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

Month: October 2020 (Page 3 of 4)

I Bet They Talked Cars

Hey, Mr. Vice-President. Whatcha doing?

“Retail politics, Salami-face. Putting in my two cents and not taking any wooden nickels. Later on, I’m gonna go down to the Tam-O-Shanter and get blitzed.”

I thought you didn’t drink.

“I don’t. They got a jar full of pickled eggs’ll set you reeling. Health Department keeps raiding the place, but I’ve been getting loose off those eggs for three decades now. Health Department can’t tell Joey B. where to eat.”

Uh-huh. Polls look good.

“Always. Brave men and women. First the Nazis, then the Commies. Tough row to hoe.”

Not the Poles. The polls. Where they call randos and ask ’em who they’re voting for.

“Oh, yeah. Those are coming around. Looking finer than Carolina. Big happy yay.”

Uh-huh.

SEMI-BELOVED POLITICIAN PULLING A CELL PHONE FROM HIS POCKET NOISE

“You ever see one of these? It’s a phone! But it goes in your pocket! Here, make a call. It’s not a trick.”

Oh.

“There’s also something called ‘texting.’ Or ‘sexting.’ One of those. I don’t understand all of it, but my grandkids tell me it’s great.”

Dammit. Hey, Lillian Monster.

“I DEMAND ALL ABSENTEE BALLOTS BE PRINTED ON SUSTAINABLY-HARVESTED LEAVES!”

I have a bad feeling about this.

Tab Hunter

Prince in an asymmetrical coat fronting a lady-heavy band. (FUN FACT: No one, not even Prince, sounds cool calling heroin “horse.”)

Remember The Banana Man? Well, he was a real chimp that Elvis bought from some goober and named Scatter. It ended poorly because it could end no other way but.

Everybody was arguing about the Pistols the other day, and they were all wrong. Even the people I agreed with.

This is wonderful: Bill Graham’s production notes from the 1980 Warfield run. A useful list of management principles can be derived herein: Know your market, set clear goals for your team, make sure your wieners are the best available.

If anyone’s aware of more available footage of the JB’s, let us all know. Of note in this performance: the Collins’ brothers adorably half-assed dance moves, Mr. Brown announcing his move to the keyboard by shouting “JAMES! PEE-AN-UH!”, and Soul Sister #1 on the podium.

This’ll break your fucking heart.

This Rolling Stones unreleased track features Jimmy Page on guitar, and is a rip-off of a different unreleased Stones track. Name it in the Comment Section and win a shiny imaginary nickel.

Valued Commentator JES wrote something nice, and also wrote something nice about me; go visit.

More to come.

A Short History Of Presidential Illness

The first, say, 15 Presidents were all so much sicker than your modern brain can imagine. All of them were on the verge of collapse at all times, and their assholes were dirty, and there was nothing to do if they got pink-eye. Vaccines also didn’t exist, so they were susceptible to all sorts of foulness including–and it pains me to report this–slave-based diseases. You could catch drapetomania!

Millard Fillmore was a straight-up leper. Shit fell off him all the time. A guy named Mousy Halbrooke followed him around gathering up fingers and kneecaps and whatever. After hours, Millard’s wife would do it, and she resented it. “Here’s your fucking nose, Milly. That’s what you get from fucking whores.” I don’t know if leprosy is communicable via whore-fucking, but Mrs. Fillmore sure thought so.

You know about Herbert Hoover, but did you ever hear of Hector Hoover? That was Herbert’s semi-sentient twin who grew out of his shoulder. There was a well-defined head, and two nubbins that might have been arms, and also a dick. Hector used his nubbins mostly to play with his dick, and he whispered to Herbert in a secret language. The press was aware of this, and had in fact interviewed Hector several times, but they didn’t tell the public because it was a different time.

Grover Cleveland was hit by trains on two non-consecutive occasions, and no one ever heard about it.

Leon Czolgosz’s bullet was the best thing to happen to William McKinley. The 25th President was riddled with disease: spongified fingerlings, brain pustules, ear hemorrhoids, heterosexual tendencies, dingal fungus, and massive problems with his gooch. He also thought he was an Irish Setter named, ironically, Mousy Halbrooke. Crazy ol’ Leon was putting Billy out of his misery, way I see it.

Eisenhower died five times. Full-on brain death. They buried him once, but Ike was a fighter, and so he got out of the coffin and threw clods of dirt at John Foster Dulles for a while. The press was aware of all five death, but never reported it because it was a different time. Also, they were scared of Ike.

Kennedy was jacked-up on speedballs. Every old photo of him you’ve ever seen, every newsreel appearance: high as nine kites. Look up Dr. Jacobson. Here, I’ll do it for you. JFK was vibratingly high at all times, which is maybe why he thought he could invade Cuba all by himself.

Reagan also died five times. “Ike’s not gonna beat me, Mommy,” the Gipper would often say to Nancy, who was gobbling his eagle at the time, as was her wont. And then he’d die.

Both Bushes were werewolfs. The Secret Service would lock them in the bunker during full moons. As befits a patrician family, they ate very few interns. Barely any, really.

Obama had scurvy. “EAT AN ORANGE, GODDAMMIT!” Michelle would beg him. But he wouldn’t, and so all his teeth fell out and ran across the room. The press knew, but never told anyone because it was a different time, and also they were afraid of being bitten by Obama’s now-noncorporeal teeth.

Memorandum From The President’s Physician

This morning, while updating the country–the greatest country in the world, by the way–about President Trump’s incredible recovery from Covid-19, I misspoke several times. I also stammered, stuttered, fumfered, straight-up used the wrong word words a couple times, and also was misquoted by the lying media which is also fake.

President Trump did not test positive for the virus 72 hours ago, instead he tested positive for the virus “72 hours” ago. “72 hours” is a medical term we use to mean “sometime before now.” For those doubting me, I advise that they go back and watch the briefing we gave, and see what clean lab coats we were wearing. And scrubs! Don’t forget the scrubs.

And “48 hours ago” isn’t the same as “two days ago.” Two days ago starts at 25 hours ago. There’s a lot of wiggle room in between “48 hours” and “two days.” Get that straight, fake news.

Similarly, I made a misstatement when relaying news of President Trump’s oxygen intake. What I should have said was, “Of course President Trump is on oxygen! We’re all on oxygen! That’s what we breathe, silly!” I should’ve said that, but I didn’t. It should also be noted that President Trump breathes better than probably anyone who’s ever breathed before. Guy’s got a set of lungs on him.

As to what medicines the President has been on: We have administered remymartin…remylebeau…remsleep…you know what I’m talking about. The New Hotness. We gave the President eight grams of the New Hotness by IV push, and he seemed to enjoy that. The President was also administered an off-label cocktail I like to call a Goody-Goody Gumdrop. There’s a bunch of stuff in that needle, and it’ll put some lead in your pencil. The President really enjoyed that. We had to wrestle him back into bed.

At this point, we cannot rule out the possibility that the President was deliberately infected by child-eating Satanists, or Joe Biden’s crackhead kid. Everything’s still on the operating table.

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