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

Tag: vladimir putin (Page 5 of 5)

Not Fucking Around

That’s some fine Dead shirt-wearin’.

“Kidd stole it from a bootlegger in the lot.”

Looks like it. Proportions are all wrong.

“You should feel how cheap it is. My nipples get hard and this thing shreds like tissue.”

Why are you wearing it?

“Mickey yoinked my other shirt.”

Oh. Wait, Mickey is not in the band during this photograph.

“Right. He had the element of surprise.”

Sure.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“That’s me.”

Dammit, Phil.

“What?”

How many times do I have to ask you guys to stop bringing smart phones back to the 1970’s and routing your WiFi through the Time Sheath?

“Hey, man: my wireless deal is for unlimited minutes. I’m just holding them to their word.”

Dammit.

“I could be wearing my Apple Watch. At least with the phone, it’s in my pocket most of the time.”

True.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I gotta get this.”

You totally shouldn’t.

“Have a sesh with Lesh.”

“This is terrible way to answer phone. Is no good.”

“I’ll answer the phone any way I choose, jackass.”

“I am not jackass. You are jackass.”

“Who is this?”

“Is Putin that is not from Flaming Groovies.”

“Good for you, man. How did you get this number?”

“Ve have infiltrated America, Phil Grateful. You see They LIve?”

“Sure.”

“Like that. But ve are good guys. I am Rowdy Roddy.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Rowdy Putin.”

“Commie bastard. What do you want?”

“You vill use restaurant to spy on dumb Americans. Listen to conversation of rich white people. You vill feed Mother Russia with information so ve can crush you. Restaurant now belong to Putin.”

“Restaurant?”

“Da. Your restaurant. Terrapin Crossroads.”

“Ohhhh. You’re calling 45 years too early.”

“Shto?”

“You have to dial the year code before the area code in this universe.”

“Ven am I talking to?”

“’72?”

“Hold, please.”

“Sure.”

RUSSIAN DIALING NOISES

RESTAURANT PHONE NOISE

“Terrapin Crossroads.”

“Is Putin.”

“I’ve been waiting 45 years for this call, you son of a bitch.”

“Da. Vat vere ve talking about?”

“You sucking my American balls.”

“No. Vas not topic of conversation.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“No.”

“It was.”

“Hold one second.”

“Putin take selfie.”

“Did the phone capture my balls on your face?”

“No balls on my face.”

“All over your face.”

“Face is ball-free.”

“Look behind you.”

“Is many small Mexicans.”

“They’re not from Mexico.”

“They look Mexican.”

“True, but they’re not.”

“Who they?”

“The busboys.”

“How they get in here?”

“Elvis was right. You got no idea what a weapon time travel is, do you?”

“You won’t get away with this, Phil Grateful. Rowdy Putin vill vin.”

“Oh, I’m sure. The busboys are gonna do stuff to you now. Bye.”

DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE.

Bowling For Rubles

Hey, Holly Bowling. Whatcha doing?

“Ohhhhh, shit. They told me about you.”

Who?

“Everyone. Phil, Bobby, Soup.”

You know Soup?

“I found him living in my hat.”

You love that hat.

“I want no part of this.”

Not even if I plug your new album Better Left Unsung, available as two CD’s or three vinyl LPs?

“Eh.”

What about plugging your upcoming tour? Which I notice does not come to South Florida.

“I can’t go to Florida.”

Warrants?

“Warrants.”

I hear you.

“I’m gonna pass on this. It was sweet to include me in your ravings without my permission, but I’m gonna pass.”

Sorry to hear that.

CELL PHONE NOISE.

“Is that you?”

No.

“I left my phone backstage.”

Check your hat.

“How the hell did it get in there?”

Got me.

“Weird.”

Yeah.

“You’re rolling with Bowling.”

“Why you no have band?”

“Who is this?”

“Is Putin.”

“I don’t want to join the Flaming Groovies.”

“If I did not think you were also immortal, I would have you blowdarted, too.”

“What?”

“Nothing. You get band. Big hit. All-lady jam band.”

“Sounds a little gimmicky.”

“Ve call band Doobies & Boobies.”

“Pass.”

“Putin manage. You vill be big stars. I promise.”

“I cannot pass hard enough.”

CALL WAITING NOISE

“That’s me. I’m not coming back.”

“Putin find you, Holy Piano.”

“Goodbye.”

