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

Month: May 2019 (Page 10 of 10)

The Fuckhead’s Latest Bullshit: An FAQ

How does he keep going? 

I do not know.

Does he tire?

By plain sight, he does not, sir.

How long has he been in office? A thousand years?

27 months.

Oh, God, it’s like staring into eternity.

Settle. Get to the pre-arranged topic.

Was it ‘cheese?’ Are we talking about various cheeses?

Why do you do this? Why don’t you come to rehearsal?

I kid. Settle. What is going on with the social media and Trump?

The POTUS is mad online. 

When I was a child, I imagined a future far less embarrassing than this.

Yes.

What is going on with Facebook?

It’s blue.

Stop it.

This week, Facebook issued permanent bans to Alex Jones, that Milo guy no one cares about anymore, and the guy with the cigarette. Minister Farrakhan was also banned.

But Farrakhan’s a prophet that I think you ought to listen to.

Nah, fuck him. Man had Malcolm X killed. And he hates the Jews.

Neither of those facts have any bearing on his status as a prophet. In fact, prophets are usually pretty fucked up cats.

Let’s get back on track.

Facebook has banned a selection of individuals, almost all of whom are known for their right-wing views. Are they allowed to do that?

Yes. They’re a private company, and can therefore deny service. If you go in the Hallmark Shop and take a shit next to the statuettes of the babies who are also somehow married, then you will be asked to leave. The second turd gets you a permanent ban. These have been the rules of the marketplace since humans started dragging their wares to a central location every new moon. Can’t shit in another man’s shop.

Have any of these people been banned from other platforms?

Oh, yes. Laura Loomer has been 86’ed from Twitter, PayPal, Lyfy, and UberEats.

How do you get banned from UberEats?

Guy goes to the door. He’s Vietnamese. She screams “JIHAD!”Pushes the driver into the bushes. Steals the Camry. Wrecks the Camry, but no one got hurt. The whole thing’s a bad scene.

What about Instagram?

She has been banned from Instagram.

Damn, even the Gram. What about her freedom of speech?

What about it?

Let me rephrase that: What about her Freedom of Speech?

Ooh, much more patriotic. You’re referring to the First Amendment. Congress shall make no law abridging the Freedom of Speech. 

I am.

It hasn’t. We’re done here.

Wait, wait, I don’t mean the technical definition of “freedom of speech,” I mean the connotative imperative.

You made that phrase up.

We have a moral duty to stand up for speech we find personally offensive.

Who told you that?

Some guy down at the arcade.

Did he touch you? Be honest.

His quarters purchased time he used to play his games.

Wow. Anyway, it was Voltaire who said that, and he liked to grab at unpleasant teenagers, too. And he didn’t have to put up with a cabal of assholes using Facebook to orchestrate a mass eviction/genocide in Myanmar. Some people are menaces, and it’s fine by me to give ’em the heave.Would you agree that a tavern has the right to toss a patron shouting about the Jews and getting everyone all worked up?

I would.

The principle is the same. It scales. Humans may have the natural right to internet access–so say the Scandinavians–but they don’t have any claim on entrance to specific sites.

Doesn’t this show Facebook’s liberal bias?

Facebook doesn’t have a liberal bias. It has a capitalist bias. Once again: it is a business. What we think of when we think of the internet is really just a series of stores. Security come and getcha if you don’t act right. The honchos and muckety-mucks who bleed themselves daily for Lord Zuck thought long and hard and disruptively about this, and figured they’d make more money without the hateful creepazoids, so the creepazoids got gone. It’s the Free Market. The Republicans should be loving this.

They are not, though.

No. Basketball Head has been spraying tweets for two days voicing his displeasure, like a dying rhino rainbowing piss all over the savannah.

It’s just so embarrassing.

Let’s extend a previous metaphor. A man is thrown out of a bar for being a loud asshole, and then the President of the United States publicly decries the ban. “Iggy’s Packy on Route 82! Let Jew-Hating Edwin back in your establishment!

It’s just so embarrassing.

Hide your kids, hide your wife, hide your head.

You’re Thinking Of FUM SUB*

Don’t do it.

Warning you.

Choose the right choice, Chachi.

