Thoughts On The Dead

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

Month: September 2017 (Page 3 of 10)

Signin’

September 23, 2017 / / 12 Comments

“What’s your name, boy?”

“My name is Timmy, Mr. Davis.”

“Fuck you, Timmy. I’m gonna make this out to Opie, cause you’re an Opie-looking motherfucker.”

Please be nice to children.

“Fuck children. They don’t buy records and you can’t fuck them. No use at all.”

They’re not supposed to be useful.

“Me and Brando used to hang out.”

You never actually listen to me, do you?

“Knew him for a while. Back when he wasn’t so fucking fat. Always a slob, though. Used to go over his apartment. Pizza boxes and shit all over the place. Be wearing that white tee-shirt from the movies. Think he stole it off the set cause he’s the cheapest motherfucker you ever met. Got his tee-shirt on and no drawers. Dick hanging out. Then he’d start trying to make me eggs. Motherfucker’s cracking eggs and his dick’s flopping into the fucking pan.”

Did you have the eggs?

“I ain’t eating dick eggs, motherfucker.”

Figured.

“Always been very particular about my food. Like it a certain way. Frances knew how to make my food.”

Your first wife.

“Yeah. Cooked real good. Not too heavy on the spices. Gotta have a little bit. Can’t be eating that bland white shit. You know white people just boil a chicken and eat that shit?”

I do, yes.

“Fuck is wrong with you people?”

A lot.

“Gotta have some flavor, but just a bit. Can’t be playing trumpet with a heavy stomach. Burping into your horn and shit. Not right. I fired Steve Grossman for that shit.”

Could Cecily Tyson cook the way you liked?

“She could order the shit I liked from room service. That’s about it.”

“Mr. Davis, may I have your autograph, please?”

“That’s nice. Respectful. What’s your name, white boy?”

“Bobby, sir.”

“You look familiar.”

“Yeah, uh, we shared a bill two years ago when I was 22.”

“What the fuck is happening?”

“Well, it’s sort of a floating timeline around here. Are you, uh, familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?”

BANG!

“Next motherfucker that asks me that stupid bullshit is getting shot!”

Please don’t shoot the children, Mr. Davis.

“I shoot whoever the fuck I want.”

Bobby, just run.

“I want my autograph.”

The Victory Lap Continues

September 23, 2017 / / 1 Comment

What’s going on here?

“Lock’n?”

I don’t think so.

“Did I win an Emmy? Because if I did, I got a great speech on diversity in my pocket.”

Not the Emmys. Oh, wait, I know what happened. You were named a Goodwill Ambassador to the United Nations. Congratulations.

“Um, thanks. Big honor. Question.”

I don’t know what a Goodwill Ambassador does, Bobby.

“Then I have no questions. Well, no. I have many. Do I get diplomatic immunity?”

Probably not.

“What about other sorts of immunity?”

Like, to diseases?

“Sure.”

No.

“So, I can still get rabies?”

Yes.

“Important piece of information. What about parking?”

You’re not a diplomat, Bobby. You don’t get free parking everywhere.

“Ah.”

Sorry.

“Not really seeing what the benefit of this new gig is.”

It’s an honor. You’re gonna work to end Climate Change.

“Sure, sure, yup. Uh, how?”

Singing cowboy songs at it?

“Oh. Well, then, they picked the right guy. Any pay come with this job?”

No, but you can yoink some merch from the U.N. gift shop.

“Well, that’s pretty sweet.”

“Fuck It, Just Punch The Next Black Guy You See,” Trump Tells Cheering Audience

September 23, 2017 / / 4 Comments

HUNTSVILLE, AL – President Donald J. Trump, appearing at a rally tonight in support of Senate candidate Luther Strange, capped off his speech by saying, “Enough with the political correctness, right. Right, sure, the worst, right. CNN is turning off their cameras because they want blacks to punch you. Y’know what? Fuck it, just punch the next black guy you see.”

The crowd, estimated at 4,000 by fire marshals and 25,000 by President Trump, applauded rapturously while several camera operators slipped out the door.

“Ever see what a black will do with the flag?” Trump continued. “Wrap it around their chongas. That the way you want the flag to be treated?”

The crowd, now pogoing up and down with cultural anxiety, began howling. “No!” they screamed, and “Never!” and another word that starts with N.