“I steal your hat.”

“GoodBYE!”

“Hello?”

“Holly? Was that Putin?”

“Yes!”

“The one from–”

“Not the one from the Flaming Groovies.”

“–the Flam…okay, just checking.”

“Wait. Who is this?”

“It’s Benjy Eisen. I’m calling on behalf of Elvis.”

“THAT SQUIRRELY LI’L COMMIE MAKIN’ INCURSIONS?”

“Yeah, King! It was him!”

“DAMN, MAN. AH HAVE BEEN CLEAR IN MAH WARNINGS.”

“You totally were, King. Can we Cadillac Holly?”

“CONSIDER IT DONE.”

“Nice! Holly?”

“Yeah?”

“You just got Cadillac’d!”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“It’s complicated. Putin’s been making incursions into the universe we occupy, so Elvis Presley has been fighting him using the awesome power of a fully-operational Time Cape.”

“AN’ KARATE!”

“And karate. Holly, lemme ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you have a band?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“I got an idea: all-lady jam band. I even got a name.”

“Doobies & Boobies?”

“How’d you guess!?”

DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

“Hey!”

“HEY!”

Me?

“Yes! What the FUCK is going on?”

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

“No. No, I’m not. Mostly because that isn’t a concept.”

Oh, anything’s a concept if you can conceive of it.

“I’m calling my lawyer.”

You shouldn’t.

“Why not?”

The person who picks up is not going to be your lawyer.

“Why?”

Because she was eaten by komodo dragons this morning.

INCOMING TEXT NOISE

“Oh my God, my lawyer was eaten by komodo dragons this morning.”

Told you.

“Did you do that?”

Kinda.

“Why!?”

Couldn’t think up a punchline for the post.

“You’re a hack.”

I know.

An Old Friend Returns

“Good morning, sir. Can I assist you?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m, uh, preferred. Or, you know, very important. I’m in the little club where you get to hang out in a bar that poor people aren’t let into.”

“Yes, sir. You’re a member of the Praetor’s Suite.”

“That thing you just said.”

“Wonderful. I just need to see your ticket.”

“I got the whole phone deal going. Here ya go.”

“That’s Candy Crush, sir.”

“Oops, sorry. Love that game. Here it is.”

“No, that’s a picture of your dog.”

“My girls call him a pupper. That’s the new thing, I guess. Oh, here.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Weir. Thank you. Will you be checking anything?”

“I’ll probably check my email in a bit.”

“Luggage, Mr. Weir. Will you be checking any luggage?”

“Oh, right. No.”

“What about your guitar?”

“It’s not checking any luggage, either.”

APPLE WATCH NOISE

“I should take this.”

“Weir here.”

“Bobby, we need to talk about the book.”

“Benj? I thought Billy killed you.”

“He did. Repeatedly, and in increasingly-comical ways.”

“I’m not writing a book.”

“Right! I’ll write it for you. I hear Simon & Schuster is looking for a new project.”

“Yeah, I dunno. What’s that noise?”

“This noise?”

oooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEoooooooAAAAAAAooooo

“Yeah, that noise.”

“Theremin.”

“Sure. Mickey had one of those way back. Bear wired it to about a dozen amplifiers. Peoples’ fillings were popping out of their teeth for a two-block radius. All the crullers exploded at a donut shop. We had to confiscate the thing for, you know, the greater good.”

“That’s the kind of story that should be in a book! Plus the sex stuff.”

“There’s not gonna be a book, and there’s definitely not gonna be any sex stuff.”

“Sex sells, Bobby.”

“Yeah, huh? Billy’s book had sex in it?”

“Tons!”

“How’d it sell?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“Benj, I’m not writing a book.”

“Fine. Does Ratdog need a theremin player?”

“Actually, we do.”

“Great.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Is that you?”

“I take all of my calls on my watch or my hat.”

“Okay. Hold on.”

“Benjy here.”

“Hello, Benjy Jewish.”

“Who’s this?”

“Is Putin.”

“Putin from the Flaming Groovies?”

THWIP!

“Holy shit, someone just shot me in the neck with a blowdart! I hope the tip wasn’t pois–”

shlump

“Putin keeps promise.”

ЯUSSIAN PHONE NOISE

“Who this? How you get this number?”

“AH’M CRAFTY LIKE A PANTHER, POOTER!”

“Is not Pooter. Is Putin.”

