Weirder things have happened.
ALSO: Shockingly enough, this televised performance of a popular 1970’s rockyroll band is not from Germany.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 36 of 1031)
We have not, Enthusiasts, ventured into the Problem Attic recently; with all the creators and their creations being chucked up there lately, I thought it best to avoid the whole affair lest I be mistakenly consigned. Classic films and popular teevee shows have made the shameful crawl up those rickety stairs. Writers and actors, and a whole lot of stand-up comics, too. Not Kimmy Kimmel, but not for lack of trying.
But our interest is musicographical here, and so we concern ourself with the Problem Attic’s jukebox, which only takes dimes from Apartheid-era South Africa. A random sampling follows:
Hot Child in the City – Nick Gilder It’s about teenage prostitutes in Hollywood, and you can tell. Nick Gilder does not couch his topic in metaphor; he eschews euphemism. Just straight-up about teen hookers.
Every Picture Tells a Story – Rod Stewart You could get away with naming a character in a song “Shanghai Lil” today. Maybe a line about “She called me Glasgow Rod, and I called her Shanghai Lil.” That’d be hunky-dory. But you could not call Shanghai Lil a “slit-eyed lady” in the next verse. Your Coachella appearance would be cancelled within minutes if you released this ditty today. Still a bop, but it’s now a headphones bop.
Illegal Alien – Genesis This is what happens when you put Phil Collins in charge. Peter Gabriel wouldn’t have pulled this bullshit. Peter Gabriel would’ve dressed up like a mailbox and written a 20-minute song about Jesus.
Christine Sixteen – KISS Not right. This song is not right now, and it was not right then, and it was never right. “TotD,” you’ll say. “People used to get married at fifteen and die at 28. This song would’ve been all right then.”
SCHWINTZ!
I just buried a machete in your face. Do not question me. This shit is fucked up. You’re not allowed to describe girls you “saw coming out of school” as “young and clean.” If this song were a color, it would be lime-green: A bad look on anyone.
Brown Sugar – The Rolling Stones Ha! Fooled you! Brown Sugar is NOT in the Problem Attic. It should be! It should be there right next to Some Girls and Under My Thumb. But, due to the total incomprehensibility of Mick’s faux-gumbo yawping, the vast majority of the song’s fans don’t know any of the words except “How come you taste so good” and the “Woo woo woo, yeah” part at the end.
But do it in your living room. And when you stop dancing, stay the fuck in your living room. You can go outside when you run out of food, and then: Wear your fucking mask.
Corona delenda est.
You said it, muchacho.
- Meth-related incident.
- Publix-related incident.
- Hurricane-related incident. (This metric does not count those who died as a direct result of the storm’s effects. Instead, this category is for the victims of hurricane party massacres, and folks who set up their generators in the living room and asphyxiate, and all the battery-eaters. Every hurricane, Floridians buy up all the batteries in the state, and every hurricane, a small-but-not-tiny percentage of said Floridians eat the batteries. The Health Department runs PSA warning not to on the news every night, but there’s no getting through to some people.)
- Plowed into on 441 by a 82-year-old in a Lexus SUV whose mask went up over her eyes.
- Carl Hiassen-esque hijinks.
- Beheaded in Space Mountain.
- Attack Baby. (Florida is chockablock full of Attack Babies. They’re like Drop Bears, but babies. If you encounter one, go all-out. Do not pull your punches with an Attack Baby! Running should be your first choice, but if you’re forced to tangle with one of the malicious little droolers: Apply as much force as you can muster.)
- Drunkenly crash into a light pole, wander confused from car, fall into a canal, get et up by gators.
- Go out for a evening walk, stray too close to a lake, get et up by gators.
- Bolt every door, lock every window, activate the security system, and yet still get et up by gators while you sleep.
- .45 caliber-sized hole punched in your skull while you’re reading the Sun-Sentinel on your lanai because your neighbor is allowed to set up a fully-operational gun range in his yard. (This one’s not a joke. An honest argument can be conducted regarding the topic of the worst state, but Florida is inarguably the stupidest state.)
