“Sir, we need to–”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOT AGAIN WITH THIS BULLSHIT!”
“–talk about the poster. Oh, sir, it’s not that bad.”
“It will be when we’re done designing it, Jenkins.”
“Well, maybe we could try a little harder this tour, sir.”
“Trying’s not the problem, Jenkins. Drawing’s the problem. Or painting. Or dipping dongs in ink and slapping them against the paper. However we come up with our cursed images. We’re simply not good at this.”
“Oh, sir, don’t say that.”
“Let’s do something besides posters this tour. How about musk oxen?”
“No, sir.”
“What if we tie-dye the oxen?”
“Even then, sir.”
“Cobb salads.”
“Instead of posters, we sell Cobb salads?”
“And we’ll throw in a fork for an extra 30 bucks.”
“I don’t think that’s what the fans want, sir.”
“The fans are lumpy proles, Jenkins. Lumpy proles! That sounds better in the original German.”
“It sounds exactly the same in the original German.”
“Beautiful language, German. Reminds me of something Wagner once said: Fire that bassoonist; he looks like a Jew. Glorious language. Ah! I’ve an idea!”
“We cannot sell Jewish bassoonists at the merch table, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Health codes, for one.”
“Damn you, Upton Sinclair!”
“Sir, we’re locked into the poster concept. The Deadheads enjoy hanging them in their offices or basements or wherever.
“Let’s just cut out the middle man and sell them drywall.”
“I don’t think that will fly, sir.”
“Ooh, Jenkins, I have it!”
“We cannot sneak into fans’ homes, steal their possessions, and then sell them back to them.”
“Damn you, Obama!”
“Posters, sir. Let’s just think about the posters.”
“I’m thinking.”
…
“I’ve stopped thinking. What about a share in a World-O-Corp?”
“That sounds made up, sir.”
“It is! But we’re dealing with people who were dumb before they got high, Jenkins. I say we fleece ’em.”
“No, sir. If there’s fleecing to be done, then the band will reap the rewards. Rock and roll tradition, sir.”
“So was fingering teenagers in public, but times change. You and me, Jenkins: we’ll go scammin’.”
“No, sir.”
“A-scammin’ we will go.”
“No, sir.”
“Froggy went a-scammin’, he did ride.”
…
“Froggy went a-scammin’, he did ride.”
…
“I will punt your testicles from here to Vancouver, Jenkins.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Froggy went a-scammin’, he did ride.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Better. Don’t you ever leave me hanging on a Froggy.”
“Yes, sir. Can we talk about the poster?”
“Poster! Oh, Jenkins, I can’t do this the rest of my life.”
“What would you do, sir? Where would you go?”
“I got a cousin in Delaware. Got his own key to a small suburban library. Comes and goes as he pleases. Oh, that’s the life.”
“It doesn’t sound appealing, sir.”
“I could masturbate on detective novels.”
“Please let’s just do this.”
“You’re a pest, Jenkins. You’re a pestafazoo. I’m sorry I got so ethnic with you, but it’s the truth.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Write this down: bunch of skeletons.”
“Skeletons.”
“Bear or two. Surprise me on the number of bears.”
“Player’s choice for the bears.”
“And a rabbit skeleton that still has fur.”
“Nightmare bunny. Yes, sir. Wasn’t that easy?”
“Bring me a Cobb salad.”
“Yes, sir.”
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