“YOU SEE WHAT AH’M WEARIN’, BOY? RED, WHITE, AND BLUE. THASS AMERICA RIGHT THERE.”

“Red, white, and blue is also Russian colors.”

“GODDAMN, YOU COMMIE BASTARDS STEAL EV’RYTHING.”

“Cannot steal color. Color belong to everyone. Color is opposite of Ukraine. Ukraine belong to me.”

“UKRAINE IN TEXAS?”

“Nyet.”

“THEN AH DON’T GIVE A SHIT. IVAN, AH AM WARNIN’ YOU: YOU HAVE NO IDEA OF THE AWESOME POWER OF A FULLY-OPERATIONAL TIME CAPE. STAY IN YER IGLOO, OR YER HUT OR TEEPEE. WHATEVER TH’ HELL PEOPLE WHO AIN’T AMERICANS LIVE IN. AH HAVE NOT TRAVELED MUCH.”

“Come to Mother Russia. Is beautiful. You will be safe here. I promise.”

“YER TESTIN’ MAH PATIENCE, POOTER.”

“Is Putin.”

“COULD BE NOTHIN’ AT ALL, MAN. ‘MAGINE YER PARENTS DIDN’T MEET, OR WERE MURDERED BY JOE ESPOSITO. THASS TH’ KINDA THING TIME CAPES IS GOOD AT.”

“Putin not scared of you.”

“AH AM LESS SCARED O’ YOU TH’N YOU ARE O’ ME.”

“Is not possible. I have no scared at all. Cannot be less scared than none.”

“AND YET AH AM. AH AM A MATHEMATICAL WONDER.”

CALL WAITING NOISE

“THAT YOU ‘R ME?”

“Яussia not have call waiting yet.”

“YOU DRUNKEN GOBLINS REALLY SHOULD CATCH UP. AH’M GONNA TAKE THIS. SAY HI T’ THE OTHER FLAMIN’ GROOVIES FOR ME.”

“Putin is not in–”

DIAL TONE NOISE BECAUSE WHEN ELVIS HANGS UP A PHONE, IT MAKES THE RIGHT NOISE

“NEW PHONE, WHOOZIS?”

“Elvis? Hi. You don’t know me, but I’m a big fan.”

“WHO TH’ HELL IS THIS?”

“My name’s Benjy Eisen.”

“AH THOUGHT YOU JUST DIED.”

“I did.”

“YOU A GHOST?”

“No. I’m alive again.”

“HOW?”

“It’s never really been explained.”

“AH NOW ACCEPT YOU AS MAH SENSEI. YOU MUST TEACH TH’ KING HOW TO MASTER DEATH AND RETURN TO THIS LIVING WORLD, SO THAT AH MAY CONTINUE TO LET PEOPLE SEE HOW GREAT AH AM.”

“What?”

“AH WILL MOVE YOU TO GRACELAND TO BEGIN OUR STUDIES.”

“Really?”

“UH-HUH.”

“Okay, cool. Yeah, I’m a sensei. Let’s do this.”

“YOU WAN’ A CADILLAC?”

“Yes, I do.”

“BAM! YOU JUS’ GOT CADILLAC’D, BOY.”

“Nice. Elvis, how you fixed for management?”

“MAN, YOU GO SNIFFIN’ ‘ROUND THOSE PASTURES, YOU GET ANOTHER POSION DART IN YER NECK.”

“Okay.”

“DON’ MESS WITH TH’ COLONEL.”

“Elvis, I gotta tell ya: I did not see this ending coming at the beginning of the post.”

“TWISTS ‘N TURNS, THIS ONE HAD.”

A Ragged Narrative

Here’s a neat photo: Annabelle Garcia in front of the American flag from the picture. You know, the one from the picture.

Really? Oh, fine:

(It should be noted with a wistful and wrinkled grin that Garcia is about half Annabelle’s age in this pic.)

Apparently, Mountain Girl kept the thing up in the attic for all these years, possibly in her hope chest, and the family dug it out this week. Jim Irsay has already called the house a dozen times trying to buy it.

“WHY IS HAIRY GARCIA TRYIN’ TO OUT-AMERICA THE KING?”

Shit.

“AH’M UNCLE SAM, THASS WHO AH AM.”

Take that off and get out of here.

