Funniest part of American Gangster: Tie between Armand Assante’s acting and Russel Crowe playing a Jew.
Funkiest part of American Gangster: this song.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 137 of 1031)
Mickey’s selling doobies, because of course he is, and I’m not writing about it until I get a sample. Or at least a tin. The tin’s nice.
“Thoughts on my Ass!”
Hey, Billy. Signing guitars?
“Nah. Drawing dicks on ’em.”
Why?
“I draw dicks on stuff. It’s, like, my thing. Drew one on New Brent’s back the other day.”
His name is Jeff Chimenti.
“Fucker cried. I guess I drew too hard or something. Whatever. Fuck him and his hair.”
Those guitars are for charity, right?
“I got no idea what they do with ’em. Don’t give a shit, either. I get a hundred apiece. Cash.”
You’re charging for this?
“Shit, yeah. I charge for everything now. Remember when I worked out with Bobby?”
Yeah.
“Made him Venmo me $700.”
You’ve become mercenary with age, Billy.
“Nah, I was like this when I was a kid.”
True.
This is unacceptable.
“The rando or the makeup?”
Is he wearing white jeans?
“Yes.”
Both. Both the rando and the makeup are unacceptable.
“The makeup is fun and vibrant.”
You look like Vinnie Vincent.
“I do not look like Vinnie Vincent.”
Have Mark Slaughter and Dana Strum recently left your solo band, The Vinnie Vincent Invasion, because of your shitty attitude and thieving ways?
“No.”
You sure? Cuz you look like Vinnie Vincent, dude.
“You can’t bring down my good mood, man.”
Holy shit, does the rando have the Twin Towers on his shirt?
…
“Goddammit.”
You need a Parish.
“The, uh, boss man said–”
No.
“–that he had a steam drill comin’ round.”
Stop it.
“And, uh, if I should die with my hammer in my hand, then my wife–”
Natasha Monster.
“–will pick it up and finish my work. And then maybe do some hot yoga.”
You look mythic.
“That’s what GQ said.”
How do they fuck?
OR
“Honey, your ribs are caught on mine again.”
“Shit.”
“Move for–”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“–ward a little. No.”
“Twist your torso.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“My back.”
“My back. My back. Jesus, you’re a goddamned woman, Albert.”
“FUCK YOU, HENRIETTA!”
Deadicated was a lot better than you remember it being, and the Doctor’s version of Deal was one of the highlights.
Stop rambling and stop gambling
Quit staying out late at night
Go home to your wife and your family
Sit down by a fireside bright.
Quit staying out late at night
Go home to your wife and your family
Sit down by a fireside bright.
“Jenkins!”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s been so long since we’ve spoken.”
“It has, sir.”
“Are your children still ugly?”
“They were never ugly, sir.”
“Oh, no. Wretched looking beasts. A hundred years ago, you would have sold them to the first carnival that came to town. And gotten good money for them, too!”
“I know you didn’t call me in here to talk about my children, sir.”
“I saw the shirt for Summer Tour and couldn’t help thinking of their mangled, disfigured faces.”
“Sir.”
“Montgomery Clift had a better face.”
“Sir.”
“I’m talking about after the accident, Jenkins.”
“Obviously, sir. We were discussing the shirt.”
“Shirt!”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s just terrible, Jenkins. I believe the human torso would reject it. Like a baboon’s heart. Your skin would puff up and slough off, and I won’t even bring up the nipples.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“They won’t know what hit them! They’ll flee! Like a Spaniard from soap, they’ll flee.”
“I had hoped we could get through this tour without the overt racism.”
“Hope in one hand and trust a Laotian with your wallet in the other. See where that gets you.”
“What could you possibly have against Laos, sir?”
“They’re Gummo! They’re the Gummo of Southeast Asia, Jenkins. Thailand is your Groucho, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Vietnam and Cambodia are Harpo and Chico, respectively. But Laos? Those bastards are the Gummo. Won’t abide a Gummo, Jenkins!”
“Sir, the shirt.”
“Shirt!”
“The design is influenced by a fashion movement called Streetwear.”
“Yes, it looks like something a street person would wear.”
“No, sir. Streetwear. This specifically is douchecore.”
“You’re confabulating again, Jenkins!”
“Oh, Douchecore is an offshoot of schmuck couture. It’s fashion that only complete tools would buy. $800 sweatpants with giant crotches. Genuine authentic reproductions of 1994 Charlotte Hornet shell jackets. Chipmunkers.”
“Chipmunker?”
“A chipmunker is a shirt that goes down to your knees with your first initial on the front.”
“Let’s suicide, Jenkins. You and I. We’ll suicide together. This world is broken and sad, and your children are shoggoths. Let’s finally do it, man.”
“No, sir.”
“Fine. I’ll go it alone. Drive me to the nearest pit of quicksand, Jenkins.”
“No, sir.”
“And make sure there are no low-hanging vines, or long snakes that could be mistaken for vines. No escape for me this time.”
“Sir, the shirt.”
“Shirt! Oh, I can’t bear to look at it. Jenkins, get over here and blast my eyes. I know you usually blast your own, but this is a special occasion. I won’t fight back. Come and blast my eyes.”
“I couldn’t do that, sir.”
“Ha! Excellent reaction, Jenkins. It was a trick. Had you approached me, I would have stapled your dick to your leg. You’re not as stupid as your children look.”
“Sir–”
“In addition to being ugly, your children are also stupid-looking.”
“Sir–”
“They’re thick-lipped, and wary of both fact and theorem.”
“Shirt.”
“Shirt! Fooey Jenkins. I call fooey on the whole enterprise.”
“So noted, sir.”
“At least jack the price way up.”
“We’re charging $65 for them.”
“Well, then, I think they’re beautiful!”
It should go without saying that TotD is firmly and immovably on Team Bette; above is footage of the Divine One performing at the Continental Baths in ’71 (with Barry Manilow on piano); below is a shot of her giving Basketball Head the finger.
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