“We let them be quarterbacks and this is how the blacks treat us? We let them be quarterbacks!”

“Damn them!” the crowd shouted. “They’re natural wide receivers!” was a cry heard from several quarters of the audience.

Hearing the applause, Trump slipped into a fugue state and began screaming “DARKIE TIME! GET’EM! GET ‘EM!” at the top of his lungs until a choking fit overcame him and he spit up a demon named A’kiok, who ate Katy Tur.

Interviewed after the speech, Bessie Mae Jessups said, “I liked the stuff about punching black folks, but I do wish he’d tweet a bit less. It isn’t helpful.” At the speech was Jonathan Chait from New York magazine, who said that Trump’s speech was very presidential and then complained about college students for 2,000 words.

Miles, In The Sky

September 22, 2017 / / 4 Comments

That your car, Mr. Davis?

“No, motherfucker. There just happened to be a fucking Ferrari 275 in the middle of the park. I just found it.”

There’s no need for the sarcasm.

“Stop being so dumb, I’ll stop being so mean.”

Will you really?

“Probably not. I just don’t like you.”

Sure.

“Gotta drive a man’s car. Ferrari’s all right. Used to have a Mercedes. Always like to have a nice car. Gotta keep that shit clean, too. Wash it when it gets any dirt on it. Look fresh. Philly Joe Jones tried eating a slice of pizza in my car, I fired him.”

Seems a bit extreme.

“Nah, you didn’t know Philly. Let that motherfucker eat his pizza in my Mercedes, he’d be having fucking picnics in there a week later. N—-r couldn’t rest until he found the line and stepped over it.”

I guess.

…

“Did you just censor me, motherfucker?”

Mr. Davis, I’m just not comfortable with that word.

“Why not? White people invented it. Own your shit.”

I’m just not going to let you–

BANG!

–use that word no matter how many times you shoot at me.

“Bitch.”

That’s fine, for some reason.

“You ain’t scared of bitches; you scared of n—-rs.”

STOP THAT, PLEASE.

“Oh, wouldn’t want to make a white man uncomfortable. Worst crime there is.”

“You want me execute him, Obama?”

“This motherfucker again?”

“Who gave the Chinaman a jet plane? They can’t even fucking drive.”

Mr. Davis, I am begging you to dial back your horridness.

“Suck my dick.”

“Suck all dick, loser. Look at doily Kim got for head. Is best doily.”

Why are you here again?

“Never left. Kim always here. Watching. Smoking.”

“I’ll give the fat bastard that. Motherfucker loves his smokes.”

“Obama and Kim smoking buddies. Gave present, carton of Only Korean cigarettes.”

“I threw that shit out. Tasted like a cat’s asshole.”

“Yes. Contain cat.”

“Motherfucker, you let me smoke cat?”

“Father invent cat.”

Mr. Davis, please don’t–

BANG!

–shoot at the crazy person with the nukes.

“It okay. He only hit general. Got more.”

“I was aiming at that motherfucker. Just a warning shot.”

You’re not supposed to kill people with warning shots.

“That how warning shots work in Only Korea.”

“You heard the n—-r.”

I regret all of this.

Trouble In Paradise

September 22, 2017 / / 0 Comments

“C’mon, Graham Cracker.”

“Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.”

“Don’t be like this.”

“What? Disloyal? Duplicitous? Snake-like? Oh, wait: that’s you.”

“Lindsey, the bill was shit. You should be embarrassed to have even brought it to the floor.”

“Only thing embarrassin’ around here is you, Mr. Man.”

“Lindsey, don’t.”

“You remember the first time we met?”

“Yes.”

“Where was it?”

“I can’t go through this again.”

“TELL ME WHERE WE MET OR I’LL CLAW AT YOUR EYES!”

“The roller rink.”

“I was wearin’ that new pair of purple jeans I got at the Fashion Farm that made my butt look so good. You were calling your wife a cunt in public. An’ then our eyes met.”

“I know the story Lindsey.”

“I tol’ that ol’ deejay to play some ABBA music. I knew they was your favorite. An’ then it was an All Skate. You remember when they called an All Skate, Big Daddy?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“We had ourselves a shindig, you an’ me. An’ then at th’ end of th’ night, those handsome young men from that coal company gave us checks.”

“They were nice checks.”

“They were. Every check I got with you was a nice check.”

“Dammit, Lindsey, are you holding my hand?”

“Oh, look at that. Appears I am.”

“Knock it off.”

“You remember th’ first time we got all drunk off shandies and voted to repeal Obamacare? Then we went to Ben’s for half-smokes and you whispered racist jokes into my ear all night ’til I choked on my wiener?”

“That was a fun day.”

“Only you can make me choke on a wiener, Johnny Mac.”

“Don’t call me that, either.”

“For ol’ time’s sake, John. If you’re really my friend, you’ll take away America’s insurance.”

“Can’t do it, Linds.”

“Well, fooey on you. Maybe I’ll go and hang out with my other Senator friends.”

“Oh, yeah. Go get dinner with Ted Cruz.”

“I figured out who he looks like.”

“Who?”

“If there was a sleepaway camp for draculas, then he’d be the dracula who showered with his underwear on.”

“Ha!”

“See? There you go, laughing that beautiful laugh of yours. When was the last time you laughed like that?”

“I saw Pelosi fall down the steps the other day.”

“And you didn’t get a picture?”

“It happened so quick.”

“Oh, I wish I could’ve seen that. Was she okay?”

“Yeah. She landed on her face.”

“Bless her heart. I’m still mad at you, John.”

“I’m gonna be dead in a year, Lindsey. I don’t give a fuck.”

…

“Oh, no.”

…

“Lindsey, don’t–”

“WAAAAAAAH!”

“Stop fucking crying!”

“I LOVE YOU AND YOU CAN’T NEVER DIE, BIG DADDY!”

“Stop it! Stop it right now! Schumer’s watching!”

“You two boys should get a room.”

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH, JEWBOY!”

“Yeah! You tell him, John.”

“Stop crying right now.”

“You just break my heart, John McCain. Into a million little pieces.”

“I’ll break your jaw into a million pieces if you don’t stop fucking crying.”

“DON’T DIE, JOHNNY!”

“Shut up or I’ll call Joe Lieberman.”

…

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“I’ll go back to him in a heartbeat.”

“You’d never.”

“Gay sidekick, Jew sidekick: what do I care?”

“Fiddlesticks.”

“Sure, fiddlesticks. You gonna stop crying?”

“Only on the outside.”

“All I care about.”

“You two are adorable.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, SCHUMER.”

The Late-Night Calls Never Stop At Maggie Haberman’s House

September 22, 2017 / / 6 Comments

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Aw, c’mon. What did I do to deserve this besides kill those hobos? Hello?”

“Am I speaking to Margaret Lindsy Haberman?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Robert Mueller, ma’am. Are you Miss Haberman? Answer the question and remember that you’re under oath.”

“I am, but I’m not.”

“Ma’am, I’m calling in reference to certain phone calls that may or may not have been placed to you in the early morning hours of…Jesus, are they calling you every night?”

“Just about.”

“So you do admit that you have been receiving phone calls from the Trump Administration and various related persons?”

“You have a very prosecutorial tone.”

“I’m a prosecutor.”

“Touché.”

“When did the phone calls begin, Miss Haberman?”

“Mooch. It all started with Mooch.”

“Mr. Scaramucci, yes.”

“Have you called him in for questioning, Mr. Mueller?”

“Off the record?”

“Yes.”

“Like, four times already. Scheduled to come back in on Tuesday.”

“Jesus, what did he do?”

“Do? Nothing. He’s not in trouble at all, but we just love the guy. Got the best stories. Did you know he knows Bono?”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Miss Haberman, what did you and Mr. Scaramucci discuss?”

“His penis.”

“You talked about his penis for the entire conversation?”

“No, sometimes we were technically talking about other subjects, but the theme was always his penis.”

“You’re speaking about subtext.”

“There ya go.”

“Mr. Bannon also called you?”

“Several times. He’s garrulous.”

“He is. Keeps stopping by our offices to–and I quote–‘talk shit about Jews.'”

“That sounds like him. Don’t tell me he’s implicated in the Russia thing.”

“There’s no Russia, no Russia.”

…

“I’m messing with you, Miss Haberman.”

“You got me.”

“Everyone falls for that. People don’t realize how robust my sense of humor is.”