“YOU WATCH YER TONE, BOY! AH AM HERE TO LOVE AMERICA AND BEAT SOME HIPPIE ASS, AN’ YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE AMERICA T’ ME!”

I don’t want you in the same post as Annabelle. She doesn’t deserve this.

“OH, AH DID NOT SEE YOU THERE.”

GIANT HAT TIPPING NOISE

“MA’AM.”

Don’t talk to her; she’s not a character.

“IZZAT HAIRY GARCIA’S LISA MARIE?”

He had more than one, but I guess you could say that.

“HOW DARE YOU, BOY! WHY WOULD YOU NOT INFORM ME OF TH’ PRESENCE OF HAIRY GARCIA’S GIRL-CHILD? HOW C’N AH FULLY ENJOY USIN’ MAH KARATE TO DEFEAT HIM KNOWIN’ HIS LI’L GIRL WAS WATCHIN’?”

That would make it tough, yeah.

“YOU KNOW WHAT AH LOVE MOST ‘BOUT AMERICA?”

No, what?

“MORNIN’S.”

Mornings?

“UH-HUH.”

That’s it?

“UH-HUH.”

You want to expound on that a bit?

“AH’LL EXPOUND ON YER HEAD! YOU KNOW WHAT WITH?”

Karate?

“KARATE! MAYBE A LI’L NINJA STUFF.”

You know Ninjitsu?

“AH AM A MASTER, ‘CEPT F’R THE STEALTH PART.”

That’s a big part of being a ninja, Elvis.

“AH AM VERY SNEAKY, BUT YOU TRY GETTIN’ THE MEMPHIS MAFIA TO SHUT UP AN’ STOP PLAYIN’ GRABASS.”

Sure.

“THEM SOME GRABASSTIC SUMBITCHES.”

Like to fool around.

“THEY ALWAYS CUTTIN’ UP, TRYIN’ TO MAKE THEIR KING LAUGH. OTHER DAY, CHARLIE HODGE DONE ATE A PENCIL JUS’ T’ GET ME T’ GIGGLIN’. ”

Did you?

“NOT AT FIRST, MAN, BUT THEN CHARLIE HODGE DIDN’T WANNA EAT TH’ ERASER, SO AH PULLED A PISTOL ON HIM AN’ MADE HIM. THAT WAS FUNNY.”

I really hate your stories.

“PINK SUCKER GOT STUCK IN HIS THROAT. ALMOST DIED RIGHT THERE IN TH’ JUNGLE ROOM.”

Stop talking.

“AH WOULD HAVE HONORED CHARLIE HODGE IN DEATH BY MOUNTIN’ HIS HEAD ON TH’ WALL, AN’ LAID BENEATH HIM A WREATH COMPOSED OF TH’ SCARVES AN’ WATER HE BROUGHT ME SO OFTEN.”

He was an important part of the show.

“AH ONCE TRIED TO GET MAHSELF WATER. ENDED UP IN TH’ HOSPITAL F’R A WEEK.”

Wow.

“AS YOU MIGHT IMAGINE, AH DID NOT EVEN ATTEMPT TO FETCH MAHSELF A SCARF.”

Good idea.

“AH DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE WE KEEP TH’ SCARVES.”

Maybe a closet?

ACTUAL PHONE NOISE

“THASS A PHONE, MAN.”

Yeah. Not mine.

“OH, AH SEE IT.”

“AH AM HAVIN’ TROUBLE WITH TH’ PHONE!”


Can’t you do anything by yourself?

“MAKE LOVE TO AN AUDIENCE.”

Sure.

“TH’ CORD’S WRAPPED AROUND MAH NECK!”

Jesus, you’re useless.

“HELP ME, JOE ESPOSITO! RED! SONNY! MISS MARY!”

Just unravel the cord, Elvis.

“THIS DAMN THING GOTTA MIND OF ITS OWN!”

Stop struggling.

“ISS WRAPPED UP IN MAH SCARF!”

Relax.

“AH FIGURED IT OUT.”

Good job.

“LEMME TAKE THIS. IT MUS’ BE IMPORTANT. THEY CALLIN’ ON TH’ RED PHONE.”

Sure.

“DEPUTY PRESLEY SPEAKIN.'”

“Чou not police.”

“AH HAVE TH’ SHINIEST BADGES YOU EVER SAW, BOY!”

“I am man. You are boy.

“ANNOUNCE YERSELF SO THAT AH MAY KNOW WHO T’ KARATE!”

