The Rolling Stones have been old for my entire lifetime. Also, the slip-sliding image effect was incredibly expensive and impressive in 1998.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 52 of 1031)
“Good afternoon, America. I’m Katy Tur, and I’ve seen Keith Olbermann turn Japanese. If you don’t understand that reference, I’m not explaining it to you. This is Day 41 of quarantine, and all our pets hate us. Below my Zoom frame, I’m wearing a pair of soiled men’s boxer shorts which, even though they come down to my knee, do not hide the overgrown thatch that is now my lady-garden. Also, I am half-drunk.”
“I’m doubling down on that last one!”
“That raised bet comes from the Mayor of Las Vegas, Carolyn Goodman. Mayor Goodman, thank you for coming on the show.”
“Me and Darryl thank you for having us.”
“Darryl?”
“I am referring, of course, to my adult milkshake.”
ADULT MILKSHAKE BEING BRANDISHED SEMI-THREATENINGLY ON A ZOOM CALL NOISE
“It is equal parts strawberry ice cream and strawberry Kahlúa, so I named it after Mets great Darryl Strawberry. I suppose the the doctors are gonna say this is bad for me, too!”
“They almost certainly would.”
“Well, fooey on them! I’m gonna suck on my Darryl and open up my city.”
“Okay, let’s get into that. You have made several statements recently saying that you want to reopen Las Vegas, despite the dangers of the coronavirus. Currently, the state of Nevada–”
“Nuh-vaaaaaaaaaaaaah-da.”
“–has almost 1500 cases of Covid and almost 200 deaths.”
“200 deaths? You ever been to North Las Vegas? We do that in knife fights on a Tuesday. Not even the weekend, Katy. Tuesday!”
“I don’t know if you do, Mayor.”
“What we’re talking about here is freedom, Katy. And liberty. Don’t forget about the liberty. People always remember the part about freedom, but liberty gets left out, and that’s not right. Freedom and liberty. And the economy. Freedom, liberty, the economy.”
…
“Were you making a point?”
“I made three! Freedom, liberty, the economy.”
“Sure. So you think the casinos should be open?”
“Of course they should. If people are gonna be stuck in their homes with nothing to do, then they should at least be able to come to Vegas. That just makes sense.”
“It doesn’t. Mayor Goodman, just today it was reported that the coronavirus can be spread through air conditioning. Casinos generally do keep the air on, don’t they?”
“Katy, I saw the article you’re talking about, and it doesn’t apply to Las Vegas. What you’re describing happened in China.”
“And?”
“And anyone who’s ever had a Chinese 21 dealer knows those people are just bad luck.”
“Ignorant. Ignorant and offensive.”
“Las Vegas is a special town, and so we will put in special rules to protect our visitors as long as their credit checks out.”
“Such as?”
“Well, blowing on the dice is out. No more of that. And Britney Spears is being deep-cleaned. I’ve also issued an order to keep the victims of the next mass shooting at least six feet from one another.”
“That got dark.”
“Not as dark as the Strip! You should see it, Katy. It’s like a dog that wants to be petted. Hotels looking so sad. And the owners! My God, the owners are in the dumps. Steve Wynn hasn’t sent me a blurry, off-centered dick pic in weeks.”
“Mayor Goodman–”
“Weeks, Katy!”
“–no one is worried about the casino owners. People are worried about the casino workers.”
“They’ll be fine.”
“What reasons do you have for believing that?”
“Two: my gut and my Darryl.”
ADULT MILKSHAKE BEING SLURPED NOISE
“Man, that’s some good Darryl.”
“Mayor Goodman, every legitimate scientist and doctor has warned against opening up our cities just yet.”
“There you go. You gotta ask some quacks.”
“What?”
“All the doctors I know are the kind who take bullets out of people in the back of vet’s offices at three in the morning, and all of them are fully in favor of opening up the casinos.”
“We shouldn’t listen to them. Ma’am, Las Vegas is an entirely tourism-based economy. Aren’t you worried about visitors bringing the coronavirus back with them when they go home?”
“Katy, whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. That includes contracting the coronavirus.”
“It does not!”
“Who are you to argue with a slogan?”
“Mayor Goodman, do you have any concrete plans at all to keep visitors safe if–and this is a big if–the casinos reopen?”
“I would advise them never to split tens, and just stay the hell away from roulette.”
“Physically safe, ma’am. Not safe bets.”
“Oh, no.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Katy, this is Vegas. We take chances here! Let’s gamble!”