- Oh, God, the polo ponies are loose.
- Poisoned Cuban sandwich.
Créeme.
Precarious?
“Yo.”
What the fuck?
“The monitor situation?”
Yeah.
“This was Mickey’s idea. He wanted to give the crowd a chance to adjust the levels. He said it would break down the barrier between the band and the audience, or some shit like that.”
How did it work?
“Poorly. Y’see those footlights?”
Yes.
“They burn at around 800 degrees. A couple kids’ arms straight-up melted to the bulb.”
That’s not what you want.
“That’s not what anyone wants.”
Ray Davies has written some unbearably sad songs.
In collaboration with North Coast Organics, the Grateful Dead have launched a line of deodorant, yes deodorant. It might seem off-brand, but for the rock legends who were long labeled as hippies, a vegan line of deodorant is kind of fitting. – CNN, 6/21/20
- Uncle John’s Sweat Gland.
- Really Expensive Weed.
- Armpits of the World.
- Billy! (It smells like Billy. And not freshly-showered Billy. Post-show Billy.)
- Stank’s Gone.
- Smoking Leather. (Manly, sure, but she likes it, too.)
- Frankincense Tower.
- New, New, New Cedarwood Blues.
- High Thyme.
- One More Saturday Night (Of Smelling Lovely).
- Speed Stick, But There’s Actual Speed In It.
- Lady Soccer Player’s Used Cleats. (Mickey insisted.)
- Workingman’s Stench.
- Heady Grilled Cheese.
- Peggy-Ozonic.
“Good morning to the press and also to the alligators which, according to the Florida constitution, must be housed in the Governor’s Mansion. I’d also like to say good morning to our state’s brave warrior cops. We love cops here; everyone knows that. All the best Cops episodes were shot in Florida; everyone knows that, too. And I’d like to say good morning to the wonderful folks over at Disney World, which will be opening July 11th and I am officially declaring free of not just Corona, but all terrestrial diseases. Nobody dies at Disney World!
“Thanks to my strong leadership, which is predicated upon President Trump’s belief in me, Florida has been almost entirely spared from the ravages of the ronus. You can thank me by reelecting me, and by ignoring my blatant and easily-provable corruption. Now, I know there’s been a spate of fake news lately about our cases going up, but once again: fake news. Hocus pocus, corona’s a jokus. That’s a spell I learned from a Seminole healer. It bends reality to your will. Nice to have in your pocket.
“There’s gonna be people throwing numbers around, but you can’t trust numbers. The Nazis used to tattoo numbers on Jews’ forearms, for Christ’s sake! Numbers are bad news. I like common sense. And my common sense says Go to the casino. Why would my common sense tell me that if it was dangerous? And I trust my gut, too. I’d like to pretend everything was fine, my gut says. I’m not gonna argue with my gut. It’s a lot smarter than some guy with ‘numbers’ and ‘science.’
“Could the print reporters please note that I did the air-quotes gesture when I said ‘numbers’ and ‘science?’ Thanks.
“To sum up my first point: corona shmorona. This is Florida. Everyone who isn’t 80 is a lunatic. People die here a lot. A couple hundred more isn’t a big deal. We can eat that hit.
“Second point: Because of my success at battling the coronavirus, we can now move to Phase III of the reopening. Many of you have asked about the precise metrics we used to make the decision, and I’ll answer that thusly: Seems like time, doesn’t it? It’s enough with the staying home. Most of our children have gone semi-feral. And the economy! Why does the poor economy have to suffer? It doesn’t even exist! Virus can’t do nothing to an economy! It’s cruel to allow that, so all the bargain shoe stores which were kinda grody even before the plague need to reopen.
“Phase III will also legalize the killing of mask-wearers. You’re at Publix and some lady’s got an N95 on? Beat her to death with your shopping cart. You can do that now, because you have freedom. I love freedom.