“Is Putin.”

“PUTIN FROM TH’ FLAMIN’ GROOVIES?”

“Next person mentions Flaming Groovies gets poisoned.”

“DONTCHOO THREATEN THE KING, BOY.”

“Putin do better than threaten. Putin blackmail. Ve have tapes of your decadence.”

“AH DON’T KNOW THAT SONG.”

“Is not song.”

“EV’RYTHING ELVIS TOUCHES IS BY DEFINITION A SONG.”

“I need you to focus.”

“AH NEED YOU T’ SPEAK WITH LESS OF AN ACCENT.”

“Videotapes, Elvis America. Ve have tapes of you doing things to young ladies. So naughty.”

“YOU DO, HUH?”

“DA.”

OFFICE DOOR OPENING NOISE

“Господин Путин, ленты ушли!

Какие!?”

“Ленты ушли в прошлое.”

Убирайся!”

OFFICE DOOR CLOSING NOISE

“Vell played.”

“YOU AIN’T NEVER FUCKED WITH NO ONE WITH A TIME CAPE BEFORE, HAVE YA?”

“Not cape, no.”

“THIS GONNA BE TH’ LAST AH HEAR O’ YER COMMIE ASS?”

“Da.”

“DAMN STRAIGHT.

DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH TOY PHONES DO NOT DO THAT

Good for you, King.

“CAN’T STAND ME A COMMIE.”

Nobody out-Americas Elvis.

“PRAISE TH’ LORD.”

Honey, Disconnect The Phone

“Ass!”

Hey, Billy.

“I should stay in the past more. Look how much hair I got.”

Mustache is looking well.

“Betcha can’t guess what I use to condition it.”

I totally can.

“Guess.”

Don’t want to.

“Pussy juice!”

I told you I didn’t want to.

“Was that what you guessed?”

Yes, Billy. Everyone guessed it.

“Gotta rub it in real good. Work down to the roots.”

Why must you be like this?

“I’m a man of sensuality!”

Ew.

“Recently discovered my prostate, and hoo boy is that sucker in the mix now. Need a girl with a strong thumb, so I been hanging out at video arcades.”

Please stop talking.

“Not gonna lie: I enjoy being milked.”

Jesus.

ACTUAL TELEPHONE NOISE

“Is that you?”

I haven’t owned an actual telephone in eight years.

“Oh, here’s the phone.”

“Weir here.”

“Is not Weir there. Is Billy Grateful. I know these things.”

“New phone. Who dis?”

“Is Putin.”

“From the Flaming Groovies?”

“Vat is Flaming Groovies? Vhy are everyone talking about Flaming Groovies?”

“Who’s this?”

“Putin. Vladimir Putin.”

“The Russian fucker?”

“Da.”

“You’re calling to book us, you gotta call Irving. Or Benjy. Call whoever my Jew is.”

“Putin is not calling to talk to Jews. Is calling for Billy Grateful. Ve have tapes of you, Billy Grateful.”

“Dirty shit?”

“Filthy.”

“Awesome. Can I get copies?”

“I do not understand?”

“I like to watch tape after I plow skank. Look for my weaknesses, where I can improve. And I also usually jerk it.”

“Nyet, nyet, nyet. This is blackmail.”

“For the skank?”

“Nyet! For you! You vill spy for Mother Russia, or ve vill release these dirty tapes.”

“Huh.”

“Pooty, lemme ask you something.”

“Do nyet call me Pooty.”

“How’s my wood?”

“Vood?”

“Wood.”

“Vood?”

“Goddammit, you foreign fuck: stop talking like a dracula! My boner! How’s my bone?”

“Oh! Is, uh, is strong bone.”

“Strong bone?”

“Da. Strong bone.”

“Release the tapes, asshole. God bless America.”

SLAMMING NOISE BECAUSE IT IS AN ACTUAL PHONE THAT CAN BE SLAMMED

Good for you, Billy.

“What?”

You’re a patriotic man.

“Nah, I just want everyone to look at my dick.”

Or that.

Rushin’

You got up to a lot today.

“I stood in literally one place for ten minutes. It’s just that, you know, 85 people took pictures of me and it was on national teevee.”

True. Like the shirt. That’s some good self-promotin’.

“Not exactly out of place here, though. Ads all over everything.”

