Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tim Curry was the British Serge Gainsbourg, in that he was eminently fuckable despite technically being ugly.
Oh, no. Did Tim Curry die?
No. Perish the thought. Why?
You made it sound like he was dead. The title, the first sentence of the body. Definitely a “Tim Curry just died” vibe.
I didn’t do that.
…
Yeah, I see it.
You wanna maybe change it?
Of course not.
You’re a weed in humanity’s garden.
Nifty.
Hey, Mick. Whatcha doing?
“We’re doin’ a tewevision show, aren’t we? Gonna spwead a wittle joy an’ all that t’the faaaaaaaaans.”
That’s nice of you. What’s with Charlie?
“Chahwee?”
Charlie.
“CHAH-weeeeee.”
Char. Char. You make the sides of your tongue hit the roof of your mouth.
“He’s my drummah, in’t he?”
Oh, don’t say that. He gets angry when you say that.
“Don’t bewieve that story. It’s scuh-wuh-wis.”
Huh?
“Scuh-wih-wis.”
Are you trying to say ‘scurrilous?”
“I don’t care.”
Seriously, why is Charlie air drumming?
“I don’t care.”
Don’t be putulant.
“I’m not being petch-oo-wint.”
Don’t say “petulant,” either. Don’t be it or say it.
“Wisten, you. Don’t tell me–”
SHWUZZNERGNERGNERGBLAMPF!
“What wuzzat?”
Ah, shit.”
“JAGGER, YOU ARE A BAG MADE OF FLESH AND FULL OF SHIT!”
“Kwaus?”
“KLAUS! MEIN NAME IST KLAUS, YOU FILTHY ROAST BEEF-FILLED PIG! ENGLISH IS MEIN FOURTH LANGUAGE UND I SPEAK IT BETTER THAN YOU!”
“Where did Wonnie go?”
“RONNIE! HIS NAME STARTS WITH A FUCKING ‘R!’ OH, WHAT I WOULD GIVE TO HAVE ZE LUFTWAFFE BACK!”
“Wude.”
SHWEEEEEEEEEBADUMDEEFLOMK!
“What’s all this, then?”
“Michael. Come to me.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“This is your name. I had a name once, but it got lost somewhere in the sea of time. Come to me, Michael, and we will be mopey together. I have a castle.”
“I awso have a castle.”
“Mine is spookier.”
“I don’t wanna.”
“Fine. Do you have any Bauhaus records?”
“I might. Hey, what happened to Charwee?”
“Are you trying to say ‘Charlie?'”
“I am saying Chahwee.”
“Not what I’m hearing. And, you know, I’ve got a great set of ears on me.”
FLOOZUMKADOOSH!
“Oh, what now?”
“I HATE YOU SO MUCH.”
“Pwease stop yewwing. Why are you in a spacesuit?”
“I am an ice pirate.”
“Cool.”
Put your back into it.
“Buzz–”
“For the love of God, man.”
“–I’d like to bring the conversation back to a previous subject.”
“Is it chuds?”
“It is.”
“Can’t we talk about space, Bob?”
“We’ll have time after the chud thing. Y’know what the ‘C’ stands for, right?”
“I actually don’t.”
“Cannibalistic. Not cannibals. Cannibalistic. Their behavior was akin to, but not exactly like, cannibalism. That, uh, kinda freaks me out the worst. It’s the not-knowing.”
“I can see where that would be spooky.”
“I’ve been checking for chuds since I saw the picture originally. Whenever I come back into the house, I immediately check all the closets and under the beds. They’re not like zombies. Zombies moan and bump into stuff. You can hear ’em coming. Chuds? Silent, but deadly. Folks say that about farts, but farts aren’t actually deadly. That is, uh, hyperbole. Chuds’ll gut ya, though.”
“Bob.”
“Coronavirus is nothing compared to a chud.”
“Bob.”
“Y’know, I’m sure there’s some sort of app that would let us watch the film together. I own it on VHS, laser disc, Blu-ray, and I also have it memorized so I could just act it all out for you.”
…
“Please let’s talk about something else.”
“Do you want to stop discussing the film, C.H.U.D., or the morlockian creatures known as chuds?”
“Both. All. I wanna stop talking about everything…did you hear that?”
“The screaming? Yeah.”
“My connection’s getting little cock-eye. Lemme see if I can–”
SHWIZZLEfeeeeeeeeeeTHOOP!
“I WILL EAT YOUR COCK, YOU BEARDED SHIT, AND PISS IN THE EMPTY HOLE!”
“Billy?”
“BILLY IS MY FRIEND, BUT HE IS FILTH! HE IS THE SCUM OF MONGREL FEET, AND I WILL ONE DAY DRIVE A BUS INTO HIS FACE!”
“Did he send you?”
“NO ONE SENDS KLAUS KINSKI ANYWHERE! YOUR MOTHER WAS A DRUNKEN GOAT, AND YOUR FATHER SUPPED ONLY ON STRANGER-COCK!”
“Oh, no. My folks were real decent folks. Solid California Republicans.”
“It’s no fun yelling at you.”
“Never stopped Phil.”
I cannot read your expression.
“I’m smiling, Ass.”
Are you?
“Funny story: the pillows behind me are made from the skins of my previous dogs. This guy’s barely gonna make a cushion. But I love the little fucker.”
What’s his name?
“Myballs.”
Huh?
“His name is Myballs. That way, I can walk around all day asking women if they like Myballs and wanna pet Myballs.”
That’s a good bit, Billy.
“One of my favorites. Not gonna lie, sometimes I also have my actual balls out.”
You shouldn’t do that.
“Yeah, but it’s a little shouldn’t. There’s much bigger shouldn’ts out there. Remember when whats-his-face killed all you people?”