“Another proviso of Phase III is that water park attendance is gonna be mandatory. Within the next month, every Floridian must visit their local Flumeteria and partake in the wet, wild fun. And there’s gonna be shared bathing suits.
“Social distancing is now forbidden. We are mandating frottage. Everybody just rub up on each other.
“We are reopening Florida. Restaurants, retail, barbershops and gyms. The depressing roadside zoos. The semi-licensed elective surgical centers. The antique shops full of racist crap. The Maserati dealerships. The kava bars. The bait shops where you can also buy meth. The gator farms. The landing strips which aren’t on any map. You know: Florida.
“To celebrate the great news, all Duffy’s locations will be doing a two-for-one burger deal. Which is a tremendous deal, because Duffy’s does a burger that’ll beat the band. And just to cut off your very silly questions at the pass: No, I was not paid by Duffy’s to do an ad for them. I’m the Governor. That would be illegal. Duffy’s did contribute to a discretionary fund which I have access to, but no legal responsibility for. Which is legal. I know it’s legal because we made it legal about six months ago. Tallahassee politics are a thing to see, man.
“Another thing: I am super-psyched for the upcoming Republican National Convention, which has been moved to Jacksonville because we pleased the Allfather. He favors us. We’re gonna have so much fun, and bask in his glory, and it’s just gonna be a shindig. A real shindig. But I need to say this clearly and publicly: Even the mildest of protest will be met with psychotic overreaction. If you go to the arena and start chanting about lives mattering, the police are gonna shoot you in the face with a bazooka. Immediately. There will be no command to disperse. You’re getting your command to disperse right now from me. I will let the National Guard off the leash. Don’t test me, muchachos.
“And, finally, if everyone could stick their fingers in as many strangers’ mouths as possible, I’d really appreciate it.
“Oh! I forgot: Sneeze-guards are now illegal. Restaurants and supermarkets need to remove them from buffets and salad bars by Friday. God bless America and the great state of Florida!”
Enthusiasts, are you sitting down? You must! What I’m about to tell you will positively knock your socks and shoes off, and most likely your feet, too. Up to mid-calf! Imagine a horizontal guillotine blade schwipping through your home at, say, 18 inches off the ground. That’s the kind of news I have for you. That’s the kind of offer I’m about to make to you.
Are you ready?
…
Seriously, prepare your loins and glands.
…
Here we go: SUPER-BALOGNA. Sure, 85% of you are already in, and scrolling down to find the Donation Button, but in case you’re a chowderhead who can’t recognize a world-thrashing idea when presented with one, hear me out: What makes super-balogna so super?
IT’S ALSO SALAMI.
Did your legs fall off? I warned you. I told you what would happen when I laid my genius upon you. (Remember: the New Yorker has officially recognized my genius.) You don’t have legs now, well: that’s your fault, fucker. I’m talking super-balogna here. Not only is it also salami, which should be more than enough to impress anyone, it also accepts sandwich spreads 30% more efficiently than normal. It sucks the mustard up, man.
So: I’m gonna need some angel investors, and access to a slaughterhouse. Plus at least a couple hundred undocumented workers. I don’t think you can send me illegal aliens through the mail, so–
Jesus, man.
–maybe you can rent a U-Haul and pack a bunch of ’em in and point the truck southwards.
Stop this.
I won’t! What if someone told George Washington Carver to stop fucking around with peanuts? He revolutionized lunch, and so will I.
Everyone’s right. Everyone’s right, and you’re wrong. When people–nice people who make their points politely–bring up the fact that this site is supposed to be about the Dead, and yet contains dumb-ass bullshit like this almost exclusively…well, they’re right, man. It’s in the fucking title. Thoughts on the DEAD. And then the picture is of Garcia. And under that is a sub-heading in which you explicitly promise that Grateful Dead-related material will be forthcoming. But there isn’t. There’s just whatever the fuck this is.
Super-balogna!
Shut the fuck up. Please, just shut the fuck up.
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