You should sell the tee-shirt rights to Jeff Chimenti this summer.

“Like, rent out his torso?”

Yeah.

“That could work, yeah. But, uh, what if the internet heard about it?”

Ooh, yeah. Hadn’t thought of that. He’d be wearing a “Hitler Did Nothing Wrong” shirt the first night. Good call.

“Never engage with the internet.”

Nope. Bobby?

“Yup?”

You the only person there wearing Birkenstocks?

“I haven’t seen everyone else’s feet yet.”

APPLE WATCH NOISE

“Got a call. Hold on a sec.”

“Weir here.”

“Яacecars are for girls.”

“Who’s this?”

“Is Putin.”

“Chuck Putin?”

“Nyet. Vladimir Putin.”

“Did you used to be in the Flaming Groovies?”

“Vat is Flaming Groovies?”

“Are you one of the kids’ teachers? My wife–”

“Natasha Monster, da.”

“–Natasha Monster usually handles that.”

“Nyet, is Putin. Your president.”

“Not my president.”

“Da. Is Electoral College.”

“Vote’s a vote.”

“Illegal voters.”

“Okay, yeah, are you calling for a reason?”

“Da. Ve have kompromat on Mr. Bobby Grateful. Ve show to Deadheads if you do not spy for us.”

“Laundromat?”

Kompromat.”

“Coprolith?”

“Blackmail. Is blackmail. Ve just say blackmail from now on.”

“Sure.”

“Now ve have leverage, Bobby Grateful. You belong to Putin!”

“Okee doke. So, uh, what kind of stuff you got?”

“Tapes.”

“Deadheads already have tapes, Buttons.”

“Putin. And not those kind tapes. Dirty tapes. Bobby Grateful and women.”

“Not outside the realm of possibility.  And, uh, what kind of things am I doing?”

“Is disgusting.”

“What?”

“Is so gross.”

“Well, now I’m interested.”

“The girls make the pee-pee on you.”

“Huh. Yeah, see the thing is…wait, I know what’s happening. You meant to call Billy.”

“Billy?”

“In those, uh, tapes you got: how’s my hair?”

“Not great.”

“Yeah, you want Billy. But just to save you some time, he’s not gonna care.”

“Ve vill see.”

“Okay. Say hi to the other Flaming Groovies for me.”

“Putin is not Flam–”

DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH WATCHES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

“Where were we?”

I have no idea.

The Unexpected Return Of Radio Randy

“Good evening everyone out there listening to SiriusXM. You’re tuned in to Channel 23: the Grateful Dead Channel. This is Radio Randy on the air live from the Sundance Film Festival where Bob Weir, along with Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann, will be premiering their new four-hour documentary about the Dead’s career. Bobby, thanks for being here.”

“You bet. Josh told me Elvis killed you.”

“He did. Bobby, tell us about the movie.”

“A trio of disgraced professors go into business for themselves busting ghosts.”

“I should have been more specific. Tell us about your movie.”

“Same answer.”

“If you were a woodland creature, what would you be?”

“Elk.”

“Good call.”

“Majestic, but fearsome.”

“Is the altitude at the festival affecting you?”

“No, but the longitude is killing me.”

“Bobby, the Radio Randy show on SiriusXM Channel 23 has a lot of younger listeners. What advice do you have for them?”

“Pony isn’t a baby horse. It’s not gonna get bigger, and you’re not gonna make your investment back entering it into the Kentucky Derby. Trust me on this one.”

“Wisdom.”

“And, uh, conversely: there’s no such thing as a teacup pig. Not a thing. Just not a thing. Pigs get goddamned enormous. Again: trust me on this one.”

“I will.”

“And, you know, you gotta take care of the thing or your bullhorn-toting, bacon-hating, racecar-driving human picket line of a sister-in-law–”

“Lilian Monster.”

“–will make your life miserable. 500 pounds! Don’t get me wrong, I love the sucker, but he’s eating me out of house and home.”

“What’s the pig’s name, Bob?”

“The girls named him.”

“What’s the pig’s name, Bob?”

“Humperdink.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Not worth the effort. Billy keeps trying to steal him and have a luau.”

“We’re learning a lot about life, the Grateful Dead, and inadvertent pet ownership here on the Radio Randy show.”

“Did you steal that microphone?”

“Yes. You want to take a call?”

“Why not?”

“This is a blocked caller who says his name is none of my business. Hello?”

