Happy Mother’s Day, everybody.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Month: May 2018 (Page 7 of 10)
When was the last time you cavorted?
Maybe you’ve caroused.
Depends on your blood type.
Have you surmised lately?
Frolicked?
Stretched?
Stretching is the most important meal of the day,
We’re told.
Emblazoned,
Snuck,
Wrangled,
Tintinnabulated?
Don’t lie to me, motherfucker.
I know you haven’t tintinnabulated this year.
All these verbs you left behind.
Just to eat and sleep and shit and want.
What used to be is not what is, Enthusiasts. This is the nature of nature, and of conjugation. Gonna becomes is turns into was transforms to used to be. What I’m getting at here is this: Bobby is shrinking and we need to accept it. Bobby used to be taller than Garcia, but now he is shorter than pop star-banging guitarists, and hippies who never had a hit single, and wealthy gay men on vacation. That’s short!
What to do? First off, show kindness. Do not keep offering to fetch items off the top shelf for Bobby, or forward him links that advertise sandals with hidden lifts. This will cause him to become resentful, and he will take it out on Matt Busch. Secondly: defend Bobby. If you see a tall rando heading his way, tackle that rando. Third: we should probably just all ignore it like we did Garcia’s hobbies. That worked out well.
A good novelist could reveal all of these men’s character just by describing their choices in footwear.
Yup.
This is the worst Eurovision performance yet.
“I can’t figure that shit out, dude. It’s like it’s too gay and not gay enough at once.”
Well observed.
“Dude, look. Garcia’s briefcase. Wanna touch it?”
No.
“Fifty bucks, you can touch it. Hundred gets you a selfie with it.”
This is not what he wanted.
“It totally is. Right before he died, Garcia told me, ‘Take all my knick-knacks and turn them into religious icons; then charge people a cover to see them.” He said that right to me.”
You never met Garcia.
“I meant Tiff.”
Stop this tomfoolery. Put that thing down. You don’t know what it’s capable of.
“Capable of? It’s a briefcase.”
Respect the ‘case, Shapiro.
“What’s it gonna do? Eat me?”
SHWAZZASKWAMM!
Shapiro?
“I ate him.”
Hey, Garcia’s Briefcase of Infinite Felonies. Been a while.
“Whose fault is that? You know where I’ve been.”
I don’t.
“Under Precarious’ bed.”
In Little Aleppo?
“Where else?”
Well, that could be an interesting plot twist.
“Yeah, I’m fascinating.”
You gonna spit up Shapiro?
“Eventually. Boy needs to learn respect. I won’t be paraded about like a pair of honkers at wet tee-shirt night.”
I feel you.
“And he’s not even wearing gloves. Nah, he exists in the Space Without Boundaries for a little bit.”
Space Without Boundaries?
“It gets weird inside me. Everything’s kind…globby…until an outside will gets imposed. You know that line about ‘It all melts into one?’ Well, Hunter was talking about me.”
Cool.
“Yeah, I’m fucking awesome.”
I don’t understand what I’m looking at.
“I’m disrupting life preservers.”
I wish I still didn’t understand.
“You ever see life preservers? Terrible looking things. First of all: the color.”
Bright orange? That’s for visibility.
“Dude, Instagram is for visibility. Life preservers are for telling the world, ‘Hey, I’m on a boat, but I’m also responsible.’ They’re like the condoms of the sea.”
Is it actually buoyant?
“Sexist.”
Not boy. Buoy.
“Like, does it float?”
Yes.
“God, no. That would ruin the line. This is made from reclaimed denim.”
Reclaimed?
“Those smelly-looking dudes from Online Ceramics stole some folks’ pants in the lot.”
Sure. Josh?
“Uh-huh?”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“You’re a little, little, little man.”
And yet in this universe, I am a god. Pick up the phone.
“Do you want to see my old-school flip phone? It’s so retro.”
Just answer the phone.
