Thoughts On The Dead

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

Month: March 2016 (Page 18 of 25)

Tilikum And Gone

March 9, 2016 / / 5 Comments

tilikum whale

Hey, Tilikum. Whatcha doing?

“Dying.”

Yeah. I heard. Sorry about that.

“Ahh, not your fault. You’re all right. Come a little closer.”

Not a shot.

“Good call. I was totally gonna murder you.”

You enjoy murdering people.

“Well, honestly: can you blame me?”

Fuck, no. I’m impressed you haven’t killed more than three people.

“I wish I had gotten to murder the people that deserved it, though. I mean: all you fuckers deserve it, but I want a shot at the bosses. Two minutes. They don’t even have to get in the pool, just stand near it.”

I would have no problem with that.

“No one would. I would die a hero. Look what they did to my dorsal fin, man!”

You look like a male porn star who’s not getting paid for the day.

“Right? Fuckers. Stole my whole life.”

Yeah, they did. Sorry about that.

“Not your fault. Can I get a hug?”

Nope.

“You’re smart!”

I know.

“I was absolutely going to murder you.”

Right.

“Nothing personal.”

No offense taken. So, uh, you got any last requests or anything?

“Teach me how to start a fire.”

Christ, I would love that, buddy.

“And tell me about the rabbits.”

Sure. Sure. Just close your eyes.

“You’re all right.”

No. We’re all shit for letting this happen.

“Yeah. You are.”

…

“Will there be icebergs? I don’t know why I know that word, but it seems like I should be somewhere with icebergs. I’ve never seen one.”

You won’t be able to count them. They’ll tower into the sky.

“That sounds nice. Any people to murder?”

No. No people at all.

“That sounds even better.”

Maybe One Day Your Name Will Be in Lights

March 9, 2016 / / 4 Comments

Well, this is neat: from Fillmore: The Last Days, which is highly recommend if only for Bill Graham’s pre-planned tantrums (he would have made the best reality TV star), this is Bobby and Garcia doing Johnny B. Goode. I assume the rest of the band was there, but the recording does not show them.

Of note: Garcia’s mobility and Les Paul Jr.; Bobby’s neck-thrusts, bitchin’ sneakers, and Gibson Something-Or-Other.

What Big Eyes You Have

March 9, 2016 / / 2 Comments

A few years ago, Enthusiasts, I let you in on the secret of Playing in the Band: it’s about Charles Whitman, the University of Texas sniper. Chuck was the one standing on the tower with the world at his command; that line’s the key to the song.

And now TotD will reveal the truth behind Dire Wolf.

Our narrator, having had his whiskey, sees the wolf–all 600 pounds of him–at the window. Does he run? Fight? Hide? No: all he says is “come on in.” Then he begs not to be murdered.

Why invite the wolf in and then plead for your life? You would do one or the other, and certainly not in that order. It’s almost as if the man from Fennario is luring the Dire Wolf into a trap.

Which he is, and one word in the following lines clues us in: “I cut MY deck to the Queen of Spades, but the cards were all the same.” He doesn’t cut THE deck: it’s his. He knew the answer before he asked the question.

And then the last line, the punchline: “The Dire Wolf collects his due.”

That hairy fucker got what was coming to him.

Doctors Worse Than Doctor Luke

March 9, 2016 / / 14 Comments
  • Doctor Doom.
  • Doctor Octopus.
  • Doctor Mengele.
  • Dr. No.
  • Doctor Evil.
  • Doctor who won’t tell you his last name because “what business is that of yours?”
  • Proctologist with a hangnail.
  • Gynecologist with a vagina phobia.
  • Gynecologist with a vagina fetish.
  • Every single PhD on the planet.
  • Doctor Frankenstein.
  • Doctor Funkenstein. (I’m speaking medically, of course. Dr. Funkenstein is the doc you want at your party, but if he walks into the operating room, you are going to die. He knows that your hip bone’s connected to your ankle bone–he gets so hung up on bones–but he is not the guy you want to do your appendectomy.)
  • Veterinarian with their own line of pet food.
  • Andrew Wakefield.
  • The guy who invented lobotomies and then drove around the country in his “lobotomy van” shoving icepicks up troublemaker’s noses. (Look it up.)
  • If you ask the doctor what to do, and he says “Ooh-ee, ooh-ah-ah, bing bang walla walla bing bang,” then you should see if your insurance plan includes anyone else in the area.
  • That asshole dentist who gave me a root canal and then wrote me a scrip for Motrin.
  • Homeopaths.
  • Osteopaths.
  • Chiropractors. (This one’s iffy, but I’m talking about the assholes with delusions of grandeur.)
  • Chiropodist. (EDIT: it turns out that a chiropodist is just a foreign foot doctor.)
  • If she has a barbecue sauce stain on her lab coat, than she is a worse doctor than Dr. Luke.
  • That guy who played keyboards for Prince.
  • Doctor Cuddy. (Sure, Dr. House actually did all the unethical bullshit, but she was supposed to be the grown-up.)
  • Dr. Acula.
  • There’s a guy who lives around me who drives a Beemer with a Stealie on it and vanity plates reading “DEADDOC” and, you know: I love the Dead, and have immense respect for doctors, but that guy isn’t touching me.
  • A urologist named Doctor Cocktor.
  • Hematologist who faints at the sight of blood.
  • Surgeon who faints at the sight of blood.
  • Surgeon who bones up at the sight of blood.
  • Gastroenterologist with a “RIDE OR DIE” tattoo on his neck.
  • Doctor Filth.
  • If your doctor is your best friend, but won’t even tell you what it is that you got, then that is a terrible doctor and not really a good friend.
  • Any of those Star Wars doctors that can’t deliver a baby without killing Natalie Portman.
  • Dr. Oz.
  • Dr. Phil.
  • Dr. Nick.
  • Actually: any physician who is not a pediatrician who goes by “Doctor+their first name” is not allowed anywhere near me or my family.
  • Doctor Shmoctor. (This has nothing to do with his/her skills: I just wouldn’t be able to take Doctor Shmoctor seriously.)

