If there are any coders out there, what I think would be a great idea is a plug-in for Chrome and Firefox that mutes any auto-play videos before they start. Then, what would be an even greater idea is if the plug-in went to the houses of everyone responsible for the auto-play video and tortured their pets to death in front of them.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Month: July 2015 (Page 7 of 20)
![[PDF] Grateful Dead & Friends -](https://thoughtsonthedead.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/pdf-grateful-dead-friends.jpg)
The core four.
Also, Precarious Lee used a Polaroid of the speaker arrangement behind Billy as his résumé.
Oh, God, Bobby: not Crossfit.
“Oh, no. Just popping in for a sweat, y’know. Jumping jacks and indian bends and whirling those big wood clubs around.”
What?
“Later, I’m gonna hook myself up to that machine that jiggles the canvas belt around your belly.”
Are all of your fitness ideas from the 1920’s?
“No, I’m also off gluten.”
Well, at least there’s that.
“I was just fooling with you: I know what Crossfit is.”
Are you a member?
“Nah. A status game disguised as a transcendent experience played by sweaty upper-middle-class white people? I get enough of that at the day job, y’know?”
Yup.
“Crossfit also seems to think working out is a sport.”
They also think failure isn’t an option.
“I know. That’s weird: failure is the most popular option.”
…
“And I don’t know what in Christ’s name those things they call ‘pull-ups’ are.”
“I was looking at that website of yours, Treyvon, and I noticed something about your schedule with your side-band.”
“Phish is not my side-band, and: okay?”
“Got a weekend open at the end of August.”
“Not really. Magnaball is the weekend before that, and then Dick’s is the weekend after, so we’re gonna kick up our heels for a bit, recharge, hang out with the families.”
…
“You don’t maybe wanna make another thirty million?”
“How many times are we going to have this conversation?”
“Until everyone agrees with me and the wheels have been set in motion for us to earn another thirty million dollars.”
“We’re going to Disney.”
“Stop talking right now. You know I love you, but I don’t like you right now.”
“Aw. Anyway, Phil’s out. Done. If he could have, he would have tossed a match over his shoulder as he left, setting off a massive explosion that he would walk away from in a badass fashion.”
“Eleven million from the webcast. Not the PPV or the movie theaters, and certainly not counting the DVD and CD and Commemorative Book with the Glossy Pictures. Just the webcast.”
…
“World’s gone mad, Bruce.”
“No argument here.”
“I really don’t think Phil wants to do it.”
“Then you stop by Frankie Fashion’s house on the way to the gig and pick him up.”
“Phish is not the Dead’s bench, man.”
…
“Why won’t you let the nice people give us their money?”
“Maybe.”
…
“What the fuck’s a magnaball?”
“It’s a hoot, is what it is.”
“Fine, don’t tell me.”
- Whales, and not shitty little ones like Beluga: the big fuckers. Humpbacks and shit.
- Wales, but the sheep are not included.
- Around 250 Ford Focuses. (Foci?)
- Maybe three or four of the cars Phil likes.
- A decent private island in the Caribbean.
- Just decent, though.
- The nicest ones are more than that.
- Pirates should be sent to those islands on general principle.
- Nowhere fucking near the nicest apartment in New York and now I advocate sending pirates to all islands, including Manhattan.
- This is why I do not do research.
- People out they damn minds.
- Minor league baseball team, which could be easily be outfitted in repurposed gear from the Palo Alto Playmakers.
- I can’t think of too many people you couldn’t have assassinated with that amount of money.
- You could buy the deaths of several very powerful people.
- Or, you could have tens of thousands of poor fuckers killed.
- Quality vs. quantity, I guess.
- At 17 mil a pop, you could afford 3.07 trips from Tatooine to Alderaan in the Falcon.
- Bugatti Veyron demolition derby.
- You could have your own roller coaster.
- You could have your own anything, pretty much.
- Although, and it’s a stale observation, $50 million ain’t what it used to be.
- You can’t even buy half a warplane.
- A real one, not the Cessna with Cousin Bucky duct taped to the fuselage, drunk and firing off his shotgun that terrorized the town every Sunday after Church.
- Them boys Junior and his uncle Cousin Bucky? Menaces.
- Forget about an aircraft carrier.
- Beside the fact that the Grateful Dead should not be given an aircraft carrier.