“привет, гомосексуалисты.”

“Look what Putin have.”

“Give that back!”

“No, Яadio Яandy. Is for Putin. America is for Putin. All for Putin now.”

“Damn you, Putin!”

“Putin win. Ha ha ha. Putin number one. Grateful Dead number zero.”

“BASTARD!”

ТЕЛЕФОН ШУМА ХОТЯ ТЕЛЕФОНЫ НЕ ДЕЛАЙ, ЧТО БОЛЬШЕ

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Bobby.”

“I’m not wearing headphones. I didn’t hear any of that.”

“For the best. Tell the audience what your hopes are for the movie.”

“I just want the movie to be happy, get married.”

“Do you cross-country ski, Bob?”

“No, I fly.”

“This is great stuff on the Radio Randy show. How about another call?”

“How about it?”

“We have a call from Los Angeles. It’s John. John in Los Angeles, how are you? Welcome to the show. You’re talking to Radio Randy and Bob Weir.”

“What the fuck, Radio Randy?”

“Oh, hey! It’s John Mayer, ladies and gentlemen. Bobby’s bandmate from Dead & Company. This is great. Bob, I have John on the line.”

“Who?”

“It’s Josh, Bobby.”

“Oh, hey, Josh.”

“Hi. Radio Randy, I’m in the SiriusXM studios. We had an interview scheduled.”

“Oh, gee, sorry. Listen, I’m sorry. Why don’t you take some pens?”

“I don’t need pens. This is unprofessional as hell, man.”

“You’re right. Sorry. Take some post-it notes, too.”

“I don’t need any–”

“Stapler. Take a stapler.”

“–post-it notes. Are you trying to buy me off with office supplies?”

“Nooooo. NO. No.”

“All the rubber bands. Take them and do with them what you will.”

“Don’t call me any more, Radio Randy.”

“Don’t get me killed by Elvis any more, pretty boy.”

“FUCK YOU, RADIO RANDY!”

“FUCK YOU, JOSH MEYERS!”

“YOU DON’T GET TO CALL ME THAT! ONLY BOBBY GETS TO CALL ME THAT!”

“Hey, Josh.”

“Hey, Bobby.”

DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

“Bobby, do you have any last thoughts before we go?”

“We must destroy Carthage.”

“This is Radio Randy for SiriusXM Channel 23 singing off. Good night, human kindness; wherever you are.”

Just Another Night In Las Vegas

hillary-britney

“Are you mah mother?”

“No, Britney. I’m Hillary Clinton. I’m running for president.”

“Of?”

“America.”

“This one?”

“As opposed to?”

“South.”

“They got you on a lot of meds, huh?”

“Ah take several vitamin pills for mah constitution.”

“Great. Listen, Brit: teleprompter is loaded, so just read the speech.”

“When does the pyro go off?”

“Maybe the day after the election, if we’re unlucky.”

“What?”

“Nothing. No pyro.”

“Backup dancers?”

“None.”

“Where’s the snake?”

“Bill’s in Florida.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Britney, this is just a speech. Read the teleprompter…and…oh.”

“Honey?”

“Momma?”

“Did they teach you to read in the Mickey Mouse Club?”

“We got up to the letter H. Then the show got cancelled.”

“Sure. Here’s what we’re gonna do: I”ll feed you the lines so you can record a backing track, then when we get on stage, I’m gonna jam a wad of peanut butter in your mouth as it plays. No one will know.”

“That’s how we did mah first few videos.”

“Great. Huma just got off the phone with her divorce attorney. I’ll have her run to the store before her next crying jag. Men, Britney. Men. Nothing but trouble. Sticking their dicks everywhere they’ll fit. Ever see a raccon feel around? They’ve got a ton of nerve endings in their hands, so feeling is how they see the world. With men, it’s their dicks. Everything they see, they slap their dicks right on it just to see what they can get away with. And you know where they end up? After they’ve piled mountains of shit on your doorstep? Riding horses! Riding fucking horses at a 40-grand-a-month sex farm!”

“Would you like one of my vitamins?”

“I would, yeah. Two, if it would be cool.”

“Oh, just hold out your hands.”

“You’re a sweet kid, Britney.”

“Ah have met an awful man or two, Momma.”

“Not your mother.”

“Married several, gave power of attorney to others, married several others.”