WAIT! THEY DON’T LOVE YOU LIKE I LOVE YOU!

You waste everyone’s time with your blather.

Karen M loved Maps so much, man.

Idiot.

 

 

 

*Garcia had a semi-habit of wearing shirts with esoteric acronyms on them; he sported a bright-red top at several shows in the early 70’s reading FUM SUB, which was what the Franklin & Marshall student center called itself. MAPS, similarly, stands for the Marin Academy People’s Stampede. Not many outside the mountain community are aware of the yearly event, but it’s been going on since 1938. Ropin’ and rasslin’ and ridin’. A real stampede, like the one they do up in Calgary, but with a lot more communism. The kids ride sheep, but they also receive lessons in class consciousness. No one misses the People’s Stampede.

 

Redondo: Better Than The Other Dondos

I sincerely believe your leggings are tighter than your daughter’s, Bobby.

“I put ’em on straight from the washer. They dry on me, becoming a second skin.”

What is this?

“Robusto Bay”

Redondo Beach.

“Ah. There’s some sort of festival. We’re all at the hotel.”

Didn’t you used to share a room with Garcia at the Motel 6?

“I did, yeah. This is better.”

Can’t argue with you.

“Marked improvement in every way. Jer was my brother, he was best friend, he was my hero, but you didn’t wanna bunk with him.”

Sure. Bobby?

“Yuh-huh?”

Don’t ever look at the comments on Monet’s Instagram page.

“You betcha.”

The Democratic Field: A Guide For The Perplexed

There are now officially 2.33 Wu-Tang Clans-worth of Democrats running for President. Look at the person on your left, and now the one on your right: both of them are running for President, and so are you. Every American not currently wearing a MAGA cap has thrown their hats into the Democratic primaries.

Stop it.

There’s too many of ’em, man! Game over!

Aw, now I’m sad thinking about Bill Paxton. You ruin everything.

May I continue?

May? Yes, you may. I wish you wouldn’t, but I can’t stop you.

Thank you. To get you, the American Enthusiast, all pepped up for what will surely be an enlightening and high-minded campaign that centers on issues, and not personalities, TotD now presents: A Guide for the Perplexed: Democratic Primaries Edition. It will be in alphabetical order because the Atlantic article I’m cribbing all my facts from is in alphabetical order, so it’s easier that way.*

David Michael Bennet Senator from Colorado. Never seen a toad in real life. He’s been places with lots of toads, but they just seem to disappear when he steps outside. Why is that, Father? his daughter asked when she was a child. Why do the toads shun you? For years, he apologized for striking her. But she couldn’t know. No one could know. Not about his deal with the Toad King. Probably real liberal about weed.

Joe Biden Ex-Senator from Delaware, which shouldn’t exist, but the banks need a state to have tax orgies in. It’s a scam with a flag, like having the Cayman Islands be attached to Maryland. Joe is not from Delaware, not originally. He is from Scranton, Pennsylvania, which The Office made fun of as boring, but used to be utterly wretched: coal mines, and poverty, and a near-constant fistcuffery. Joe will tell you all of this while looking you in the eye, maybe grabbing your tit. He will tell you about his father, and how hard the man worked, when he meets you in a diner. You were sitting there, not bothering anyone, eating your meatloaf–they do a good meatloaf here–and now here’s this goon eyefucking you while babbling about his dead father. Hey man, you think, we all got dead dads. Lemme get back to my ‘loaf. But he won’t. Now he’s onto some shit about civilizing discourses and doing the things the right way and you can smell your gravy going cold. Congealing is a chemical reaction; it produces an aroma; this is a fact. You’ve argued about this with Cristianna before. She won’t listen to reason. She’s the best mom in the world, but the woman knows fuck-all about gravy, and she won’t admit it. That’s the annoying part. That she won’t just give up when she’s provably wrong. You demonstrated the congealation. Whipped up some gravy in the kitchen. Head her watch. More importantly, had her smell. And the bitch REFUSED to acknowledge what was plain to anyone, anyone in the world, and now you are eating meatloaf in a typical American diner, being typical, being American, and Uncle Yippy is going to insinuate his way into your meatloaf–the highlight of your day since Cristianna ate the children, which you also disagreed with her about–and now you’re pissing on Joe Biden, mightily. The Secret Service get you, but not before you get him. You pissed all over that big fucker. Good for you.

Seth Moulton I have never heard of this person. Apparently, he is a Harvard-educated former Navy Seal who has served three terms in the House for Massachusetts. Impressive resume, but his name is Seth and therefore he cannot be President of the United States. Our enemies would think us weak if we elected a “Seth.” No go.

Eric Swalwell A “swalwell” is a English term that might date back to Brythonic language; it means “to gnash the peasants.”

Mike Gravel Mike Gravel is your pick, Enthusiasts. He’s 88 and ran out of fucks last century; the Twin Towers were still up when Senator Gravel saw his final fuck float away. Plus, he wants to end all military activity, send all the teens to college, and pay for your splenectomies. And abolish the Electoral College. And break up the big tech companies. And he doesn’t want to be President; he’s just letting some idealistic young punks run his campaign for him. Mike Gravel is the Grateful Deadest candidate.

Tim Ryan Wasn’t he the Speaker of the House? I do not know who this creature is, and he has a hatefully boring name. If your name is something as dreary as “Tim Ryan,” you owe it to the world to acquire a cool nickname. You should be Timbledon, Tim. Hop to it.

Kristen Gillebrand No. it’s Kirstin Gilliband. You have no idea, and neither do I. She is the Senator from New York who isn’t straight out of a Phillip Roth novel. NOTE: lady.

Beto O’Rourke Fuckable. Good at the talky-talk. Thoroughly underqualified. Stupid first name and Irish last name. We would never elect a man like that.

John Hickenlooper This guy is Colorado’s Jerry Brown, basically. All the positions you’d imagine he holds, he holds. Except for the thing where he wants to nuke Spain, and that he would do it immediately upon taking office. Like, he wouldn’t even give a speech; just say the oath and grab for the football so those Catalonian fucks get what’s coming to them.

Jay Inslee Made up. Not a real person.

Bernie Sanders Fuck Commie Grandpa.

Amy Klobuchar I try to never refer to Schrödinger and his theorem, as it’s such a cliche, but the man’s insight does come to mind when one contemplates Donald Trump as this moment (5/3/19): he is both The Most Beatable Incumbent In History or Allfather Trump, (PBUH). None of the candidates have, so far, used the slogan The Dummy is Costing you Money. They should go with that.

Elizabeth Warren Basketball Head would have her for lunch. She would sit there on the table getting cold next to a pile of Wendy’s chicken sandwiches, and some poor college athletes would have to eat her. The athletes were given much direction by the Athletic Director before they entered the White House. Plus, the Pocahontas deal. Not the name itself, which Turnip is a piece of shit for promulgating, but how she handled it. A DNA test? You introduced facts into a fight with Donald Trump? BUSH LEAGUE. Stay in the Senate.

Kamala Harris His head would explode. His giant, spherical, peach-colored head would explode. She wouldn’t even have to do anything, just be a black lady around him.

Pete Buttigieg Homosexuals can’t be President; it’s in the Bible. The fact is also the basis of several Dukes of Hazard episodes which don’t get included in the DVD compilations.

Julian Castro Julian Castro has been the next big star of the Democratic Party for 40 or 50 years now. And he’s a twin. Twins can’t be President, either. That’s not in the Bible, but it should be.

John Delaney Before your mom met your dad, she fucked a lot of dudes. And before your dad met your mom, he fucked a lot of dudes, too.

Tulsi Gabbard That was childish, the last one. You’re right. Fuck Tulsa Gobbler. Hawaii’s shouldn’t be a state, either. Delaware, Hawaii, Rhode Island: done. The Dakotas should be combined, as should Wisconsin/Michigan, Illinois/Indiana, and Alabama/Mississippi. Arkansas should be given to the Chinese as a gift of friendship. (The Chinese are killing us, folks. Just killing us. Belt and Road? Very bad for round-eye.)

Andrew Yang Reddit loves this guy, so fuck this guy. No memes. I want the next President to be young, but not young enough that their memery is any good.

Marianne Williamson She is an inspirational speaker. I never get inspired by inspirational speakers. I always picture them alone in their hotel rooms after their speeches.

Cory Booker Homosexuals can’t be President; it’s in the Bible.

Steve Bullock Ah, shit, y’all: Deadwood trailer.

A very quick deployment of Google-Fu does not reveal whether Steve Bullock, current Governor of Montana, is related to Seth Bullock, former Sheriff of Deadwood.

Wayne Messam Admit that you don’t know whether or not I made this guy up. Admit that you had to look him up. And, hey: it’s not like I blame you, but don’t get up on your high horse. Also: stop getting your horse high. Mickey used to do that shit, and it’s not right.

Bill DeBlasio Mayor of New York City is a better job than President of the United States, at least if you’re a politician.

 

 

*Apparently, it is not in alphabetical order. You live, you learn.

A Song Of Cold Rain And Snow

I see you there, George R.R. Martin.

“Zounds! My ruse is exposed!”

Stop talking like that.

“I like talking like that. Don’t hassle me, varlet.”

Why are you in 1970? Who gave you access to Time Sheath technology?

“Phil really wanted to know what happens in the next book.”

Dammit. Y’know, I’m starting to think it may have been a poor idea to give the Grateful Dead a time machine.

“Ah, that reminds me of some intrigue within House Winterdingus. The scion, Scabbard Fanix, had recently forced his eldest son, Bung, to eat himself. It was part of an enormous banquet, which I’ll now describe for twenty minutes.”

Stop it.

“There were porked bellies and platters of buttered finch–”

STOP IT.

“Ah, bite me, y’jealous loser.”

Not wrong. This photo is labeled 5/3/70* from Wesleyan University. Did you go there?

“No. Northwestern.”

Uh-huh. So, why did you go to a random show in the middle of Connecticut?

“When Phil gave me the Time Sheath, his instructions were less than precise. I was trying to go to the Battle of Agincourt.”

Sure. Last question.

“Shoot.”

Why aren’t you wearing your usual get-up? Where’s your hat? You love that hat.

“I’m in disguise. Otherwise, I get mobbed by fans.”

Sure. Hey, George?

“My liege?”

Try not to start a Time War.

“I can’t promise anything.”

 

*Just a partial tape.

A Partial Transcript Of AG Barr’s Senate Hearing, 5/1/19

SENATE HEARING ROOM – MORNING

“Y’all gonna settle! Y’all gonna settle yo’selves right down now! I won’t have it, all that ruckus all y’all creatin’ in here. Maybe you can fool around like that at House hearings, but that whole organization done gone to over to the dark side. This is the United States Senate, and we don’t let Satan in. Every morning, my boy brings me in my mirror and I look in it and I say to myself, ‘Lindsay Graham, you gotta be a goalie for Christ. Don’t let the foul one in.’ And, hoo boy, I got my pads on today.”

“How long will the Chairman be raving like a lunatic?”

“Blumenthal, I’ll cut you. You know I’m not the bitch to fuck with. You know I got razors.”

“Just get to the point, Senator.”

“I’m gonna, but jus’ because I wanna. Not because you said so. Okay, so…where was I? Oh! We was gonna have a li’l visit with the Attorney General o’ these here United States, Mr. William Barr. How’s your momma an’ them, Billy?”

“I would categorize their status as ‘fine,’ Senator. Thank you for asking.”

“Thank you, Mr. Attorney General, for your service to this country and for your savoir faire. That’s French. You speak French, Billy?”

“I do not, Senator.”

“It’s a Romance language in e’ry way. My, you fill out that suit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Here’s what I wanna know: is this a witch hunt, or is this here the witchiest hunt?”

“I couldn’t say, Senator.”

“Far as I’m concerned, the Mueller Report came out, and now let’s move on. It’s like that ol’ Avengers movie. Okay, I watched it, and now life continues. But these Democrats are so crazed by losin’ an election two whole years ago that we gotta spend our day doin’ this here busywork. Mr. Barr, would you categorize Robert Mueller as an enemy of America? I would, but I wanna hear your thoughts.”

“I couldn’t say one way or the other, sir.”

“Robert Mueller an’ his crew are gestapos, I do declare. You walk in that office they got over there: nothin’ but gestapos. Boy who gets you your shandy? Thass a gestapo boy. Them ladies? They’s gestapos, too. An’ they out to get Mr. Donald Trump, who is beautiful and pure and right. He glows with the radiance of newborn stars. His powers, when marshaled, are such that wounds may be healed. HE CAN DO THESE THINGS! An’ hoo boy can he whup my butt out on that golf course there. How ’bout you, Billy?”

“The President has beaten me at golf several times.”

“That man’s got a swing like Duke Ellington. He inspires envy within me, and he dresses well.”

“Mm. I would agree.”

“Mr. Barr, is it your informed opinion that the President didn’t do nothin’ wrong?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s a blanket statement?”

“It is.”

“Good enough for me! I call these hearings closed–”

GAVEL NOISE!

“–and suggest we all get ourselves a mojito. They’s only two weeks left in mojito season, y’all.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Chairman. You can’t just gavel the session closed like that.”

“Hush up, Senator Feinstein. I can smell you, woman. You’re rotting.”

“I buried Harvey Milk; I’ll bury you, Linda.”

“Wretched sow. Go ‘head with yo’ questions.”

“Thank you. Mr. Attorney General, good morning.”

“It may or may not be a good morning, Senator Feinstein.”

“Yes, well. On the date of April 4th, you released a memo summarizing the Mueller Report, but–”

“Ma’am, I would object to the term ‘summarizing.'”

“You would?”

“Yes.”

“What would you call it?”

“Illumination of the salient.”

“What now?”

“A fleshy annotation.”

“Ew.”

“A multi-pronged exegesis.”

“Mr. Attorney General, you are not here to argue about the meanings of words.”

“I disagree.”

“On the date of April 4th, you released a memo. Is that correct?”

“It depends on the meaning of ‘release.’ Physically? Freed from my grasp?”

“In the sense of ‘issued to the public.'”

“Ah. My office did send out a memorandum that day.”

“And the contents of that memo were, in fact, challenged by Robert Mueller in a letter dated March 27th.”

“Mm. Have you read the man’s letter?”

“I have, yes.”

“Then you’ll understand why I tossed it aside. The tone was unctuous and harsh.”

“Sir, Mr. Mueller’s letter had no tone.”

“The tone lurked, Senator, in the white spaces between words, and in the unwritten. It provided the gluey stock that held the gumbo of insult together. He may as well have struck me in my face or genitals. Were these the old days, you’d have to duel a man who wrote you a letter like that.”

“No, sir.”

“And then he called me on the telephone and referred to me as a ‘tallywhacker.'”

“That didn’t happen.”

GAVEL NOISE!

“Time’s up, jewbag!”

“You look like grown-up Chucky.”

GAVEL NOISE!

“I don’t know what a Chucky is! Anyway, we gonna keep on a-rollin’ with my good friend, a wonderful man, a powerful beard-possessor, and one of the leading intellectual lights of the Republican Party, Ted ‘Theodore’ Cruz from the great state of Texas.”

“Oh, I see what you did.”

“I referred to you as Ted ‘Theodore’ Cruz like in the film Bill & Ted.”

“That’s wild. Just wild. Thank you, Senator. You bring a lightness and a levity to these proceedings that some in the chambers wish to extinguish with divisiveness and hatred. As you know, I’ve brought to the floor a bill to officially declare all Democrats as draculas. Like, if you’re a Democrat, well: boom, now you’re a dracula. And you gotta tell the people at the DMV within 30 days or you lose your right to vote. It’s a solid piece of Constitutional legislation.”

“That’s just super.”

“Mr. Attorney General, would you agree that all Democrats are draculas?”

“I wouldn’t disagree.”

“Capable of turning into bats?”

“I’ve not witnessed the transformation myself, but we can’t take it off the table. Serious possibility.”

“Delightful. If President Trump were to turn into an animal, which animal would it be?”

“Oh, this is a fun game.”

“The Senate is the fun chamber. Everyone knows this. We have a Candy Desk.”

“The President would turn into a lion, I suppose. Maybe a bear, but I would go with lion.”

“Lion was the first thing that came to me, too.”

“Majestic, ferocious, strong.”

GAVEL NOISE!

“You two is jus’ like two doodlebugs inna juniper bush. You stop it ‘fore you get me all worked up an’ I gotta go home an’ watch Lifetime movies. I degrade myself while watching these motion pictures.”

“Mr. Chairman, it is my turn to speak.”

“You shut your mouth, Senator Harris. You make me wish I had a time machine. See who’s all mouthy then.”

“I’m just gonna speak. Mr. Attorney General, did you read the entire Mueller Report?”

“Who told you I didn’t read it?”

“Answer the question, sir.”

“Define ‘read.'”

“No. Stop that. Sir, did you read the entire report?”

“Did I read the entire ridiculously long report? Is that what you mean? With no graphs or charts whatsoever, nothing to break up the boredom. I dipped in and out. Read a couple pages, played around on my phone, flipped forward a little, read some more. I got the gist.”

“Sir–”

“At heart, I’m a gist-man, anyway.”

“Sir–”

“That’s kind of a slogan around the Trump Administration: Just gimme the gist! That’s the way the big guy likes it.”

“You did not read the whole report. You then issued a summary of the report, which you did not read, that contained assertions that the authors of the report strongly disagreed with.”

“In a certain light.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Pardon?”

“Are. You. Shitting. Me. You are the Attorney General of the United States and you are actively–some would say brazenly–acting as the President’s mob lawyer. You’ve lied to Congress on at least one occasion. You’re covering up obstruction of justice. That all of this has gotten this far, and this stupid, is making my head explode and I need to know, Mr. Attorney General: Are you shitting me?”

“I cannot provide an answer to that question.”

GAVEL NOISE!

“Finally! Girly, this whole time you been yappin’, I been thinkin’ ’bout that time machine. We go back 200 years, you an’ me. We have ourselves some fun. It would be exciting!”

“Shut up, Cruella.”

“The Chairman recognizes the Distinguished Gentleman from one o’ the Dakotas. They’s the same thing. Ain’t like North an’ South Carolina. They’s got diff’rent weather an’ diff’rent barbecue, but the Dakotas is jus’ the same. Jus’ a big ol’ cold nothin’ up there. Never been. Don’t plan on it. I’m sorry to say that, Sassy, but that’s what I feel.”

“Sasse, sir.”

“I know. But I like callin’ you Sassy.”

“Uh-huh. Mr. Attorney General, I’m gonna be tough on you here.”

“I shudder at the demise of my prospects.”

“Russia.”

“Yes.”

“They like messing around.”

“They do.”

“They do the mess-around. You know that song?”

“I do not.”

“Ray Charles. Classic. Anyhoo: Russia. You on top of that?”

“We are, Senator.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“No lie. Attacking the problem from all angles.”

“Swear?”

“Hand to God.”

“I’m satisfied. I’m satisfied. Let’s consider that battle won. I thank the witness and yield my time back.”

“Oh, my, isn’t that sweet o’ you? You raised right, Sassy. Yo’ momma raised you right, boy. I salute her. I salute all American mommas, Sassy. The American momma is th’ hardest-workin’ momma in the world, but she’s also th’ hardest-lovin’ momma in the world. Can’t get no better than a momma!”

“Mr. Chairman, it’s my turn.”

“Senator Hirono, I resume my ongoing argument that Hawaii ain’t no state. It jus’ ain’t.”

“Your belief notwithstanding, Senator Graham.”

“Military base, hotels, couple farms. That’s it. Ain’t no damn state, an’ I don’t care what some pineapple salesman says ’bout the matter. Why didn’t we get a vote? I put a vote to the floor: Hawaii ain’t no state no more!”

“You can’t do that. I will take the floor now, Mr. Chairman.”

“Never shoulda let you people out them camps.”

“Ignoring that. Mr. Attorney General, you have proven me correct. When you were up for confirmation, I voted against you because I believed you would, like any invertebrate attached to a solid object, take the shape of your master. You have enveloped Donald Trump in the office of the Attorney General, ignoring all facts and dismissing any accusations as ‘fake news.’ You have disgraced the Department of Justice, once known as an independent body dedicated to principle and the law, but now just another snarling dog for this lunatic fuckwit to loose upon his pursuers.”

“OH, NO! I will not have it! Senator Sodoku–”

“Hirono.”

“–you ain’t gonna be spewin’ no oaths up in here! I will not allow such a thing!”

“I will keep it clean. Mr Attorney General, how have you not resigned?”

“Because I’m doing a great job.”

“You have perjured yourself to Congress at least once in the past month. That’s the opposite of a great job. No matter what your job is.”

“My job is keeping President Trump happy.”

“No, it’s not!”

MULTIPLE TWITTER ALERT NOTIFICATIONS NOISE

“Mr. Barr, the President of the United States just tweeted out Go have a samurai sword fight with her, AG Barr! VERY RUDE WOMAN! NO COLLUSION! Are you still not resigning?”

“I’ve chosen my path.”

GAVEL NOISE

“Ev’ryone gonna shut up now and drink mojitos with me. Put all this foolishness aside for some civilizing talk an’ such. Tell my boy t’ start muddlin’!”

Most Of The Cats That You Pet In The Green Room Speak Of True Love

Phil, put that thing down.

“Bite me, dickweed.”

Seriously, man. Put it down.

“And I told you–”

SHLARRRRFHMMMPH

“The cat just threw up a reality made of tentacles.”

Yeah, it’s a flerken.

“It ate Grahame.”

Yeah. It’s a flerken.

“Is this some stupid comic book bullshit?”

It is, yes.

“Those movies are for dumb people and children. And dumb children. Lots of people will tell you that there’s no such thing as a dumb child, but there’s tons of ’em. Grahame couldn’t figure out how to work a door until he was 8. He would just screech at the knob until someone came and helped him.”

You hate to see that.

“Sure. But look at him now.”

He got eaten by an interdimensional portal in the form of a cat.

“He’ll be back. I know how this universe works.”

You’re not wrong.

OR

Can everyone else see the googly-eye face to Phil’s left? Because I saw it, and now I can’t unsee it.

Blows Against The Empire

Everyone overlooks the one aspect  of alien technology in which they’ve made the most astonishing advances. The faster-than-light travel is impressive, but the amount of information they’re able to glean from an anus is incredible. The only data poking about in someone’s poop-chute that we can get are temperature and relative humidity (very high). Lately, we’ve figured out how to take a peek up there with an itty-bitty camera on the end of a plumber’s snake, but there is only so much to learn from the images.

Those gray bastards, though? SHPLUCK right in your asshole and they know everything about you. Wow.

I wish you’d delete this.

EVERYONE DOES. But, fuck ’em. And buttfuck ’em.

At least recommend a show to make up for your dastardly nature.

I am a dastard.

Yes.

10/18/78 from Winterland! The From Egypt, With Love run was far better than the three shows beneath the Pyramids the previous month, and that’s no surprise: neither of the drummers had a broken arm, and all the junkies could get their junk, and it was a home game. This is a ’78-ish show, skitterish and frazzled and seamful; little bit too fast. Keith is awake for the vast majority of the performance, which is not ’78-ish, but on this wonderfully clear Charlie Miller SBD you can hear various Grateful Deads yelling at each other, sometimes during the songs, and that is very ’78-ish.

Also: Lee Oskar jam.

Lee fucking Oskar jam.

If You Get Confused

After Crazy Fingers, which Garcia sang correctly precisely three times, the most-pooched tune in the Big Man’s repertoire was Franklin’s; no other song can compete, and it is only the hilariously predictable mumblings and fumblings of CF that keep it from that number one slot. The magic of Franklin’s is that Garcia would lose his grip on both lines and verses. It was an As Above, So Below situation, lyrically speaking.

Maybe the part about the four winds comes first, and maybe the Let the music play line does. Which verse comes when? Who knows? Certainly not Garcia. He would sing ’em as they came to him, and not argue about petty bullshit. The man was too busy trying desperately to get through a couplet without stumbling and bumbling.

Sometimes–and the 80’s versions of the ditty feature this more than those of the ’70’s–Garcia’ll whack his head on the first word of a verse and never recover. I find that fun.

ANYWAY, 11/22/72 from the Austin Municipal Auditorium is from 1972, and therefore has no Franklin’s, but you should listen regardless. Brokedown and a Casey Jones, braj. Motherfuckers wanna play like they’re too good for Casey Jones, like they’re above Casey Jones, but fuck those motherfuckers.

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