Never get old. Unless you’re Billy Joe Armstrong, honestly: he’s getting old pretty well. But if you are anyone else, especially James Hetfield? Do not get old.
This has been a reminder.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Month: May 2018 (Page 6 of 10)
Dear Bird Outside My Window,
It is one in the morning, Bird Outside My Window; why the fuck are you chirping? Do you have rabies? When nocturnal animals get rabies, they are awake during the day. Does it work in reverse for birds? I do not know. My college did not have an Avionics Department, so I did not learn about birds, but I am generally familiar with how you all work.
Are you some sort of rebel, Bird Outside My Window? Do you think you are different than the other birds, all of whom are asleep right now? Because let me tell you : you ain’t shit, Bird Outside My Window. Your daddy wasn’t shit, and you ain’t shit. If you want to be up all night and possess the power of flight, then you should have been a bat or an owl. You are not a bat, Bird Outside My Window. Bats do not chirp. They are stealthy. You are also not an owl, an animal that similarly relies on stealth. No owl sings at the top its lungs constantly. This would alert the prey, and the owl would starve to death.
You wouldn’t pull this shit outside Israel’s window, Bird Outside My Window. They would snipe your rude ass.
Do not mistake my kindness for an unwillingness to burn down every tree and bush within three miles of my home.
Shut the fuck up,
TotD
Ah!
“Stop yelling.”
It’s the Age of the Twink! It’s here!
“No, these are my friends.”
THEY’LL DEVOUR US ALL!
“Not me. I’m highly twinkish.”
Who’s the first president you remember?
“Reagan.”
Not a twink.
“Dude, I’m such a twink.”
You twere. You twere a twink. But now you’re 40 and 40-year-olds can’t be twinks.
“Why not?”
Same reason a 23-year-old can’t be a teen. Some categories you age out of. Like Don Cheadle.
“He is getting way too old for those superhero movies.”
Cannot agree more. Who are these muppets?
“Online Ceramics. They’re fashion designers.”
But they look like french onion soup left next to the radiator all winter.
“Street-style, man.”
Yeah, exactly. They look homeless.
“I don’t know why I bother. You don’t understand fashion.”
Clothes that cost too much for people who get laid too much.
…
“Okay, you understand fashion, but leave my friends alone.”
Do you like these guys more or less than Steve Aoki?
“Dude, don’t ask me that. It’s like comparing apples to Steve Aoki.”
Fashion designers, huh?
“Hot ones. Lot of buzz.”
That fucker should sew himself some turtlenecks.
“You’re very rude.”
Hey, you wanted to have friends and wear clothes. You asked for it.
“That makes no sense.”
You know what doesn’t make sense?
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Goddammit.”
You asked for this, too.
“I absolutely did not.”
YOU ASKED FOR THIS, MEYERS.
“I’m gonna pick up the phone so I don’t have to talk to you.”
Cool beans.
…
“Polymath with the pretty mouth John Mayer speaking.”
“Hello, Little Potato.”
“Thought people forgot about that.”
“Nyet. Putin forget nothing.”
“What do you want?”
“Poland.”
“I mean, what do you want from me?”
“Putin vant Little Potato to see vhat real fashion is.”
“Gold doors?”
“Nyet. Enormous gold doors. Any kulak can have little gold door. Gold doggie door, maybe. Putin has biggest fucking gold doors you’ve ever seen. Is fashion.”
“If you say so.”
“Tvink to your left has degenerate neck.”
“It’s just a tattoo.”
“Putin vill fix.”
“Nothing needs fixing.”
“Putin vipe off.”
“Please don’t–”
SHVEEEEEEEEEE
CHOCK
SH-SHANK!
“Wow. Flying guillotine. Haven’t seen one of those around here in a while.”
“Putin bring back old bits.”
“Please go away.”
“Putin leave, but only because Putin is so busy.”
“What are you up to now?”
“Nothing. Putin do nothing. Stay home on June 3rd. Putin is not bad guy.”
…
“June 3rd?”
“Da. Trust Putin on this one. And stock pantry. Maybe buy gun.”
“Gotcha.”
SHVEEEEEEEEEE
CHOCK
SH-SHANK!
