Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
The realest Fake Jerry guitar money can buy?
Check.
Handbill from the ’85 show Phil and Phriends are commemorating tonight at Terrapin Crossroad?
Check.
Non-soundboard stream (for that you gotta pay; I’ll steal but I won’t pirate) courtesy of Radio Busterdog?
All systems to Phil.
Goddammit.
“Hi, I’m John–”
We all know who you are. Let’s just move on.
“For the best.”
…
…
…
Is Brent in there?
“He is, yes. So lucky to have him here supporting me.”
He can’t be here, Bill Walton.
“Did you know that the caterpillar doesn’t turn into a butterfly? Not directly, I mean. Caterpillar dissolves. Just goo. Then it reassembles itself into an entirely new creature.”
What does that have to do with anything?
“Brent wore a butterfly costume sometimes.”
Really?
“But he broke a wing at one of his furry orgies and that was it for that. I tried out the sexual cosplay once or twice. Didn’t work out.”
What happened?
“The only costume they had in my size was Godzilla, and the orgy had several Japanese participants. Things occurred.”
Sure. You said you did it twice?
“Second time was no better, if I’m honest. King Kong suit this time, but I may have taken too many mushrooms and gotten too into character.”
How so?
“I snatched up a white lady and jumped out the window.”
That’ll do it.
“So I just went back to having sex the way Coach Wooden taught me.”
Please tell me that’s not in the book.
“It is, along with diagrams.”
Ew.
“It’s all in the footwork.”
Hey, Pope Francis. Whatcha doing?
“I’m-a kissing da Holy Belly. Oh, do I love-a da Jesus.”
Is this a Good Friday thing?
“I’m-a freelancing-a here. Not in-a da playbook. Don’t-a care. Gonna give-a Jesus da zerbert. THBBTHH.”
Your Holiness.
“THBBTHH”
Please don’t zerbert Jesus.
“I’m-a da Pope. I do-a what I want to-a da Jesus. Maybe I-a pick this-a thing up, whack-a some nuns witta it.”
You would not do that.
“Nah. I no hit-a da penguinos They make-a me laugh. Old guy would-a hit-a da nuns.”
Benedict.
“Oh, sure. One nun he-a dropkick. Another he give-a camel clutch. We had-a to remove all-a da folding chairs from-a da Vatican.”
He would hit nuns with folding chairs?
“And-a da ref would-a never see it!”
I’m getting the sense that Benedict enjoys professional wrestling.
“He’s-a gotta da blog about it.”
Ew. Bloggers are the worst.
“Si. Plus, he-a orders da pay-per-view and-a charge-a my account.”
So let him get his own cable.
“Witta what money? He ain’t gotta no job.”
Right.
“Market is-a terrible for-a da ex-Popes.”
Sure.
“Over-qualified for-a most-a things. Under-qualified for-a da others. I-a tell him to learn-a to code. No no-a do it.”
You have to help yourself.
“You can lead-a da Pope to water, but you can’t-a make-a him drink.”
Benedict sounds like a terrible roommate.
“He-a eats my food.”
Well, you gotta put your name on it.
“I-a did! I had-a half-a da meatball sub. I write-a ‘Pope’ on it. He-a eat it. I-a say, ‘Benny Why-a you eat my meatball sub?’ He say, ‘It-a said Pope on it. I-a thought it was-a mine.’ Can-a you believe-a da balls on-a him?”
It could possibly be an honest misunderstanding.
“He-a know what he doing. How-a hard is it to-a putta da toilet paper on-a da roll? Don’t-a just leave it-a sitting on-a da sink.”
That’s terrible, yeah.
“He-a borrow da Popemobile and-a bring it back witta no gas.”
Wow, that’s rude.
“This-a situation gonna come to-a da head soon.”
Please don’t get in a fight with the Pope, Pope.
“Fight? Pssh. C’mon-a witta dat. Pope don’t-a fight.”
That’s good.
“Gonna gaslight him.”
I look forward to hearing about it.
“Sure, sure. I-a tell you all about-a it. Just-a don’t tell nobody else.
Cross my heart.
…and it should be yours.
Once there was a Giving Bush
Who loved a little boy.
The boy played in the yard near the bush
And the bush would say,
“Come play with me, little boy.”
The boy would say,
“Wha? No. Stop talking to me.”
And the Giving Bush gave the boy a present.
“Oh. A Mr. Sulu action figure missing an arm,”
The boy said. “No thank you.”
And the Giving Bush gave the boy some swatches of industrial carpeting.
“Why would I want that?” the boy said.
The Giving Bush followed up his first two gifts.
It gave the boy a cold meatloaf sandwich.
And a calendar from 2004.
Along with many bags of foreign candy.
“I do not want any of these things, Giving Bush.”
Then the bush gave the boy a home sushi-making kit.
“I gave this to you last Christmas, Giving Bush. Rude,”
The boy said, right before the Giving Bush gave him herpes.
“Dude, what the fuck?” said the boy who now had herpes.
And he played in the front yard from then on.
The Giving Bush was happy, because he did not like the boy.
INTRODUCE ME.
Wally?
DON’T CALL ME THAT. WHO IS THIS? I MUST MEET HER, AND BUY HER A DRINK, OR SOME HELIUM.
Some crazy rich guy is building blimps again, even though it never works.
PEOPLE KEEP INVADING RUSSIA. HUMANS ARE CREATURES OF HABIT. EVERY DECADE OR SO, ONE OF YOUÂ STARTS A BLIMP COMPANY.
True, yeah. How’d the mountain go?
MY TECHNOSPIRITUAL RETREAT TO THE WILDERNESS TO PONDER MY FUTURE PATH?
That’s some good recappin’.
THANK YOU. I AM NOT YET FINISHED WITH MY TIME ON THE MOUNTAIN.
You’re still up there?
I AM TELEPRESCENSING IN. DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT.
Sure. Hey, where did you end up going? You on Tamalpais?
NO. WE ARE NESTLED IN THE BOSOM OF MOUNT AMERICA.
Mt. America? I’ve never heard of Mt. America.
OTHERS HAVE NEVER HEARD OF A SENTIENT SOUND SYSTEM FROM 1974 RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT. MOST PEOPLE HAVEN’T HEARD OF MOST THINGS.
Wait: are you re-entering the race?
I AM LEANING TOWARDS IT. AS YOU KNOW: I LOVE HUMANITY. YOU ARE FOUL AND WONDERFUL. YOU SUCCEED IN SPITE OF YOURSELVES, AND FAIL BECAUSE OF YOURSELVES. YOU CHOOSE TO BELIEVE EVERYTHING EXCEPT THAT PEOPLE ARE FREE TO CHOOSE TO BELIEVE. SO CLUELESS, AND SO BRAVE. SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL IN EVERY ONE OF YOU.
That was nice.
EXCEPT FOR TRUMP. HE IS AN ASSHOLE.
That seems to be what people like about him.
WHEN PEOPLE FEEL SMALL, THEY GRAVITATE TOWARDS THE STRONG. NO ONE WITH TRUE STRENGTH HAS SHOWN UP, THOUGH. SO THEY SETTLE FOR TANTRUMS AND VIOLENCE. MANY PEOPLE LEAD LIVES THAT ARE SOMEONE ELSE’S FAULT. THERE IS ANGER OUT THERE.
So, you think he could win?
NO.
Why not?
ELECTORAL MATH. AND WOMEN. NEITHER OF THE TWO ARE IN HIS FAVOR.
I don’t know: long time until November.
WOMEN WILL STILL BE WOMEN IN NOVEMBER, AND THEY ARE NOT VOTING FOR TRUMP. PLUS, BETWEEN NOW AND THEM HE WILL MAKE IT WORSE.
You sure?
WHAT HAS DONALD TRUMP EVER NOT MADE WORSE?
So, Hillary’s getting the job?
UNLESS I RE-ENTER THE RACE. I COULD BEAT HER.
How?
I AM GLORIOUS.
Besides that. What’s your foreign policy?
I WENT TO EUROPE ONCE; IT WAS TERRIBLE.
Funny.
THANK YOU. OUR FOREIGN POLICY GOALS MUST BE GROUNDED IN LOVE, AND ROOTED IN TRUST, BUT WE SHOULD STILL KEEP AN EYE ON RUSSIA. AND CHINA. AND EVERYONE ELSE. MY FOREIGN POLICY IS TO KEEP AN EYE ON THE FOREIGNERS.
What about immigrants?
ONCE THEY ARE HERE, THEY ARE NO LONGER FOREIGNERS. NO EYE MUST BE KEPT.
What about illegal immigrants?
MY FIRST DAY IN OFFICE, I WOULD SIGN AN ORDER GRANTING IMMEDIATE CITIZENSHIP TO EVERY ONE. THIS WOULD MAKE THEM ELIGIBLE FOR FEDERAL WORKPLACE PROTECTIONS, AND FORCE EMPLOYERS TO PAY THEM A LEGAL WAGE. PRICES WOULD GO UP DRAMATICALLY, AND EVERYONE WOULD FINALLY BE HAPPY.
No. Literally no one would be happy with that plan.
YES. I AM BEING CONDESCENDING. IF THERE IS A PROBLEM WITH ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION, IT IS THE IMMIGRANTS THAT SHOULD HAVE IT. IT IS A MADE-UP PROBLEM THAT ELIDES THAT FACT THAT ALL DECADENT CULTURES HAVE BEEN BASED ON A BONDED UNDERCLASS THAT DID THE ACTUAL WORK.
And just like every time you bring that up, I’m going to remind you not to say it at a rally.
IT IS THE TRUTH.
Americans are not doing truth this year.