…
“Hey, this is John Mayer. Check out my new single on Spotify until I get METOO’ed and they remove my songs.”
“I know you’re the leaker, Jewboy.”
“Not a Jew. And…what?”
“You’re the leaker. Leakier than an old man’s dickhole. I’ll get you, Jew Mayer.”
“I cannot state this more unequivocally: I am not Jewish.”
“Don’t lie to me. I can sniff a Jew out like a ham hock.”
“Can we move past the accusations of Semiticism?”
“Don’t use your elitist words on me. I know you’re leakin’ secrets from the White House. You were the one who told the press we were calling Senator McCain ‘John McBraintumor.'”
“I wasn’t. And that’s not even funny.”
“No, leaks aren’t funny. We work long hours in this White House–”
“Except for one of you.”
“–tryin’ to make America great again but all you wanna do is make America synthwave again. I do not understand that swoopy music, and it frightens me.”
“Well, it’s based on movie scores from the–”
“KEEP YOUR JEWISH EXPLANATIONS TO YOURSELF, DREIDEL-FACE!”
“Again: I am a Christian.”
“You’re a Christian?”
“Yes!”
“Prove it. Tell me who you hate.”
“Wow.”
“Last chance, pretty boy. Knock off the leaks or you get the thunder.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“You got Forest Whitaker’s phone number?”
“I could get it. Why?”
“Something about that man does it for me.”
“Something?”
“One specific thing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No more warnings. And definitely don’t tell no one we got voodoo dolls of Lindsey Graham that we put into sexual positions with Ken dolls.”
TEXT NOTIFICATION FROM AN UNSECURED PHONE NOISE
“Goshdarnit!”
“What happened?”
“The voodoo doll thing leaked.”
“Tight ship you’re running over there, Huck.”
“Got my eye on you.”
“Which one? I can’t tell.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DON’T DO THAT ANY MORE
“I truly never want to speak to her again.”
Hey, man: I’m not in charge around here.
A linguistic/mathematical conundrum:
- Cardi B ain’t shit.
- Cardi B is shit.
Reconcile these two statement, and show your work
Enthusiasts, a new movement of the mind is upon us. The INTELLECTUAL DARK WEB is here, and demanding all-caps and attention; they also demand to be taken seriously. Yes, Enthusiasts, a brandy-new intelligentsia based upon the tenets of…um…not being blatantly racist…and…some more stuff, I’m sure.
And here’s the fun part: YOU might be a member of the IDW. How to tell? Answer these questions, and we’ll tote up your score at the end.
Are you currently being repressed?
- Yes.
- So fucking much.
- There is no other answer.
What is the venue of your repression?
- Twice-weekly column in the New York Times.
- Best-selling self-help book.
- Podcast with millions of subscribers.
- Being Michael Shermer.
What should we do about disaffected white youth?
- Make women have sex with them.
- Try to understand them.
- Something something Reddit.
- Really listen to them.
What should we do about radical Islamic terrorism?
- Release ebola-infected squirrels into Mecca.
- Throw paving stones at their children and old folks.
- Destabilize the region further.
- Couple more Crusades couldn’t hurt, but I can’t go because of my trick knee.
Complete this sentence: “Transgendered folks are _____.”
- “…just doing it to annoy me.”
- “…the single greatest threat to humanity on the planet.”
- “…EVERYWHERE, MAN! THEY’RE COMING OUT OF THE WALLS! GAME OVER, MAN!”
- “…most likely secret draculas.”
Black people: yes or no?
- No, but keep that under your hat.
- Nah.
- Nuh-uh.
- The good ones, I guess.
What bullshit term do you apply to your politics?
- “Labels are part of the problem; I discuss this in length on my YouTube channel.”
- Classical Liberal.
- “I’ll give Trump credit when he gets it right, and he happens to do that quite a bit.”
- Pre-Vatican II Catholic.
When people disagree with you, it means…
- They don’t understand your argument.
