It’s called weed. You roll it into doobies. Don’t get fancy, fucker. No one likes fancy fuckers.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
It’s called weed. You roll it into doobies. Don’t get fancy, fucker. No one likes fancy fuckers.
” I swear I killed her in Korea.”
Rest in Chaos, Rip. And let the Salty Dogs flow.
The original’s better. Always is. Never even occurred to me to look it up.
Boxer appears at the Santa Monica pier to meet Starla Von Luft. She tells him that he must board the mega-zeppelin and what he is looking for is in the Baron’s private chamber. Then she pulls out her gun and threatens to kill herself unless she can give Boxer a blowjob. Pilot Abilene, who has been watching the scene from his gun turret, shoots and kills Starla.
The most common of tropes when writing about Southland Tales is to–as plainly as language allows–recount the particulars of any scene. I will now do so, but I’m gonna use the Bullet Points cuz they’re easier than writing paragraphs.
Dear John,
Hi. How are you? I’m fine. It is very hot here, and there are iguanas everywhere. The animals will not take to befriendment. If you’ve ever met an iguana, you know what I mean!
Anyhoo.
You’re a coward, Meyers. You’re a toe-dippin’ son of a bitch. You fear the depths, my butt-chinned friend, and instead float atop the waters. It’s a low quality in a man. It’s the reason Steve Aoki doesn’t return your texts. He can smell a dilettante a mile away; everyone knows that about Aoki. You dabble. You’re a nibbler. Dude, you’re Cliff’s notes.
You think wearing Madonna Tee-Shirt makes your bones, Meyers? Not on my watch. Not even on your stupidly-expensive watch. You wanna impress us?

You go Full Bobby, or you got no balls, Meyers. Do it. You wanna. You know you wanna. You’re dying to do it, so do it. Release him. Release all of him. Go Full Bobby.
Only then, can you truly become New Bobby.
Sincerely,
ToTD, DDS

Nice shirt, Mickey.
“Pre-yoinked!”
Does that take some of the fun out of it for you?
“It does. Well observed. The thrill of the yoink is in the hunt. I was a bit let down.”
What did you do?
“I yoinked a bunch of merch. Cleared out half the table, then went outside and made people give me free shirts.”
You’re a predictable man.
“I like what I like.”
What’s on your monitor?
“Lyrics, sometimes.”
What about the other times?
“Truly tasteless jokes. Remember those books?”
Yeah. The paperbacks with all the jokes about dead babies and the disabled.
“Those. They come up randomly. Lotta fun. Hey, what’s worse than a pile of dead babies?”
Please don’t, Mickey.
“A pile of dead babies with one live one in the middle, chewing his way out.”
Dammit, man.
“Billy showed it to me. Lotta fun. How did Helen Keller burn her ear?”
Oh, not Helen Keller jokes.
“Answering the iron. Great little pieces of comedy there. Like I said–”
Lotta fun?
“–lotta fun.”
You drinking again?
“Not again. Still.”
Sure.

“Why are you doing Superman chest?”
“I like to. Makes me look powerful. I may have gotten old, but I can still kick your ass.”
“I know, Parish.”
“Not talking about the general ‘you,’ either. I meant you. If anything happens to Wolf, I’ll put you in hospice.”
“Jesus, man.”
“You would skip the hospital and go straight to the hospice. The violence would be overwhelming in both speed and breadth. I would be everywhere, and all at once.”
“Y’know, I do a bit of MMA training.”
“John, kid, I like you a lot. You’re family now, man. You’re helping to keep Garcia’s music alive, and I love that. But it would be like a polar bear raping a kitten.”
“Jesus, man.”
“And take all that shit off your right wrist, and shift your belt buckle around to the side.”
“Hold up now, buddy–
BOPPIN’ JOSH ON THE HEAD NOISE!
“Did you just Little Bunny Foo Foo me?”
“Yup.”
“Ow!”
“Be careful with the guitar.”
“I’m beginning to hate this deal.”
“Pray I don’t Little Bunny Foo Foo you any further.”
Not if you care for me.
In an interview with BBC News, the 14th Dalai Lama expressed controversial views on a female successor, while speaking on topics that range from President Trump to Brexit.
The Tibetan religious leader told BBC’s South Asian correspondent Rajini Vaidyanathan that “if female Dalai Lama comes, then she should be more attractive,” otherwise, “people, I think prefer, not see her, that face.”
Vaidyanathan questioned the basis of his comments and asked, “It’s about who we are inside, isn’t it?” The Dalai Lama replied, “Yes, I think both.”
These statements are a reiteration of his past comments back in a 2015 interview with BBC journalist Clive Myrie, stating that a prerequisite for a female Dalai Lama would be physical appeal, or else she would be of “not much use.” – Buzzfeed News, 6/28/19
“Your Holiness, thank you for speaking with me today.”
“You’re an everyday treat for me, Katy. Get up nine hours before dawn, don’t drink any coffee, meditate, hang out with Richard Gere, watch Katy Tur Live. I am a fan.”
“Wow. That’s incredible. I’m honored. Blown away.”
“You should always wear the glasses. The glasses kill me. They’re my thing.”
“Okay. Your Holiness, recently you’ve made comments suggesting that the next Dalai could be a woman, as long as she was beautiful.”
“Yuh-huh.”
“What did you mean by that?”
“Beautiful? You know: good face, plump where she should be, legs without a lot of weird pockmarks and divots. A fox.”
“A fox?”
“Absolutely. You can’t have an uggo as Dalai Lama. It’s in the rules.”
“There are rules?”
“Oh, yeah. Tons of ’em. Cant do PCP: that’s a rule. Not allowed to ride in the same helicopter as the Panchen Lama: that’s another rule. And if you’re a Dolly Lama, you’ve gotta be smoking.”
“Dolly Lama?”
“That is the proper spelling for a female Dalai Lama.”
“You’re making all of this up.”
“Oh, no. All in the rules.”
“May I see these rules?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They’re in Tibetan.”
“Your Holiness, I simply don’t understand what someone’s physical appearance has to do with their ability to fulfill a spiritual role.”
“Oh, c’mon, Katy. No one wants to sit through a sermon from a Two. You wanna bring in the followers, you need at least an Eight. At least. And she needs to be an Eight with a gimmick, like mammoth cans or something. Maybe a wonky eye, but it looks cute on her. Listen, I’ve talked to Tibetans. I’m out there on the streets reading the temperature of the crowd. And they just won’t accept a Dolly Lama who doesn’t make you pop a chubby. Maybe a semi.”
“I’m shocked by these comments.”
“Y’know who’d be great is that Margot Robbie chick. God, she’s so fucking hot. I wanna stick a straw up her ass and suck out her hot doody. She’s so hot I wanna throw her out of a plane.”
“Your Holiness.”
“Or Rhianna. Rhianna could totally be Dolly Lama. Shit, she’s hot. I wanna do to her face what Chris Brown did, but with my dick.”
“Your Holiness!”
“God hates ugly chicks, Katy. That is one of the core tenets of Buddhism.”
“It most certainly is not.”
“Core tenet”
“You’re terrible.”
“Oh, yeah. You’ve never read about me? I’m the worst.”
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