“Very robust, Mr. Mueller.”

“There’s so much damn Russia.”

“That’s the vibe I’m getting. And Steve Bannon’s involved?”

“Oh, no. That man hates foreigners. Truly and deeply. Wouldn’t collaborate with a Russian. I don’t even know if he’d have a beer with a Canadian.”

“Big Steve’s got his principles.”

“He smells like someone cut open a durian fruit in a port-a-potty.”

“That, too.”

“I see that Donald Trump, Jr., has also reached out to you.”

“Yeah, Fredo.”

“Oh, that’s funny. We call him that, too.”

“How much trouble is he in?”

“All. Fredo is in all the trouble. I’m suffering from choice over here about who to turn into witnesses and who to send to jail. These are some of the sloppiest numbskulls I’ve ever come in contact with. Ever see a baby eating spaghetti? Like that. There’s evidence just everywhere.”

“I’m sure.”

“Sean Spicer also called you several times?”

“Yes.”

“Manage to make it through the phone call without chopping one of his legs off?”

“Just barely.”

“You should see this guy’s journals. He took notes on everything.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely everything. There’s even little sketches of where people were sitting. He’s actually not a bad artist. His lines remind me of George Grosz.”

“That should be helpful.”

“They’re just about making my case for me. That and the fact that I’m currently tapping the phones of everyone in the White House.”

“Wow.”

“We are still off the record, Miss Haberman.”

“Dammit.”

“It’s an old-fashioned Tennessee Dick Tug going on over there. Lots of crying and hate-sex, too. Imagine Jabba’s Palace, but if David Lynch directed it.”

“The White House is a bit of a mess; yes, sir.”

“All Kelly does is put out fires. Actual fires, Miss Haberman. Someone over there’s a firebug.”

“This is a weird year.”

“We think it’s Omarosa. Miss Haberman, is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If you say so. Good night, Miss Haberman.”

“Good night, Mr. Mueller.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

“You think he heard me?”

“No, we’re safe, baby.”

“I love you, Baberman.”

“I love you, Mooch.”

Get Away From Da Chopper

September 21, 2017 / / 1 Comment

“Sir, I really must protest.”

“No, Jenkins. You must maintain your balance.”

“That’s what I’m protesting, sir. I’m literally eight inches above twin helicopter rotors. There must be a better configuration.”

“Oh, there is. One where there’s not a wussy piloting the Whirleybird.”

“Ah. You’ve already named it.”

“First thing was the name, Jenkins. Took three years of R&D. Cost the Pentagon four billion.”

“And the actual craft?”

“Like, a week. Used the parts from an old crop duster.”

“Can’t tell, sir.”

“Fine machine, Jenkins. Heroic. You look like Krishna on his chariot. Would we know who Steve McQueen is?”

“I think it’s the mid-60’s, so we would.”

“Wonderful. You look like Steve McQueen.”

“Thank you, sir. May I ask you some questions about the monstrosity?”

“Whirleybird!”

“Whirleybird, sir.”

“Shoot. But don’t actually shoot. The recoil will send you tumbling into the blades.”

“Important note, sir. Thank you. First question.”

“Listening.”

“Why?”

“Oh, blast everyone’s eyes but mine! How dare you cower in the face of the future, Jenkins! This is the next step forward! But, you know, don’t actually step forward.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Whirleybird is the logical evolution of warfare, Jenkins. First we had the horse, and then the tank, and now we have this. Logical.”

“Second question.”

“Yes, yes.”

“How do I steer it?”

“With vigor.”

“I meant practically.”

“Isn’t there a joystick?”

“There is not, sir.”

“Perhaps some form of telepathic linking device? Do you see something that looks like a colander with wires attached to it?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you look everywhere?”

“I did, sir. Not much room for a psychic helmet to hide up here.”

“Have you tried voice commands?”

“I have not, sir.”

“Well, then, why are you bothering me if you haven’t exhausted all your searching yet?”

…

“Well?”

“You’re serious.”

“I’m as serious as you are Jenkins, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir. Ahem. Go right!”

…

“Right!”

“Try saying starboard. Maybe the Navy programmed it.”

“Yes, sir. Starboard!”

“I think I saw it move.”

“It didn’t, sir. The Whirleybird is not voice-activated.”