“Why’d you kill the other one?”
“He leave sticker on hat. Is nyet 2016 any more. Keep up vith fashion.”
“Hanging up.”
“June 3rd, Little Potato.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH ENORMOUS GOLD DOORS NO LONGER DO THAT
“Putin killed my friends.”
Yeah, he’s the worst.
My son,
By the time you read this, I will be dead. They came from out of the Wests: Hollywood and the Village. Their underwear was so expensive, and their hair was only on their heads. Son, their skin was so creamy that we did not see their teeth. The twinks devoured all they saw.
(Not “devoured” in a sense of eating. Occasionally, the twinks would pick off someone else’s plate, but other than that no one ever saw them eat.)
They came for the women first. They were “gross,” the twinks said. The old were next; they were also “gross.” Then, that guy who works the door at Calypso’s, because “he was such a dick.” Finally, they came for us: the daddies. The hottest of us were put to use, sexually, and the richest were used financially. The rest, myself included, were forced to work in the lube mines.
It was the Age of the Twink, my son.
They came for us in the middle of the night, or at around ten in the morning when they got home from the clubs. I tried to fight them off, but their skin was so smooth I could find no handhold. A busload of us were brought to the fields. Our assignment: to “grow electricity, or build it, or whatever.” The twinks are not mechanically inclined, but require massive amounts of power for their EDM festivals and to maintain the Grindr servers.
We have been given no food. Just random pills and shirts that are too tight. I do not have much longer. The daddies talk about an island that the twinks did not invade, as they can drink and fuck and take pictures of themselves on boats, but not pilot them. I choose to believe in the island. Perhaps one day I will see you there.
They blew it all to hell. Goddamn them all, they blew it all to hell
Love,
Kevin James
Margot Kidder was the best, and only, Lois Lane.
“What the fuck is all this bullshit now?”
Billy?
“Nah. Down here.”
Baby Justin?
“Is that my name?”
Yeah.
“Question.”
Shoot.
“Explain the concept of names.”
No.
“This my dad?”
Yes.
“He a cowboy?”
No. A drummer.
“Is that better?”
Less saddle rash.
“Okay. Speaking of which–”
…
“–I’m back.”
You poop?
“I did.”
Nice.
“I gotta be honest: I thoroughly enjoy pooping. Then the lady comes in and shines me up. It’s all very civilized.”
Well, don’t get used to it.
“Why not?”
You only get, like, two years of pants-pooping. After that, you’re on your own.
“That’s fucked up.”
I hear you.
“Another question.”
Go to it.
“There’s another guy. Not this guy, but also hairy. He keeps whacking on me with mallets.”
That’s your Uncle Mickey. Just go with it. Wait. Soft mallets?
“Yeah.”
Okay. Yeah, just go with it.
“Gotcha. Let you in on a secret?”
Sure.
“I’m about to puke all over this motherfucker.”
Try and hit his mustache.
“Will do.”
Nice. Got a DMZ going.
“DMZ?”
Dandy Man’s Zone. That little bit on a white guy in between the pant cuff and socks. Sexiest part of a body. So dandy.
“I’d like you to focus on the clothes, and not the parts that aren’t clothes.”
What about your face?
“Scratch what I said. Concentrate on my clothes and face. And hair. Never, ever forget the hair.”
I’d rather not think about any of those–
“Sure, I’ll describe my outfit in detail.”
Dammit.
“The shoes are $1200 Nikes.”
Why are they $1200?
“What did you pay for your sneakers?”
Sixty bucks or something.
“Well, mine are twenty times more fashionable than yours.”
Okay.
“The socks are Visvim. They’re made out of wool from a lamb that lives in a castle.”
A castle?
“Big fucker. Got a moat and everything. You gotta see how happy this lamb is.”
The pants?
“Um, it’s called ‘a pant.’ Don’t embarrass me in front of my hoodie.”
The pant?
“I got ’em in Target. Isn’t that fun? High culture, low culture. I take a lot of inspiration from collage artists. Hold on. Lemme switch positions.”
What?
Oh.