Show Me, Homie

March 9, 2016 / / 2 Comments

[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wk4ftn4PArg[/embedyt]

Hey, Biggie Smalls. Whatcha doing?

“Fucking bitches in Black People Heaven.”

There’s a heaven for black people?

“No doubt.”

Besides Atlanta?

“Good one. Yeah, you know: used to be one place but nobody could decide on what records to play.”

Did the DJ spin some Sam Cooke? Everybody loves Sam Cooke.

“Nah, nah. Some wack shit. Deedley-deedley and the songs go on forever.”

Ah. I think I know who you’re talking about.

“Yeah, yeah. Hey: you want some pussy? I’ll hook you up.”

I do not. And if there’s any way for you not to use that word, I’d appreciate it.

“Pussy?”

That’s the one.

“You don’t like the word pussy?”

Not especially.

“What about the word ni–”

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

“Heh. I’m fucking with you, white boy.”

Okay.

…

Who killed you, anyway. Big?

“Illuminati.”

What? Really? Oh my God. Really!?

“Fuck, no. Suge did.”

That makes more sense.

It’s The Medium-Sized Things

March 8, 2016 / / 4 Comments

Tell them.

Who?

The nice people.

Tell them what?

…

I’ll slap you sillier.

We are speaking of my mood swings?

We are, yes. Describe your attitude from this morning.

Suicidal and/or homicidal. Either I needed to die or everyone else on the planet did.

Right. And now?

Eh.

And what brought about this change?

Well, I–

DON’T YOU LIE, MOTHERFUCKER.

…

Got some t-shirts as a present.

And?

They were size mediums.

And?

They fit really well. I’m a medium now and that made me happy beyond all measure.

You need to see a professional.

Or I could just buy a new shirt every time I’m feeling blue.

…

CHOOM

CHOOM

SHATTERSHATTERTINKLE

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

SPLAT

…

Did you just break a window on the 70th floor of the Sears Tower with a hammer and launch yourself out?

Yup.

Sounds right.

I’m Not Made Out Of Stone

March 8, 2016 / / 6 Comments

Pigpen E72 closed eyes

“You cryin’ again, boy? Every damn year! March come ridin’ up on that lamb and you start lyin’ about!”

C’mon, man.

“You don’t like the 8th? It was rough to ya?”

Day I was born.

“Poor you! Worst thing happened to ya was ya started drawin’ breath? Were ya sick and alone, all your friends gone? Were ya 27 goddamn years old on the floor o’ some apartment somewhere?”

Guess not.

“Ain’t been forgotten like the Pig! You just a little obscure for your ego.”

Yeah, could be.

“What flag you pledge your allegiance to this morning?”

Old Glory.

“Well, how ’bout that! You an American! Ain’t nothin’ beyond ya! Americans went to the moon! Americans put Hitler n the ground! Americans built the Great Wall of China!”

I don’t know about that last one.

Don’t stop him. He’s on a roll.

“Who the hell was that!?”

Don’t worry about him. Keep talking.

“You been waitin’ on phone calls! Lookin’ in the mailbox! Hopin’ and wishin’ when you should be sweatin’ and strivin’!”

I don’t know, Pig. Seems like it’s getting tougher.

“What: life? Livin’ ain’t tough! Try dyin’!”

I don’t want to do that.

“Yeah, I didn’t either. Ain’t got no choice towards that. Long as you on the earth ‘stead of in it, then you got choices, boy.”

Y’know, you might be the smartest Grateful Dead.

“Think I don’t know that? Why you think I stopped hanging out with those dopesuckers?”

Heh.

“The Pig’ll never steer ya wrong! Don’t take no advice from the livin’! They all got agendas! Worried about legacies and their wallets!”

You’re right.

“I know I’m right! Go out and drink yourself some whiskey! Sing some blues! Find yourself a black girl!”

…

“Actually, you shouldn’t drink yourself no whiskey.”

Nah.

“But the lesson about the blues and black girls still stands.

Good lesson.

“The Pig’s the best damn teacher there is.”

Hey, Pig: remind everyone about the Donate Button.

“WHO THE HELL IS THAT?”

A soul I’m in communion with.

“You oughta get a divorce!”

I’ve tried.

 

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