“Don’t tell me. Soupy.”

No.

“Smersh.”

Also no.

“Derpy Hooves.”

Slash. His name is Slash.

“Well, you can’t blame me for blanking on him. He’s not wearing his hat.”

That’s true.

“I know who he is. He was in that reprobate heavy mental band with the little angry fellow. And he loves his hat. He’s, like, the male Holly Bowling.”

Also true.

“Has something gone awry? Because, uh, I could lend him mine. I know it’s not his style, but one of the things I learned on the ranch was A hat’s a hat. Unless it’s a yarmulke. No offense.”

None taken. The yarmulke should not be included in the category of [hat]. It doesn’t regulate the temperature of your skull, and doesn’t shield your eyes from man’s ancient enemy, the sun.

“My thoughts, exactly. But, uh, without the solar-based anger.”

Did you hang out with Slash? Is he cool?

“Well, uh, I don’t know if you know this, but the old ears aren’t what they used to be.”

No. Stop. I don’t believe you.

“I mean, it’s not Mickey-level. Just what you’d expect from 60 years of standing next to amplifiers.”

Sure.

“And, uh, Slash is a mumbler. I didn’t get a word of it. I think maybe he was telling me about a Dead show he saw when he was a kid. That’s what everyone else says to me when they me, anyway. But, yeah: nothing. Just a low murmuring.”

Gotcha.

“I could just bop over and pop it right on his head. Give him the ol’ bop-and-pop.”

Kind of you, Bobby, but I don’t think he needs your hat.

“Giving is my bliss.”

You’re the tits, man.