- It costs a billion dollars just to gas up an aircraft carrier, but you only have to do it every twenty years.
- Quality vs. quantity, again, kinda almost.
- Also, you could not buy a world-class hospital.
- One that world-class people go to.
- A world-class hotel is out of reach.
- One for world-class guests.
- You could feed and clothe and shelter an enormous amount of poor fuckers, though, but that’s not funny.
- If you were a man and had any balls, you’d Brewster’s Millions that shit, son.
- Just pile up $52 million on your desk, snap out a hundred to do a simply gargantuan line of cocaine, and then scream “TIME ME, MOTHERFUCKER!”
- And start hiring marching bands to follow you as you walked around the city whipping college tuition and start-up loans on people.
- Which is blowing fools minds.
- You are now combing the classic Brewster’s scenario with a modern, locally-souced take on the source material.
- You invented the reboot.
- Zoo losing money? But that shit, relocate the animals to somewhere people ain’t yapping at ’em all day, turn the land into a playground, and give that shit away.
- TO THE MOTHERFUCKING PEOPLE, YO.
- They’d probably shoot you.
“You see that shizz?”
We’re still saying “shizz?”
“Just made two-and-a-half mil: Poppa gonna strut.
Nice work.
“I started with nothing but the clothes on my back and the club my father bought me: it’s been a climb, man.”
Modern-day Horatio Alger story.
“God bless America.”
Sure.
…
“You wanna see something cool?”
Is it your dick? Because every time someone’s whipped it out on me, they said something like that first.”
“$2.5 million. In cash.”
You have the money in cash?
“Briefcase.”
Fuck, yeah, I wanna see it.
“Check it out.”
Click click.
“What? But…how”
what is it?
“NEWSPAPER CLIPPINGS! IT’S NEWSPAPER CLIPPINGS!”
CUT TO: MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
“Jill, where did today’s paper go?”
“Haven’t seen it, honey.”
“Maybe the dog buried it.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Hey, Phil. You see the article in Billboard?
…
I’ll take the maniacal laughter as a “yes.”
Lesbians are the only straight people; I shall prove my point.
Straight women may claim to be straight, but by definition straight women enjoy having sex with men, which is incredibly gay. Straight women give beejers: also gay. Another way we can tell that straight women are gay is that they want to get married to men. That is flat-out homosexual nonsense.
Gay men are gay; we will take their words for it
Straight men are, though, also gay as fuck. And not the ones who are secretly gay, or gay after their fourth drink, or just gay in blue states: I speak of all straight men. Straight men play with dick all day, which is some queer shit right there. That the dicks in question are their own makes little difference. As Gertrude Stein once wrote, “A dick is a dick is a dick.”
(It should be noted that while straight men play only with their personal penises, gay guys have a more inclusive attitude when it comes to playing with wangs. This does, by any metric, make gay guys more gay than straight guys, but straight guys are pretty gay.)
Lesbians, on the other hand, are like the couple from the nursery rhyme, Jack Spratt and his wife: Jack could eat no fat; his wide could eat no lean. Now, instead of “fat” and “lean,” substitute “dongs.”
Lesbians are straight, since they do no gay stuff.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
![[PDF] Lovely Polish Lowland](https://thoughtsonthedead.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/pdf-lovely-polish-lowland.jpg)
Hey, Bobby.
“Howdy.”
Whatcha up to?
“Went for a walk.”
Nice.
“Took a nap.”
Awesome.
“Bit to eat.”
Okay.
“Licked myself.”
Right.
“Typical Bobby Sunday, y’know.”
Enjoy.
“Before you go, let my smell your potato salad.”
This got strange.
Hey, buddy. Look how hard you’re rocking.
“Real hard.”
You did that good.
“I heard there’s some new guy now.”
He’s not like you.
“No?”
You were…special.
“Sure, okay.”
I ran into some of your friends the other day; some of them looked good.
“That sounds right.”
…
I should go.
“Wait.”
Yes?
“Nothing.”
Oh.
“I fixed that door. The one–”
Upstairs.
“–upstairs that wouldn’t shut.”
That’s good.
“Painting over the baby stuff; figured I would.”
Please, Garcia.
“He would have been three in March.”
Don’t! Just don’t.
…
Hold on: what the fuck is this?
“No idea: high as a witch’s tit, man.”
(With thanks to Mr Completely for the engiffination of the jammy goodness.)
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