shirt.

“You’re racissst.”

Can’t be racist against shirts. Shirt is not a race.

“I even remember the sssongsss we would sssing when we marched.”

You can’t march. You slither.

“I DON’T KNOW, BUT IT’S BEEN SSSAID–”

Stop this.

“MARIE ANTOINETTE GIVESSS REAL GOOD HEAD!”

I regret talking to you.

Shirts And Skins (Shed)

“Let’sss play Ssshakedown Ssstreet.”

“Quiet down, Snake Tee-Shirt.”

“Weir, tell your shirt to stay out of band business.”

“Excuse me, but if Bob’s shirt gets a vote, then my tank top gets a vote.”

“Nobody’s shirt gets a vote, man!”

“See what you started?”

“Sssorry, Bobby.”

Bobby, You Knew I Was A Lawyer When You Put Me On

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“OH, I DON’T FUCKING EXIST NOW?”

Goddammit, Red Metal Stool. Why do you have to act this way?

“He’s NOTHING without me! I’M THE STAR, not him! Oates. He’s fucking Oates, and you treat him like Hall.”

Red Metal Stool, I think you’re getting delusions of necessity.

“I’m irreplaceable.”

You are one of the most replaceable things I’ve ever met. Any two-to-three-foot-tall sturdy object with a flat surface could do your job. Shit, an amplifier could just do double duty.

“This is the elitist attitude that got Trump elected.”

It’s not.

“You look down on the working man.”

You’re not a man. You’re a stool. Two stools, actually.

“That’s it. I’m getting my lawyer.”

You have a lawyer?

“Counselor, do I have a case?”

“Yesss. Thisss man hasss ssslandered you.”

Snake Tee-Shirt?

“Sssnake Tee-Shirt, Esssquire.”

When did you go to law school?

“Corresssssspondence classssss.”

Makes sense.

Bobby, You Knew I Was A Snake Tee-Shirt When You Put Me On

Enthusiasts, this is the rarest photograph of all: The Feeding of Snake Tee-Shirt.

“Who sssaid my name?”

Hey, Snake Tee-Shirt.

“Bobby?”

No.

“Oh.”

You miss your guy?

“I ssstill fit him! I would make him look sssexy!”

Don’t do this, Snake Tee-Shirt. Move on.

“I can’t forget the feel of hisss ssskin.”

Ew. What do you eat, anyway?

“Sssocksss with picturesss of ratsss on them.

Ew.

Snakes And Flowers

bobby-cowboy-shirt-good-shot

“Basssssstard.”

Hello?

“Ssssson of a bitch.”

Snake T-Shirt?

“Ssssspeaking.”

Stop being jealous of Bobby’s cowboy shirt. It’s awesome.

“I’M AWESSSSSOME! You can’t even sssee the gunssss!”

I’ll give you that.

“Sssssun’s out, gunssss out.”

Sun wasn’t out. Show was at night.

“You know what I’m sssssaying.”

Kinda.

“Look at that thing. Flowerssss. He looksss like a sssissssssy.”

A what?

“A sssissssssy.”

Ah.

“Ssssnake beats flower. Ssssnakesss eat flowersss.”

They do not.

“Vegan sssnakesss.”

No such thing.

“Next time he wearsss me, I’m biting hisss nipplesss.”

Good plan.