“Slight design flaw. Adapt and overcome, Jenkins.”

“I’d really like to, sir, but I’m just not sure how I’m going to make this one work. Assuming I do get it moving, then what comes next?”

“Winning the war.”

“By myself?”

“I’ll take the credit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Can you imagine the look on Charlie’s face when he sees you in this?”

“Yes, sir. He’ll have one eye closed in concentration and the other pressed up against his rifle.”

“Poppycock. That cock is the poppiest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Charlie will fear you. He may even worship you as a god. You know these people: show them something shiny, and they call it God.”

“I think they’re Buddhists, sir.”

“And you’ll send them to meet the fat bastard.”

“Yes, sir. Sir?”

“Damn your inquisitiveness and self-preservation! What is it?”

“You want me to kill the enemy with this thing, right?”

“I want you to kill the enemy with everything, Jenkins. It’s a war. Use your little hat for all I care.”

“Yes, sir. But with what? Where are the weapons?”

“The mind is the most lethal weapon, Jenkins.”

“Are you saying I should headbutt the Viet Cong, sir?”

“If you can. Or your incendiary bombs.”

“My incendiary bombs?”

“The four of them. Out on the stalk-y things.”

“Those are fuel tanks, sir.”

“Fuel tanks, incendiary bombs. Same thing. Only difference is whether it’s being thrown at you.”

“Sir, if I drop my fuel tanks on the enemy, then I won’t have any fuel.”

“Hmm. Excellent note. Ah!”

“Oh, no.”

“We’ll have the boys rig you up a backpack.”

“I’m going to wear the fuel? Standing out here in the open?”

“Jenkins, you go to war with the Whirleybird you have, not the Whirleybird you want.”

“Yes, you do, sir. It’s called a helicopter. Why don’t we just use a helicopter?”

“I’m not speaking to the Air Cavalry at the moment.”

“Why?”

“They know what they did.”

“Oh, sir.”

Smokin’

September 21, 2017 / / 4 Comments

“Look how good I fucking look.”

You look damn good, Mr. Davis.

BANG!

What was that for!?

“Don’t put your eyes on me like I’m a bitch.”

You literally told me to look at you.

“In a masculine way. You was all sissy-looking.”

I apologize, I guess. When is this? Late 40’s?”

“Round there. I made this date and they called it Birth of the Cool. All the white people got to hear what we were playing in New York when they wasn’t around. Downbeat called it hard bop or some dumb shit like that.”

What did you call it?

“Music, motherfucker.”

Sure. Is that a joint?

“Shit, no. Pall Mall cigarette. Never enjoyed marijuana. Makes you dopey. I prefer dope.”

Okay.

“People talk bad about heroin, but it makes a motherfucker feel good. Recorded some masterpieces when I was shooting dope. Also got my pants stolen a lot. Up and down time for me. Cocaine’s nice, too. Trick is that you just do a little bit. Small line every ten minutes. Do that all night and you’re good. Can’t be greedy.”

That sounds a bit greedy.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Okay.

“The smokes, though. Can’t beat them. Three or four packs a day, then you sweat out the tar while you’re playing.”

I don’t know if that’s how it works.

“Obama right. Sweat out cigarette, no get cancer.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

Goddammit.

“Smoke ’em if got ’em.”

“Who the fuck are you? I didn’t order no fucking Chinese food.”

“No be racist.”

“I’m gonna be fucking racist, motherfucker.”

“You change, Obama.”

INTENSE GLARING NOISE

“Stop looking Kim Jong-Un like that.”

“Or what, motherfucker?”

“I call you dotard.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“No know.”

…

“Hey, bitch.”

Me?

BANG!

Me. Uh, yes?

“What the fuck is going on here?”

Mr. Davis, are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?

“FATHER INVENT SEMI-FICTIONALITY!”

“Motherfucker, I knew I shouldn’t have talked to you.”

Everyone says that.

Remember, Remember, The 21st Of September

September 21, 2017 / / 36 Comments

It’s not every day you live in a song, Enthusiasts, and certainly not one this good.

(What other tunes mention specific dates? There’s a passel of Fourth of July songs–Bruce, and X, and even one by the band this website purports to be about–and there must be a Christmas song or two that mentions the 25th, but besides that? I’m not looking it up and neither should you. Let’s freeball this one.)

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