“You don’t gamble with other people’s lives.”
“Now, that’s simply not true. I have wagered several of my maids.”
“That’s terrible.”
“I do have a backup plan.”
“Which is?”
“Betting-by-mail.”
“That sounds absurd.”
“Oh, it’s fine to vote by mail, but a free American can’t get some action for the price of a stamp? That’s communism.”
“Mayor Goodman, the fact is that you simply do not have the authority to reopen the casinos on the Strip.”
“No, but I do have the power to kidnap Lady Gaga and force her to continue her residency.”
“You do not have that power.”
“I should not have said ‘power.’ I meant ‘ability.’ I have the ability to have Lady Gaga kidnapped and forced to perform.”
“How?”
“My husband is a giant mobster.”
“Ma’am, your husband Oscar Goodman was a lawyer to the mob.”
“Katy, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret: lawyers to the mob are totally in the mob.”
“Mayor Goodman, we’ve left the subject.”
“The subject is that we have to stop paying attention to wiener scientists and get the hell back in the sports book. We’re Las Vegas! The whole town is based on the fact that most people are bad at math! Let’s open up those casinos and let ‘er ride!”
“If the casinos opened up tomorrow, would you be there?”
“Good God, no! One of those unlucky Chinese dealers might cough on me!”
STRAW SUCKING THE LAST BITS FROM AN ADULT MILKSHAKE NOISE
“That sound means mama needs a new Darryl.”
“Lovely talking to you, Mayor.”
[ED. NOTE: My version is maybe–MAYBE–ten percent stupider than the real thing. Maybe ten.)
A reader writes in…
Dear TotD,
Greetings and salutations. Actually, wait. Greetings or salutations. Pick one or the other. Don’t be such a greedy fuck all the time.
Long story short: I have murdered my entire family. Spouse, children, a beagle named Trevor. All dead. It was not a premeditated act in the sense that I had formulated a plan, but I had wanted to do it for months. Their deaths cannot be blamed strictly on the quarantine, but it sure didn’t help.
You should know that they went painlessly, except for Trevor. I hated that fucking dog. I took my time.
Anyhoo, here’s my question: What to do now? I would prefer very strongly to not be punished for my crime. Or crimes. I mean, the lawyers would probably say “crimes,” but in my mind the massacre was of a piece. Oh, English! You befuddler!
Sincerely,
Finally Getting Some Peace And Fucking Quiet In Cincinnati
To which I respond…
Dear FGSPAFQIC
I choose “greetings,” as it is an honest word of Germanic origin, not the snooty Latinate birth of “salutations.”
Interesting news about your family. I am proud of your effort; many are falling into sluggish depressions during their self-isolation, but not you. That’s called work ethic, and it built America.
Furthermore, I cast no moral judgement upon your act. Maybe your family were all serial killers, or Nazi war criminals. There is a small, but distinctly non-zero, chance that your spouse, children, and beagle named Trevor needed killing. That’s life, man. Sometimes families, and beagles, need to die. More evidence is required before I call you a hero, but I am prepared to do so if the facts turn out in your favor.
I am, however, sad to say that you have chosen possibly the worst moment of the past century to murder your loved ones. All of your neighbors are home, bored, and nosey; they will notice you dragging bodies out to the car, or burying them in the backyard. You could bury ’em at night, you’re thinking, but you shouldn’t. Digging is much louder than you imagine it is.
Your best bet is arson. Soak the corpses in gasoline–
Shut the fuck up.
–which is real cheap now, and HEY! WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT THE BLOCK QUOTES?
Shut the fuck up. Just shut the fuck up.
DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO WHEN I’M IN BLOCK QUOTES! THAT’S MY SAFE SPACE
Shut the fuck up.
Aw, man. What did I tell you about using the Time Sheath to quarantine in the past?
“It’s much more fun here. Much more crowded.”
Yeah, there’s no pandemic in…when are you?
“Early 2000’s, I think. Did, uh, we ever decide what to call that decade?”
As a society, we still have not come to a consensus.
“Maybe you should use the time indoors to think one up. Get that problem dealt with.”
Please stop hopping back in time every time you feel cooped-up. You might bring the ronus with you. And you can’t definitely can’t give it to Anthony Kiedis. That guy would make Patient Zero look like Emily Dickinson.
“He’s friendly. Not much of a fan of the Rooty-Tooty Booty Scooters, but he’s congenial as all get out. Warm conversationalist.”
Yes, and when he leaves your presence, he will go an fuck an entire AA meeting. The man’s a vector.
“What about Woody?”
Does he shake hands or hug?
“The embraces are deep and intimate.”
Stay away from him, too. Like, 80% of carriers are asymptomatic. You might be sick and not know it, and now you’re infecting the temporal stream. This is the kinda shit that draws Time Cops.
“Woody said it was okay.”
Don’t tell Woody Harrelson you have a Time Sheath.
“Oh, he’s known for years.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Hold on. It might be myself from quarantine.”
What?
…
“Weir here.”
“Here, too.”
“I’ve been expecting this call. You left the remote in the kitchen.”
…
“Yup, here it is. Tell Woody I say hi.”
“Will do.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
…
That was fucking weird.
“Time travel’s a real puzzler.”
A reader writes…
Dear TotD,
Good morning, or afternoon, or evening, or perhaps you have bathed the stink of time from your skin and now exist all at once. I do so enjoy your semi-regular semi-humor. It has become the only non-terrifying part of the internet. Kudos!
Allow me to get to the point: My name is Pretty Albert Cookies, and I am a professional sporting gentleman. I love making connections between people! To this end, I now find myself trapped at home with four women whose affections I professionally manage. It has been three weeks, and they are colluding furiously. I fear mutiny.
TotD, how can I maintain my pimp hand under quarantine?
Dictated But Not Read,
Pretty Albert Cookies.
And I respond…
Dear Pretty Albert Cookies,
Time still enslaves me, but thank you for believing my will ferocious enough to buck its chains.
I will get right to your query, as it concerns your pimp hand, which is the more important of hands. Had your letter referenced your unpimped hand, it may have been tossed aside, but I believe in the sanctity of the pimp hand and will always assist a brother in need.
Two paths lay before us: the physical and the emotional. Do not neglect the physical, Pretty Albert Cookies! When was the last time you went upside someone’s head? Or stood over one of your associates with your pimp hand cocked threateningly? When I was a little boy, my grandma used to say to me TotD, keeping a pimp hand strong is not like a riding a bicycle. Man, I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about. But Grandma was right. Some muscle memory is long-term, others is short-term.
Your emotional pimp hand must also be exercised. Have you tried waking them up while wearing a scary wolfman mask? And screaming, of course. GRRRRROWL! I’M A WOLFMAN! you’d yell, and that would be so very frightening to wake up to. If you wake someone up like that, you have the upper hand in the conversation that day. What about dangling them out windows? Nothing gets women to behave–
No. No, no, no. Put an end to this.
–like dangling ’em out windows. WHAT?
I’m calling this one. It’s over. No more.
YOU CAN’T TALK TO ME WHEN I’M IN BLOCK QUOTES!
Shut the fuck up right now.
Aw, buddy. You sad?
“Little bit.”
Spray that Pam on your dick and have a penis party.
“That sounds like a bad idea.”
Oh, no. Pam was made for dicks. That’s why they gave it a girl’s name.
“That can’t be true. Even if it is, I refuse to believe it.”
I’ve been rejecting reality a lot lately, too. How’s quarantine going?
“Ups and downs. I got lost yesterday.”
How do you get lost during quarantine?
“My house is fucking enormous.”
Sure.
“There’s a sub-basement! I had no idea!”
What’s down there?
“Bowling alley. Wine cellar. And I think maybe a torture room.”
You think?
“The floor is washable and slopes inward towards a drain. And y’know those metal circles that hang off walls and you hang chains through?”
Yeah.
“There are like a dozen of those.”
That’s a torture room.
“Probably. There were also several offices that appear to be in use. Like, there was a luke-warm cup of coffee on one of the desks.”
You should have a conversation with your realtor. All of this is stuff that’s supposed to be disclosed before escrow.
“I don’t think I’m gonna go down there again. The aboveground section of the house is enough, really.”
What if you want to bowl?
“Oh, there’s a bowling alley up here, too.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Dude.”
Eat the rich.
“Yeah, yeah.”
…
“You’re on with John.”
“Little Potato! You spray Pam on dick today?”
“Everyone’s being gross. Hey, aren’t you dying or something?”
“Ha! Kim Jong-Un is healthy as Only Korean horse! You know how say ‘horse’ in Only Korean?”
“No.”
“Lunch.”
“Racist.”
“Is no bat! Is no worse than bat!”
“C’mon, man.”
“Many year, people eat horse. No problem. Bat? Immediate problem! Bat is bad lunch.”