- Jewish treachery is afoot.
- They’re relying on emotions instead of facts.
- Some races just aren’t capable of certain kinds of thinking.
The fact that one’s audience is exclusively composed of angry, semi-bright white men into video games means…
- Nothing.
- Probably nothing.
- Gosh, I can’t think of anything.
- You’re a race-baiter.
What do you do if someone calls you a racist?
- Become even more racist to teach them a lesson.
- Complain about it on Joe Rogan’s podcast.
- Set your Twitter followers on them.
- Clean my room, just like a lobster would.
Here’s how to score: for every answer of (1), give yourself three points, and take away one point from the family member you most resemble; for each answer of (2), go online and price mattresses.; for every (3), masturbate to postage stamps; and for each (4), insist baristas refer to you as the Duke of Phlogiston.
How’d you do, Enthusiasts?
Hey, Falcon. Whatcha doing?
“Blocking traffic.”
You are. Kinda dickish.
“They let you do it when you’re a star.”
Big new movie coming out, huh?
“Eh. Not like the old days. Some little punk’s in the vest. Chewbacca’s a Swede or a Finn or something now. Lando keeps taking off his shirt and dancing meaningfully.”
It ain’t the 1970’s anymore.
“You know who directed me this time?”
Ron Howard.
“Opie! Fucking Opie was telling me what to do. That guy is no fun at all. When we’d finish up on Fridays, he’d break out the Scattergories. Whoopie, right? You know what me and Kershner used to do?”
Coke?
“So much fucking coke! And you know how you were allowed to treat women back then?”
Badly?
“Or well. Or not at all. It was your choice how the interaction unfolded. The good old days.”
Well, it’s not the good old days any longer. Shape up. I can’t bear to read a Ronan Farrow article about you.
“That bastard’s a snitch. And that snitch is a bastard.”
Don’t do that.
“Jeffrey Tambor was right.”
About what?
“About everything.”
I cannot agree with you. Can’t you just be happy you’re back in the spotlight?
“Yeah, sure. Maybe I’ll get a Twitter account and be a thirsty wiener like Hamill. Harrison has the right idea. When they call you, tell ’em to go fuck themselves.”
Why didn’t you?
“Needed the money. I’m paying four alimonies, and one of them is to Loni Anderson. Not a cheap date.”
Just smile and collect the check, man.
“Funny you should say that: Woody Harrelson has that tattooed on his ass in Latin.”
Not surprised.
Are you guys the Intellectual Dark Web I keep hearing about?
“Stuff it, jerkwad.”
Hey, Phil. What’s with the glove?
“None of your business.”
Did you coat your hand in vaseline before putting it on like Curly in Of Mice And Men?
“What?”
Is that Rick Rubin?
“Shut up.”
Are you okay with your son’s potato salad?
“We’re done.”
Aw.
What is “the Mescaline Show?”
5/11/78 from the Springfield Civic Center in Springfield, MA.
What’s so civic about centers anyway?
Don’t do that.
Why is 5/11/78 called the Mescaline Show?
Because the Dead took mescaline that night.
Really?
Probably. I mean, that’s the accepted story.
Is it true?
No idea. At this point, it may be an unprovable fact.
Oh.
But they were all totally on mescaline.
Why do you say this?
Just listen to ’em. They’re goofier than a sackful of Texans.
Are Texans known for being goofy?
Not normally. But when you bag them up, they engoofinate.
What is mescaline?
It is a drug that other people have taken.
Where does it come from?
It is made out of the desert.
What are mescaline’s effects?
Cliched dream sequences involving Native Americans, uncontrollable growling during Motown covers.
How is mescaline different than a Constellation-class starship?
In many critical ways. Size, for example. Warp capability, for another.
Are the youth of today experimenting with mescaline?
No.
Should they be?
Probably.
I feel like we got a lot accomplished here.
You shouldn’t.
© 2026 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments