Presented without comment.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 121 of 1031)
FUN FACT: Harpo Marx was a member of the Algonquin Round Table.
FAMILY FACT: Under the stage makeup and wigs, all the Marx Brothers had the exact same face.
ME
Sick boy.
No write.
Go sleepy.
YOU
Play with genitals.
Kill the mailman.
Of all the non-calorie cola beverages, Diet Doctor Pepper tastes most like its progenitor.
Kill the mailman.
Everything fuzzes and slides together, where you start and the world ends, and the colors eat each other.
The summers become one, but the beatings will remain sharp until they don’t; violence has an integrity which kindness does not.
And then no more faces, no more words, it’s all just the hard, white empty.
“You said you knew the damn song, Bob.”
“I know lots of songs.”
“This song. The one we’re playing right now. The Boxer.”
“Oh, no. Never did any of that. I’m more of a tai chi man. Much more relaxing. And, uh, you don’t get punched in the nose quite so much.”
“The song! The song is called The Boxer!”
“Is it about Boom Boom Mancini?”
“No, Warren Zevon wrote that one.”
“We could do Werewolfs of London. I know that one in and out. You got a slide I could borrow?”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Paul, I gotta take this.”
“What!?”
…
“Weir here.”
“ARE YEW HAVIN’ TROUBLES WITH YER ACCOUNTANT, HAIRY GARCIA?”
“Oh, no, Elvis. Everything’s copacetic.”
“AH GOT NO IDEA WHAT COPACABANA MEANS, SO AH WILL ASSUME YEW ARE SPEAKIN’ IN CODE AN’ NEED RESCUIN’!”
“Don’t you usually wear clothes?”
“NO.”
“Ah. Right. Don’t you usually wear jumpsuits?”
“UH-HUH.”
“Well, that’s settled.”
“AH WON’T HAVE MAH BES’ FRIEND HAIRY GARCIA GETTIN’ ROUSTABOUTED BAH NO TINY BAGELFACE! AH WILL DON MAH FINERY, GET IN TH’ STUTZ, AN’ BE THERE MOMENTARILY.”
“Sure, uh-huh, gotcha.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGHT PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
…
“Okay, what chord are we on?”
“Bob, who the fuck was that?”
“Elvis.”
“Elvis Elvis? He died 40 years ago. What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Paul Simon, are you familiar with the concept of semi-fic–”
“Oh, just shut the fuck up.”
*Gonna be straight with you, Enthusiasts: I’m a little disappointed in myself that it took all day and four posts to come up with this title. It really couldn’t be more obvious.
Seriously, was Pigpen gassy? Why is he set up in Mendocino Country?
OR
This is October of ’67 at the Greek Theatre, which is on the campus of UC Berkeley (Go Banana Slugs!) and opened in 1903; the venue got the name because, well, just look at the fucker. Couldn’t be more Greek if Germany was bailing out its economy.
OR
Not only did rockyroll bands not know what they were doing in ’67, neither did rockyroll audiences. What’s with the sitting-there-politely bullshit? Rush the stage, teens! Show the musicians you appreciate them by tackling them viciously and ripping them to shreds. Or at least ask for some banjo lessons. Put your backs into it, for fuck’s sake.
OR
Those columns are Doric. Were they Ionian, they would be slimmer and have fancy scrollwork at the top. I’d describe Corinthian columns for you, but you’re not ready for that jelly.
Hey, Paul Simon. Whatcha doing?
“Suffering! Honestly? I’m suffering. No Jew in history has ever suffered as much as me.”
You sure you don’t wanna amend that statement?
“No. Fuck Anne Frank. Let her sue me.”
What’s your problem?
“He doesn’t know the song!”
The Boxer.
“Yeah. I asked him Bob, do you know the song? and he said Sure, uh-huh, gotcha.”
Ah. That’s how Bobby answers every question. Usually, though, Matt Busch follows up a few minutes later and gets him out of whatever he just agreed to.
“You knew what he sang? In the clearing stands the Bobber; In his poncho and his beard and then he just started humming. It’s unprofessional.”
Hey, you’re lucky. Bobby has been waaaaay more unprofessional than that.
“Ugh. I never got the whole Grateful Dead thing. Doodley-doodley and all the kids are on drugs. Terrible scene.”
Uh-huh. You sure you’re not just still pissed that Garcia fucked your wife?
“HE DID NOT!”
Little bit.
“You include me in your little blog again and I’m suing.”
She gave him a beardjob.
“FUCK YOU!”
TEAM GARFUNKEL!
QUESTION: Did the Grateful Dead ever have the appropriate amount of amplifiers? Because usually they had far too many, but this is nowhere near enough.
OR
Is Pigpen in Time-Out?
OR
That is one well-behaved audience EXCEPT FOR THOSE TWO. YES, YOU TWO! GET AWAY FROM THE HIPPIES!
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Poncho time.”
Uh-huh. What else?
“Well, uh, I’m doing a little duet with Paul Simon. I don’t know if you know this, but–”
He’s not your best friend, Bobby.
“–he’s my best friend.”
I thought Jimi Hendrix was your best friend.
“He never calls.”
Sure.
“Me and Paul are tight, even though neither of us have ever mentioned it, or performed together, or even been seen in the same room.”
If you insist.
“He’s kinda my Garfunkel.”
Don’t say that to him. He’s prickly.
“I think you’ve got him confused with James Taylor. Paul Simon is known throughout the music industry as a caring, generous, warm-hearted man.”
He is not.
“I may be thinking of Simon LeBon.”
Maybe.
“Who is also my best friend.”
Sure.
It’s Monday morning, motherfuckers! Your youth is dead, and ponchos abound.
© 2026 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments