Why do..
…all these…
…baby werewolfs…
…look so fucking much like Bobby?
(I don’t know what the fuck this is, so maybe you can tell me.)
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Month: March 2018 (Page 7 of 9)
Just about sums it up more than anything I could ever write, dunnit?
“I’m not gonna tell you to slow it down again, Josh.”
“Was I going too fast?”
“Oh, yeah. You were, uh, not holding your horses at all. Free horses, man. I don’t know if you know this–”
“You spent a summer on a ranch.”
“–but I spent a summer on a ranch, so I know my horses. Gotta be held. Otherwise, you know, you got chaos.”
“We don’t have chaos, Bobby. We’re killing it.”
“The fans have grown used to Dead & Company tempos, and this sudden shift might discombobulate them.”
“I think they’ll be fine.”
“They’ll be relieved of their comboble.”
“‘Comboble’ is not the root word of discomb–”
“Don’t lecture me, Josh.”
“I let the first one go, but I have to correct you this time. I’m not Josh. In fact, there is no Josh.”
“There’s no Josh? Am I manifesting my imaginary friends again? That happens occasionally.”
“John. The man’s name is John. And I’m not him. I’m Trey.”
“Are you the one who plays basketball?”
“No, that’s Bill Walton. I’m Trey Anastasio. I played with you for the Dead’s 50th anniversary.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“How’d it go?”
“Eh.”
“Sounds right. Now, listen: whoever the hell you are, and however the hell you got on stage: slow the hell down or I’m gonna do attack yoga at you.”
“Gotcha.”
“What’s going on here?”
“Forehead time, boy.”
“Oh, okay. How long does it–”
“Rub. Back and forth. Get some friction going.”
“I don’t understand what’s–”
“Nogginate me, Treyvon.”
“That’s not even a–”
“Gimme the nog! Gotta have it!”
…
“Are you finished?”
“I’m just happy to be out of the restaurant.”
“Sure.”
“Now, remember: no matter how many times I tell you to slow down, keep playing fast.”
“Gotcha.”
Speaking of Jane’s Addiction: this is the best Dead cover of all time. No snark or sarcasm about Best EVAR or whatever. This is the shit; listen to it all the way to the end for the Big Show Biz Finish.
- Bernie Madoff.
- Hymen Roth.
- My aunt, Helen. (The woman is a pig.)
- Whoever decided there should be seeds in rye bread. (Why the fuck would you ever choose seeded rye breaded over seedless? Seeds are just edible splinters; all they do is get stuck in your teeth, and the little fuckers get way up in there, too.)
- Judas Iscariot.
- The Jew broad from Goodfellas who wouldn’t go out with Tommy alone. (She was racist against Italians. Can you believe that?)
- Auschwitz kapos.
- Meir Kahane.
- Mayim Bialik. (She’s horrendous.)
- Hal Gadot, Gal’s brother who likes to make himself vomit on children.
- Harvey Weinstein.
- Woody Allen.
- Those Hasidic assholes who attack women in shorts.
- Leopold.
- Loeb.
- Julius Rosenberg.
- Ethel Rosenberg,
- Freshy Greenblatt.
- Did you google Freshy Greenblatt?
- Yeah, I made him up.
- But good on you for doing your own research.
“So, uh, where’s this Jane lady? I’ve had some experience with drug abusers. Maybe I can talk some sense into her.”
“There’s no Jane, Bob. That’s the name of the band. Jane’s Addiction.”
“Did she die?”
“She never existed.”
“I have several friends that don’t technically exist, but it doesn’t stop me from caring about their wellbeing.”
“It’s just made up, Bob. Just a name. Like how there’s no actual dead people in the Grateful Dead.”
“Well, uh, that’s where you’re wrong. There’s tons of dead people in the Dead.”
“Why don’t we just jam?”
“Okee-doke.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Hello, Sam.”
“Hi, this is Sam Nunberg and…how did you know it was me?”
“I’m the only person in Washington you haven’t talked to today.”
“The Nun’s on a run!”
“You sure are, slugger.”
“Mueller can suck on my huevos. They’re pink, plump, and shiny. Just like my head.”
“Sam, are you okay?”
“I’ve never been better, Maggie. Know who’s not gonna be okay?”
“Mueller?”
“That fuck. I’m thinking about going over to his office and putting him in a figure-four leglock.”
CLINK CLINK
“That’s my finishing move.”
GLUG GLUG
“I’m a beast, Maggie.”
“Are you drinking again, Sam?”
…
…
…
“No.”
“Then that wasn’t the sound of ice cubes and whiskey?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’ve switched to vodka.”
“Sam, stop drinking.”
“How will I wash down the pills?”
“Don’t take any pills.”
“Did you hear what they wanted me to do? Find ALL my e-mails! Years worth! And they wanted me to do it in one weekend!”
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t even know where they are. I checked the basement, but that’s where I live. Checked my parents’ room. Nothing.”
“You live with your parents?”
“My parents and I live together as equals.”
“Okay. So, you said something today about how you thought President Trump had colluded with Russia?”
“Oh, he toooooootally did. I have no precise knowledge of what happened, but I don’t not know what happened.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t in the room, but I was also in the room. If you know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
“Just trust me on this one.”
“Absolutely not. What the hell set this off, Sam?”
“What? Monday fun-day Nun-day?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, Marble–”
“Not my name.”
“–this may be the xannies talking, but I will DIE for Roger Stone. I will DIE for that man.”
“You have the worst taste in men.”
“He is a BUTTERFLY. He is a gorgeous butterfly made of kindness and high-fashion! That man took me in and taught me about politics, and life, and a lot of pervert shit I don’t wanna get into, but I enjoyed. Don’t worry about that: I wanted to do everything, but I don’t feel comfortable listing the acts for you.”
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable having them listed.”
“We made each other hand-happy.”
“Told you I didn’t want to know.”
“He dressed me up as Nancy Reagan and made me service strangers at laundromats. Roger hid inside a dryer and masturbated.”
“Stop talking, Sam Nunberg.”
“Donald Trump is not a good man, Maggie. He treated me and Mr. Stone very badly. He called me Sam Cuntberg many times, and that was hurtful. I worked so hard for him, and he called me that. Meanwhile, Lewandowski’s banging Hope Hicks in the bathroom of Trump’s campaign office, Bannon was skimming money from the campaign, Carter Page was colluding with everyone he could find, and his idiot children are skywriting ‘Come and do treason with us’ over the Russian Embassy. But he called me names.”
“Wow.”
“So you think I should respond to the subpoena?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh. I’m gonna call in to QVC and see what they have to say.”
“Good idea.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
Go read this. The great Jesse Jarnow writes (wonderfully, as usual) about the Bobby & Phil shows from Radio City.
Read this, too. It’s by the brilliant Corinne Fitzpatrick, and it’s about medicine and money.
Or, don’t. I’m not in charge around here.
“Hey, tell Big Red over there to slow down.”
“I keep telling him, Weir. He won’t listen.”
“Gingers can be obstinate.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Is Radio City an actual place?”
“No.”
“Because, uh, I’m picturing a universe like in the children’s film Cars.”
“But instead of cars being alive, it’s radios?”
“Yeah. And the fancy systems are racist against the transistors. And, uh, the senior citizens are all AM car radios with the push-button.”
“And then video comes and kills everybody.”
“There you go, there you go.”
“Hey, how much did you tell Treyvon we were gonna pay him?”
“Oh, I didn’t. I thought you were having that conversation with him.”
“Nope.”
“Ah.”
“So, no one has discussed him getting paid?”
“Looks it.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“Good idea, yeah. We should give him cab fare, though.”
“Oh, sure. And I got a shitload of coupons for the restaurant.”
“That’s perfect.”
“I think so.”
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