Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Gentlemen,
Neither of you are allowed to die. You may make an ill-conceived deal with the Abandoned Gods; discover you are a direct descendant of Clan McCloud; (continue to) ingest the living organs of runaways to gain their youth; swimming and boner pills: whatever it takes to remain around.
Sincerely,
TotD
None of that was okay.
Phil looks like he just accepted a hard truth.
…
I’ll give you that one.
They’ll all be gone, eventually.
Getting up there, aren’t they?
Aren’t we?
What goes first: your body or your patience?
We’ll find out by text, mourn them on Twitter.
Beware the Jabberwock, my son.
The teeth that bite, the claws that catch.
We can use the function f(x)=x^2+6 to calculate a white man’s love of the floral shirt relative to his age. For example, in this picture Bobby was 60, giving him 3606 IFU (International Festive Units.)
We continue the theme of Bobby and crotches.
More of Bobby and his Wall of Crotch on this Sunday afternoon. (I think Mr. Roper wore that exact outfit once or twice.)
Also: Phil looks like an Amish drug dealer.
Bobby’s junk brought to you this afternoon by Coke. Coca-Cola: the preferred drinks of jam band guitarists’ moose knuckles since 1965!
You’re a serious smoker when you graduate from the ashtray to the hubcab.
One time, the black powder got shipped north and the white went south. It took days to reroute everything.
I’ll say this in defense of the Dead: whenever any of them–even Garcia–ran someone over, the show that night was cancelled.
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