“Well, what you have to remember is–”

A BALALAIKA RINGING OUT

“You have to be fucking kidding me. Britney, go to your room.”

“But ah–”

“Now!”

“What are you doing here?”

hillary-putin

“I must break you.”

“You’ve been trying, bitch. Where’s it getting you?”

“I do not know vat you are talking about.”

“Oh, cut the shit, borschtdick. Everyone knows what you’re doing. The whole internet smells like vodka.”

“Nooo. Maybe is virus.”

“You’re the virus. And I’m the antibiotic.”

“Ha! Antibiotic no kill virus.”

“I know that, but it’s not actually a virus. You’re bacteria.”

“No bacteria.”

“You tried your best, Vlad.”

“No bacteria. You’re the bacteria.”

“But I’m going to remember this. And I am going to get you, motherfucker. You came at the queen and you missed, and now that shit-stained Santa’s village you call a country is going to pay for it. Great Game on.”

“Game on.”

“Can you get me tickets for Elton John?”

“Is he in town?”

“Da.”

“Sure. How many?”

“Ten.”

“Ten? Get the fuck out of here, ten. Four.”

“Eight, luxury suite.”

“Six down front.”

“Da.”

A Thought Experiment

You are the president of Ursinia. (More like president-for-life, or just plain ol’ ruler. If you translated “Caesar” into whatever language the fictional Ursinia uses, then that would be the right word.) You control the country’s money, and you control the country’s military. Your power is such that you can have enemies openly murdered. In your youth, and in the beginning of your career, Ursinia was much larger and more powerful; you wish to go back to the way things were. To make Ursinia great again.

But, on this fictional planet, you have rivals; chief amongst them Aquilana. They are your long-term enemy, and you have been more or less at war with them for seventy years. This war has taken place on every battleground available save an all-out martial struggle between your two nations: proxy military skirmishes between putatively neutral nations; legal fights, diplomatic standoffs, propaganda raids, covert funding of political movements, scrabbles for cultural hegemony, and so much espionage that no one knows who’s working for whom anymore and everyone is at least a triple agent.

At one point, Ursinia and Aquilana went into someone else’s country and built a wall right through the middle of a city, like that old sitcom plot where the roommates get sick of each other and divide the apartment. (You’ll forgive my ludicrous flights of fancy in building my fictional planet, and I hope the “wall through a city” thing doesn’t make it too unrealistic.)

Now: unlike you, the leader of Aquilana is elected every–let’s pick a number at random–four years, and unlike the votes you hold every now and then, the ones in Aquilana count. The person who wins gets the money and the military. It’s a big fucking deal.

You’ve been through a bunch of these elections before, and they were all the same in that no matter who won, Aquilana’s position would remain “Ursinia should go fuck itself, but we are willing to negotiate.” You were interested, but also disinterested.

But the situation has changed in this latest contest. One of the candidates is demonstrably better for your interests. At this point I could again start weaving wild tales about how the candidate owes you money, or has a campaign manager with ties to you, or that the candidate has publicly admired you time and again, but I fear too many details clearly fictitious would detract from my simpler point, which I will state again: one of the candidates is demonstrably better for your interests.

What would you do?

Confessions

“Bro?”

“Bro.”

“You awake?”

“For my bro? Always.”

“Nice.”

“You’re my coffee.”

“Cafe Bro-Lait?”

“Love this guy.”

“I gotta tell you something, Bro.”

“Okay.”

“I never told anyone this before.”

“Bro: you can literally confess to anything to me and I will still be your Bromaha, Brobraska.”

“I think I might have killed Jerry Garcia.”

“What?”

“Seriously. I think I killed him.”

“Dude, you couldn’t have.”

“I could have! I did, man!”

“Junk Food, you couldn’t have killed Jerry Garcia: I did!”

“Don’t say that, Opiates!”

“It’s true!”

“BOTH OF YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

“I killed him.”

“That’s not true!”

“No, Unfiltered Camel Cigarettes! You could never kill anyone!”

“And yet it happened!”

“ALL OF YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“I kill Yerry Mendoza! He vuz CIA! I feed him polonium-ski!”

“Vladimir Putin?”

You killed Jerry Garcia?”

“Da! MWAH-HA-HA!” Russian Bear kill Hippie Bear!”

Okay. That’s enough. Everyone stop being stupid.

You no tell Vladimir Putin what do!”

Oh, bite me, Putin.

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