“Great, whatever. What do you want?”
“Need favor.”
“I’m almost definitely gonna say ‘no,’ but what is it?”
“Let Kim Jong-Un borrow heart.”
“Borrow?”
“Fine, buy. I buy heart.”
“You cannot buy or borrow my heart. I need it. Why don’t you just yoink one from one of the millions of political prisoners you’re jailing?”
“Want heart knows how to play guitar.”
“Nope. Doesn’t make any sense.”
“Kim Jong-Un needs heart that shreds”
“Complete nonsense.”
“Heart with whammy bar.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
…
“Jackass?”
Mm?
“When you heard that he was sick, did you get sad for him?”
A little.
“You were worried for the monster who enslaves, starves, and imprisons his population, and floods the world with meth, counterfeit money, and nuclear secrets, just because you think he’s a funny character for your little make-em-ups?”
Precisely that.
“Do you know you’re a terrible person?”
Oh, yeah.
“Well, at least there’s that.”
JAI-ALAI
“It’s Basque, eh? They’re kinda like the Quebecois of Spain. Real feisty. And so what y’got is basically squash mixed with murder. Instead of a racquet, the players wear these baskets on their hands. They’re called cestas, which just means ‘basket,’ and they whip this ball against the wall at maybe 300 kilometers per hour. And there’s wagering. The wagering is a big, big part of it. No fights, though. Not like hockey. You’ll never see two jai alai-ers drop the cestas and go at it, partially because the cestas are tied securely to their arms. Back when Mulroney was PM, he tried to build a series of frontons across the nation, but the Albertans weren’t having it.”
BUZKASHI
“I’m not gonna lie to you: I am not totally familiar with this one. It’s like polo, I guess, but instead of a ball, there’s a dead goat. I don’t know if the goat starts off dead, but it definitely does not survive until halftime. Not a sport you can play in most countries nowadays. I think Mickey’s a fan.”
YAK RACING
“Lotta fun! Gotta get a yak, though, and that’s tough in quarantine. Actually, you need two yaks. Otherwise, you got no race. You need at least two yaks.”
SEPAK TAKRAW
“Oh, I saw this one on Take a Gander at These Athletic Hosers, which is the Canadian version of Wide World of Sports. It’s volleyball, but you use your feet. Requires a super-flexible groin, but you don’t have to get a yak.”
QUIDDITCH
“This isn’t a real sport. No offense to the folks who love those books, but it’s just a bunch of nerds stumbling around with brooms in between their legs. It’s nice that they’re outside for once, but I’m not gonna call this a sport. It’s barely an activity.”
COMPETITIVE ASS-EATING
“That’s not real. Stop that. Keep it clean, eh?”
EUROPEAN HANDBALL
“I appreciate that they put ‘European’ right in the name. They tell you upfront that you’re gonna be dealing with some goofy foreign nonsense. It’s like they threw indoor soccer and basketball and lacrosse in a blender. Or maybe it’s like water polo on land. I do know that Romanians are great at it, whatever that’s worth.”
Let’s drink to the hard working people
Let’s drink to the lowly of birth
Raise your glass to the good and the evil
Let’s drink to the salt of the earthSay a prayer for the common foot soldier
Spare a thought for his back breaking work
Say a prayer for his wife and his children
Who burn the fires and who still till the earthAnd when I search a faceless crowd
A swirling mass of gray and
Black and white
They don’t look real to me
In fact, they look so strangeRaise your glass to the hard working people
Let’s drink to the uncounted heads
Let’s think of the wavering millions
Who need leaders but get gamblers insteadSpare a thought for the stay-at-home voter
His empty eyes gaze at strange beauty shows
And a parade of the gray suited grafters
A choice of cancer or polioAnd when I look in the faceless crowd
A swirling mass of grays and
Black and white
They don’t look real to me
Or don’t they look so strangeLet’s drink to the hard working people
Let’s think of the lowly of birth
Spare a thought for the rag taggy peopleLet’s drink to the salt of the earthLet’s drink to the hard working people
Let’s drink to the salt of the earth
Let’s drink to the two thousand million
Let’s think of the humble of birth
Drunkenly wallowing in YouTube again?
And what of it?
Just saying.
No one asked your opinion.
Write this one off. 2020’s done, Enthusiasts. Moose out front should’ve told you. But next year, we’ll see each other again. Big crowds like the old days. We’ll hoot and dance together. Or shop, or fight the cops, whatever. Give up on this year. ’21’s gonna be a good year.
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