“I’m very conscientiously getting into the kneeling lifestyle. There’s so much to learn! Left knee, right knee. There’s the Asian Squat, but my Achilles tendons won’t do that, and I don’t think it counts as a kneel.”
Did you change?
“Always.”
FACETIME REQUEST NOISE
“Why!?”
That last thing. The ‘Always.’ Just rubbed me on my wrong doodad.
“Dick. Ugh, it’s a Facetime.”
Maybe it’s Carrie Underwood.
“Been there, done that, not going back.”
Why not?
“She sniffs glue.”
That’s still a thing?
“That’s what I said!”
FACETIME REQUEST NOISE
“Hate you.”
Yeah, yeah.
…
“Number Two on the week’s iTunes download charts, John Mayer here.”
“Cram it, you Christ-killin’ sumbitch: I know you leaked our last conversation.”
“I didn’t.”
“Your people are nothin’ but liars.”
“Again, Sarah: not a Jew.”
“Look me in the eyes and say that!”
“Which one?”
“You stuff that sass, sheenie.”
“Which is the dominant eyeball? Where’s my focus supposed to be?”
“The leakin’ stops here! You go on back to your yarmulkes and buttholes!”
“I do like buttholes.”
“Heathen boy! I smite you in the name of Jesus.”
“You have no smiting authority. I’ve read the Constitution.”
“Constitution ain’t in charge no more. Trumpstitution rules Barter Town!”
“This is starting to make less and less sense.”
“TWO EYEBALLS ENTER, ONE EYEBALL LEAVES!”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Can my daddy play in your band?”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH FACETIME NEVER DID THAT
“I told you I wanted to stop talking to her.”
Yeah, I ignored you.
Sometimes
They come out of nowhere
And then they fuck off back
Just as quick
We black each other’s eyes
For the scraps they leave
We’ll tear each other
To shreds
For ’em
John the Baptist
He must have had thousands of fingers
For all the knuckle bones he left
This is the only Mother’s Day-related entertainment you need.
You got out?
“Nothing stops capitalism, baby. Look! We’re all touching it to gain its power.”
Uh-huh. People used to make pilgrimages for this sort of thing.
“People were dumb back then. Not like now, when they can come into the city and look upon Garcia’s briefcase in person and, perhaps, be healed of their ailments.”
Don’t say that.
“Not legally! Legally, I am not saying that. But between you and me? Laying your hands on the relic will definitely cure you of lupus. And HIV. Not AIDS. If you’re full-blown, there’s very little the briefcase can do.”
I renounce all of this.
“Dude, this is just the beginning.”
Oh, God.
“We’ve got a collection of his old tin foil scraps. It’s the size of a basketball.”
Jesus, that’s ghoulish.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet! I have old answering machine messages from his daughters wondering why he didn’t show up for the holidays! They cry and everything!”
Shapiro, stop it.
“And not just Garcia. Remember how Brent died?”
Yeah.
“I got it.”
You got what. Oh, no. Please tell me you don’t mean–
“I got the syringe!”
–the syringe he…holy fuck, this is wrong.
“What? We’re honoring them!”
You’re parading their failures and sadness around like a statue at the Feast of San Gennaro.
“Hey, you ever see how many dollar bills get pinned to that sucker?”
This is not right.
“You want an exclusive? We just signed a contract with Mountain Girl. Every Tuesday night, she’s gonna come in and answer questions about Garcia until she cries.”
No.
“Guess what I’m gonna do with the tears?”
I’m done with this conversation.
“I’m gonna sell the tears.”
Yes, I figured. I want nothing to do with any of this. It’s morbid.
“Got the sheets he died on, too. You can still see his outline!”
SHWIZZLESHWAZZLEKAZOOM!
Briefcase of Infinite Felonies?
“Hey.”
Eat him again?
“No jury would convict me.”
What if they did?
“I would eat the jury.”
Sure. Could you not let him out for a while?
“I’ll try. But he does not taste good.”
I could buy you some Nathan’s to put on top of him.
“They still do the crinkle fries?”
Fuck, yeah.
“Lead on, MacDuff.”
You eat the rest of those fuckers, too?
“Bandanas and all.”
You’re the finest magical briefcase I know.
“Something stops capitalism, baby.”
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