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

Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 34 of 1031)

A Partial Transcript Of Dr. Anthony Fauci’s Congressional Testimony, 6/30/20

GAVEL NOISE!

“Settle down, settle down. Hey! Jordan! Knock it off with the wedgies.”

“Cry about it, pussy.”

“You’re not even a member of this committee!”

“And yet I still banged your mom.”

GAVEL NOISE!

“Just shut up. I’m calling this hearing to order. For the reporters in attendance, I am the Chair, Frank Pallone from New Jersey. I don’t blame you for not knowing who I am. Anyhoo: this morning, the House Energy & Commerce Committee will hear updates on the United States’ pandemic response from Dr. Anthony Fauci. Thank you for coming, Dr. Fauci.”

“It’s nice to be anywhere that Jared Kushner can’t reach me. That young man is full of notions. They’re not quite ideas. Notions. And, uh, he likes to call and pitch them to me.”

“Can you share any of these notions with the committee?”

“Not specifically, but the theme of most of them was ‘Let’s negotiate with the virus.'”

“Can one negotiate with a virus?”

“One cannot.”

“Dr. Fauci, can you give us a snapshot of how the country’s doing today?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. A snapshot taken of the nation currently would almost certainly be one of those haunted photographs from a Stephen King story where the monster gets closer every time you look at it. Or it would suck you into a perpendicular dimension or something.”

“No one wants that.”

“You’d think.”

“What about a summation?”

“I can do that: We’re super-fucked. Two more weeks of this? Super-duper-fucked. And that’s my professional opinion. I would write that on a chart.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Jesus.”

“I will yield to my distinguished colleagues for questions, then. Chair recognizes Mr. McKinley from West Virginia.”

“Thank you, northern scum. Good morning, Doctor…Fah-OOSY? Fakey?”

“FOW-chi.”

“What an exotic name! We ain’t got names like that back in the holler. You must be Eye-talian.”

“I am of Italian descent, Congressman.”

“Lotta folks think Eye-talians are white. A lotta people think that.”

“All right, then. I got just one question for you, Doc.”

“I look forward to answering it.”

“It’s multi-part, and is more of an ‘easily-avoidable conversational trap’ than a ‘question,’ but I’m gonna just plow ahead. Doc, it has ben reported that you are a lifelong fan of the New York Yankees.”

“That is true.”

“Dr. Fucky–”

“Fauci.”

“–in 2009, you believed that the Yankees had won the World Series the previous year.”

“I did.”

“And yet by 2010, you no longer believed that the Yankees had won the World Series the previous year.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which is it, sir? How can anyone trust you when your opinion changed so rapidly?”

“My beliefs adjusted to match the facts of reality.”

“Or maybe you’re just a liar who hates the economy?”

GAVEL NOISE

“Enough! The Chair demands that the Congressman stop berating the witness.”

“I’ll fuck that boy up.”

GAVEL NOISE!

“Stop that! You’re silenced. Dr. Fauci, I apologize for my colleague’s accusations.”

“No worries. Once again: This is so much better than my day-to-day work. You know that every single time the Corona Task Force meets, Bill Barr bursts into the room like the Kool-Aid Man and starts whaling us with tennis balls? Guy’s got a cannon on him. Why do you think Birx always wears a scarf? It’s because Barr aims for the neck.”

“That’s the single most unprofessional thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“It doesn’t further our work. I’ll leave it at that. Let’s leave it at that.”

BRILLO-HEADED “LIBERTARIAN” DOOFUS FALLING FROM THE DROP CEILING NOISE

“Oh, for God’s sake, Senator Paul.”

“I’m in!”

“You could’ve used the door.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? To take away my right to infiltrate a House hearing via the ducting system, Die Hard-style?”

“That’s not a right. That is absolutely not a right.”

“YOU’RE A STATIST, PALOOKA!”

“Pallone.”

“PEPPERONI!”

“I’m gonna need everyone to knock it off with the anti-Italian racism right now, thank you. Why are you here, Senator Paul?”

“Me and Fauci are going nose-to-nose, man. It’s Go Time.”

“It is not Go Time, Rand.”

“I DEMAND THAT GO TIME BE RECOGNIZED!”

“If I give you five minutes, will you leave afterwards?”

“Yes, but only if I’m allowed to take the ducts.”

“Fine.”

“And I’m gonna need a boost back up to the ceiling.”

“Fine, you can have a boost. Five minutes.”

“Thank you. Dr. Fauci, I don’t have a bone to pick with you, I got the entire skeleton.”

PAUSE FOR LAUGHTER THAT DOES NOT COME NOISE

“Lotta bones in a skeleton.”

“Yes, Senator.”

“Dr. Fauci, all I hear from you is bad news. The American people, who are all just aces in my book, are getting tired of your attitude. You’re a bring-down, man. You’re, like, a mope.”

“Senator, I try to convey the facts as we know them in a clear and concise manner. The news right now is not good. Y’know how people say ‘I got good news and I got bad news?’ Well, the only way our pandemic response could be the good news is if the other news was the Holocaust. Or the Siege of Stalingrad. Something like that.”

“There you go. That’s the attitude I was talking about. Last week, President Trump was asked whether he was concerned about Covid spreading at his rallies? And he said ‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’ See how optimistic that sounds?”

“I would not classify that remark as ‘optimistic’.”

“Where’s my baseball, Fauci? Why’d you kill baseball, you sonofabitch?”

“I did not ‘kill’ baseball, Senator. All decisions about this year’s season have been made by the league, and I only consulted–”

“I WANT MY BASEBALL BACK! Only thing I look forward to anymore, man. I don’t have to talk to my wife for months. I fucking love baseball. Gimme back my baseball.”

“Senator–”

“I’ll suck your dick.”

“Senator–”

“I’ll work your buttonhole while I throat you. I know what I’m doing, man. Just gimme my baseball back.”

“Chair, is that five minutes?”

“Even it isn’t, let’s say it was. Who’s up for a recess?”

GAVEL NOISE!

An Imagined Conversation Between Pete Townshend And Ray Davies

“I wrote a concept album, I did.”

“Spiffy. From 1968 to 1975, I wrote, like, seven concept albums in a row, none of which made the tiniest bit of sense. One of ’em I spread over two double-records.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I kind of invented not giving a fuck.”

“No argument here. Any of ’em sell?”

“The one with Lola on it.”

“What about the other six?”

“Couldn’t give ’em away.”

“Sounds right.”

People Who Don’t Need To Wear Masks

BRADS PITT The Brads Pitt among us are excused from covering up their peachy punims in any way, as it would be a shonda. I am here using “Brad Pitt” as a synecdoche for the stupidly beautiful, and also pluralizing his name in a semi-humorous fashion.

TODDLERS You can’t even get those goofy little bastards to wear pants half the time, so trying to keep their masks on is just an exercise in futility. Nephew on the Dead won’t even allow a hat on his head without flinging it, hard, at one of his parents within seconds; he ain’t masking up. Just keep the tykes inside as much as possible and keep washing ’em down. (WARNING: Spitting on your fingers and scraping their face half-off is NOT RECOMMENDED during the Covid pandemic. Plus, kids hate that shit, man. Don’t do that to them.)

THE FACELESS Don’t have a face, don’t have to wear a mask. That’s just math.

PEOPLE WITH BREATHING PROBLEMS Although if you have an underlying respiratory ailment so severe that a piece of cloth with the thickness of a cheap tee-shirt can inhibit your breathing, you probably shouldn’t be going out at all right now, huh?

SHAMPOO-HEADS There are approximately 100,000 Americans who, through either science or magick, have had their entire heads replaced with an equivalent mass of shampoo, specifically Suave Tropical Coconut. They are exempt from facial-covering regulations because how would that even work, man? How you gonna put a mask on a skull-shaped blob of shampoo? Can’t be done, muchacho!

TORTOISES Tortoises aren’t people, guy. Says right in the title that we’re discussing people.

DEAD ZEBRAS Well, fucking obviously. Dead zebras are dead, and they’re zebras. Two reasons why they’re exempt, guy

BURGER EXPRESS Guy! Are you talking about the burger joint that Mother on the Dead used to take Brother on the Dead and me when we were kids? The train-themed place? It closed in 1988, guy. And it was a restaurant. Didn’t need a mask. No respiratory processes.

BOOF Are you talking about shoving drugs up your butthole, or the girl-next-door character from Teen Wolf?

BOOF Answer the question, guy.

BOOF I DON’T LIKE YOUR TONE, GUY!

We’ll finish up here, huh?

That bold asshole is no good. Not a team player.

He does seem to have his own agenda.

There’s gonna be some new rules around here very soon.

Good to hear, guy.

