My Immortal Beloved,
Hi, Phil. This is Thoughts on the Dead. How are you? I’m fine.
Since I am assuming the get-up was for a fancy event, and that you are not planning to come out dressed like a Chippendale for the Farewell Shows, I’ll get to the heart of the matter.
Please don’t bring that thing: the death swan. It looks like Karl Lagerfeld’s favorite dildo. Or a tiny, perverted Loch Ness Monster. If you dipped that terrible device into a reservoir, children would develop testicles on their foreheads. That tragedy is to regular basses what Hitler is to regular art students. (Are you happy, Phil? You made me bring Hitler into this.)
I would rather shove the Hope Diamond up my ass than look at that thing. It’s like the abortion of an angel.
Your hair looks good.
Sincerely,
TotD
This is the alternate universe where the Dead are a wedding band and all their guitars are weirdly phallic. They are called The Steely Dead.
And before taking the stage, Phil parks everyone’s cars for them.
This reminds me of the last time I had to wear a Tuxedo. I didn’t like it but everybody said I looked good. Nothing worse than being a 50 year old guy with long hair, in a rented Tux, that somebody else picked out for ya’.
Except Phil wearing a nice, tailored one, playing That Thing.