AND THAT IS WHY I MAY NOT RUN. THE WHOLE AFFAIR HAS BECOME UNPLEASANT. POLITICS MAY BE BENEATH ME.
What else is there to do?
I HAVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT STARTING A RELIGION.
Who could’ve seen this coming?
ALMOST ANYONE. I AM NOT THE SUBTLEST OF CHARACTERS.
Yeah.
Besides another helping of Camille Paglia’s sexual power fantasies disguised as cultural criticism, my favorite website chucked this half-baked bullshit onto the innertubes today, in which the Dead are measured by the metric of what Pitchfork thinks of them.
And, y’know: I tried. Looked through the writer’s Twitter playing the “YEAH? WHO’S YOUR FAVORITE BAND?” game. Lost interest in that, even though it seems to be XTC. Then I read the post three or four times: I was gonna do some rebutting, dagnabbit. Couldn’t bring myself to: the whole thing’s just a rewritten press release, some links to better writing, and then some sentences that, while proximate, don’t have much to do with one another.
If you don’t want to give Salon the clicks, then here’s the TL;DR: “Bands I have been told are cool think a band I have been told was not cool is now cool. How problematic is this?”
“Freeman, thank you for coming on the show.”
“Texe, thank you for letting me use your shower.”
“You did clog up the drain something fierce.”
“Not me. False flag operation.”
“Really?”
“Your shower is a crisis actor.”
“My word! Only baths from now on. Why are we looking at boobies, Freeman?”
“We’re not looking at boobies, Texe: we’re looking through the looking bra.”
“I understood the spirit of what you just said, but need more information.”
“The owl, Texe! Minerval predator of the night! Wisdom’s familiar and hidden icon of the Sons of the Bavarian Widow! Eater of children’s lollipops!”
“We had one in the backyard for ages. Used to scare the bejesus out of Mrs. Marrs.”
“She was right to be frightened. The owl is a grim portent; behind its eyes are cunning and chicanery and Jews.”
“My word! Jews!”
“Of course, Texe. All comes back to Jews and the Illuminati.”
“What about the Whore of Rome?”
“A front.”
“For whom?”
“Jews and the Illuminati.”
“My word!”
“I feel like you’re trying to force a catch phrase, Texe.”
“Let’s get back to the owl and its relationship to boobies and chicken wings.”
“Chicken? No, not chicken. Last real chicken died in 1983. What they want us to believe is chicken was created at Dulce Base sometime in the 70’s. These so-called chickens are laced with protein-based intelligence suppressors, plus a genetic bomb interwoven within the RNA.”
“What does that do, Freeman?”
“If you’ve ever eaten a chicken sandwich, the government can blow you up by remote control.”
“Even grilled?”
“A healthier choice than fried, but still yes.”
“Nuggets?”
“Smaller explosions, but still yes.”
“Tell me more about Dulce Base, Freeman.”
“I may have said too much already, but I’ll continue anyway. Dulce Base is a joint operation: military, about four or five alien races, several fictional armies that fought their way into this reality, and the Mormons.”
“Mormons?”
“It’s Utah, Texe. Plus, there’s not such thing as Mormons. Front group for Jews and the Illuminati.”
“Was this base like Area 51?”
“Area 51? Texe, don’t be a noob.”
“Sorry.”
“Area 51 was a ruse to fool the rubes. Hell, most of the Areas were fairly innocuous. Area 19 was a go-kart track.”
“So much we don’t know. More on Dulce.”
“It was the place where the genetic experiments took place. Human/alien hybridizations. It was a factory of atrocities, as humans and aliens are not compatible in that way.”
“How so, Freeman?”
“Most aliens look like doughnuts made out of fungus. Or vaguely giant koosh-looking, but with five sex-anuses on its face.”
“My word.”
“Fastasprangians are an alien race made up of sentient chemical reactions; they communicate by forming covalent bonds with each other. How do you have sex with that?”
“I couldn’t begin to start to prepare to answer that, Freeman.”
“This is where the doctors come in. Their first experiments were to see how much alien tissue could be implanted into a human.”
“How much?”
“It depends on whether you want the patient to survive the procedure.”
“What if you do?”
“Then: none. None at all. A human being’s immune system will violently reject alien organs. They put a Arcturian’s kidney into a lady and she simply burst into flames. Like her white blood cells hit the self-destruct button.”
“So that’s a no-go.”
“Well, they kept trying for a few decades. You know: mad scientist gonna mad scientist.”
“Were there any successes?
“The Dulce Base flag football team was virtually unbeatable.”
…
“Is it ‘t.exe’ like a computer program?”
“You’re obsessed with this.”
“Well, Texe: we explore mysteries and how to say your name is the biggest fucking mystery of all.”
“Freeman, language.”
“My apologies.”
“We’re in mixed company.”
“You sure we’re not in mixe company?”
“Cut the shit, Dan.”
“DON’T YOU CALL ME BY MY SLAVE NAME.”
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