A Tale Of Two Cities

(Originally posted under the title One Night In America on 6/11/ 16)

 

If you were a snazzy dude or a stone-cold fox in Santa Rosa, CA, on 6/28/69, you were in luck. The Grateful damned Dead was in town and for the price of a ticket, or a boost up the venue’s drainpipe, you could kick the shit off your rock and roll shoes. You could get down, or get high, or get busy, or get real loose with it, or you could get into some real heavy shit. The cops would give you the stink-eye, and pick off the dumb and unlucky, but mostly it was a summer night in America and you could fall in love.

If you were gay in Manhattan and wanted a drink, you were fucked. I mean: you could purchase a beverage. You just couldn’t be gay while you drank it; it was illegal. And actually, the beverage itself probably was illegal, as the only bars that catered to homosexuals were owned by the mob. An establishment that tolerated homosexual behavior would get its liquor license pulled, and there were undercover cops scouring the city looking for enclaves of gays and lesbians who had the temerity to be thirsty and want to dance to the jukebox. A legitimate restaurateur needed his license, so even if he were sympathetic (or secretly gay himself), he wouldn’t permit gayness in his place.

Criminals, on the other hand, couldn’t give a shit about licenses, and they owned the gay bars.  Every week, the local precinct’s bagman would swing by for his payment, and every month or so, a bunch of cops would swing by to arrest people: men for dancing with one another, or women for wearing “un-feminine” clothing. These bars were terrible and filthy places with stolen and watered-down liquor, and the worst bathrooms in Manhattan until CBGB’s opened. One place, the Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street, didn’t have running water.

Veteran’s Auditorium in Santa Rosa had running water. The kids could dance, and wear whatever the hell they wanted.

The undercover cops I mentioned? They’d hit on guys, and arrest them for responding. The paper would print your name and address the next day, and lawyers wouldn’t take your case. And–and this is the important part right here–society was happy to see you get what you deserved, fairy. You weren’t a criminal. You were the crime.

A drink in a clean, well-lighted place. A dance floor, and dimes for the Wurlitzer. It isn’t too much to ask.

On June 28th, 1969–probably at exactly the same time the kids in Santa Rosa were doing exactly what they wanted to do–the cops raided the Stonewall, where the kids were not allowed to do what they wanted.

I called them kids.

They were.

The busts were usually peaceful, but not this night; the riot lasted three days and sparked the modern gay rights movement. People will only eat shit for so long, and there are stories of drag queens ripping up the sidewalks to throw chunks of paving stones at cops. I hope those stories are true, but there’s no tape. Not even an AUD.

’69 was a long time ago, but not that long, and society’s come far, but not far enough. The finish line keeps moving itself backwards, it seems.

Some people like to go to Dead shows, and some people like to go to gay bars; they’re the same thing: something to drink, and someplace to dance, and people who understand you. Maybe even want to kiss you. Somewhere you could let your light shine.

It isn’t too much to ask.

It Was The Least We Could Do

In response to the Black Lives Matters protests of the past weeks and months, the following changes have been made:

  • Pearl Jam’s Ten rereleased without the song Black.
  • The Woodrow Wilson School of Public Policy renamed the Mookie Wilson School of Public Policy.
  • Mel Gibson only permitted to star in one movie a year instead of “however many he wants.”
  • 7/11/69 deleted from the Archive. (Look it up yourself, but keep it to yourself, too.)
  • Chocolate Rain is now the National Anthem, but not Phish’s version.
  • Colin Kaepernick allowed to take any job he wants, even if he’s entirely unqualified for it, like deep-sea salvage work or kidney surgery.
  • “Black cat crossing your path” now lucky.
  • If you watch Gone With The Wind on HBO Max, you will now see a disclaimer explaining the context of the film’s creation, and also a laser beam will shoot from the screen about 45 minutes in, hit you in the forehead, and poach your frontal lobe.
  • “John Wayne Airport” renamed the “Wig-Wearing Bitch Who Didn’t Serve In WWII And Was Actually Named Marion Airport.”
  • All Cracker Barrels replaced with Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles.
  • Johnny Walker rejiggers their ranking system so that Black Label is now the good stuff instead of the second-worst swill.
  • Confederate Statue, an unfortunately named women from Topeka, thrown into a lake.

In response to the Black Lives Matters protests of the past weeks and months, the following changes have not been made:

  • Anything, like, important.
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