The Holocaust?
“Yeah, that thing. Well, that shouldn’t have happened, should it? That’s a huge shouldn’t, man! Compared to that, ‘shouldn’t hang sack at the Baskin-Robbins’ is a tiny little shouldn’t. Barely even noticeable.”
Are you higher than usual?
“Maaaaaaaaybe.”
Jesus, man.
“I’ve been hanging out with Kinski. That guy’s the tits. He tackled a fireman for no reason. Then he fought the Dalmatian. He’s like the Tasmanian Devil! Plus, he’s got a doctor’s bag full of pills.”
What kind of pills?
“No idea. They all got German names. Terrible language, Ass. Sounds like your mouth is having a nightmare.”
It’s a bit harsh.
“I can’t say enough good stuff about the guy.”
This is Klaus Kinski we’re talking about, right?
“Solid dude. I weaponized him.”
You what?
“Hey, Kinski! Thoughts on my Ass says you suck!”
“HE IS THE ONE WHO SUCKS!”
“BRING ME YOUR FACE TO FUCK AND EAT!”
Jesus!
“See? I love this fucking guy!”
“Hi, everyone. Welcome to our regular Friday night webcast. I’m Dead archivist David Lemieux. Joining me is the co-host of Tales From The Golden Road, Gary Lambert, and NBA Hall-of-Famer and Deadhead Bill Walton.”
“David, it’s no coincidence that we meet tonight on Zoom, because that’s what the Grateful Dead’s music does to me, and to us all. Who hasn’t been zoomed to Jupiter by a world-shattering Other One, or zoomed in their rear areas by a tasty Music Never Stopped? The great Aretha Franklin once asked ‘Who’s zooming who?’ and tonight I have her answer: the Dead is zooming us, Miz Franklin.”
“I love your enthusiasm, Bill.”
“The French call it joie de vivre, David. That’s more words than ‘enthusiasm,’ but fewer syllables. The French have always been known for their efficiency.”
“Have they?”
“Oh, yeah. For years, that’s how Coach Wooden would end our practices. ‘You looked good out there, boys, but don’t forget that the French have always been known for their efficiency.’ Kareem and I still wrap up our phone conversations with the phrase.”
“That’s very sweet, actually.”
“Kareem’s a pussycat. David?”
“Uh-huh, eh?”
“Why is Gary not speaking?”
“The restrictions of the dialogue-only format. It just gets too confusing with more than two people.”
“Gotcha. I’m getting a bit of scramble on my end here. The connection’s getting–”
SHWIZZLEbleeeeeeeeeeZAP!
“LEMIEUX! YOU ARE THE DISEASED CUNT OF A DEAD MOOSE!”
“Um…Bill?”
“THE GORKY MUTANT HAS BEEN DISPLACED BY MY GENIUS!”
“Oh, hey, Klaus Kinski.”
“KEEP MY ESTEEMED NAME FROM YOUR THIN CANADIAN LIPS! USE THOSE LIPS FOR EATING BEAVER ASS, AND PRAISING MEDIOCRITIES! I WILL RUN YOU OVER WITH A CEMENT TRUCK!”
“Y’know, if I’ve offended you, then I apologize.”
“APOLOGIZE? APOLOGIZE!?”
BANG!
…
“Did you just shoot Gary ‘Legs’ Lambert?”
“YES! AND I ENJOYED THE ACT SO MUCH THAT I EJACULATED CONCURRENTLY! MY JOY RUNS DOWN MY BEAUTIFUL THIGH!”
“You are a mean man.”
“Ja. Bring me a cigarette and a teenager.”
“HEY! YOU!”
Oops.
“OOPS? Fuckin’ OOPS? You DARE say that to me?”
I forgot about you a little.
“It’s been a week, dickhead!”
I have a very good excuse.
“You got high and had a movie marathon.”
Yes.
“That’s not a very good excuse. It’s not even a good excuse. It’s not even an excuse.”
How bad has the situation gotten?
“I’ll let him tell you.”
Him?
“One discovers, within creation itself, a dichotomy of being. There is the material. This is flesh, this is shit, this is the energetic making of love, the thrusting and all this. And there is the mystical, which imbues the physical with presence. These two states conflict! They wrestle ferociously and without cease! Their struggle is infinite and eternal! This is my fox. I have named him Muchi.”
Nice fox.
“There is nothing nice about him. Look in his eyes. Do you see compassion? Do you see humor? Of course not. The fox is hunger given form, even though this one likes scritchy-scratches.”
I guess. Are you involved with the USNS Comfort now?
“Yes. It’s very exciting.”
I’m pretty sure I see what’s coming.
“I’m going to drag the Comfort up the side of the Empire State Building.”
Yup. I saw it coming.
“The fox is now attacking me. Nature’s raw violence has once again replaced man’s studied manners. There is quite a bit of blood.”
Run, Werner Herzog!
“He returns! The fox brings yet more chaos!”
Stop talking and run!
“Buzz–”
“Still not my name, Bob.”
“–I have several more questions about space.”
“Sure, that’s great.”
“I have been reliably informed that in space, no one can hear you scream.”
“That’s correct.”
“Does that also apply to shouting?”
“Yes.”
“Yelling?”
“What we refer to as sound is actually a pressure wave propagating through a medium. Sound can travel through air, or water, or even steel. But space is a vacuum, and so there’s nothing for the wave to ride on. Space is totally silent.”
“Like Keith.”
“Okay, I guess.”
“My next question concerns ice pirates.”
“There are no ice pirates, Bob.”
“I have been reliably informed that in space, there are ice pirates.”
“You’re thinking about a terrible movie from 1984.”
“C.H.U.D.?”
“No, Ice Pirates.”
“The folks who made C.H.U.D. really blew their wads on the title. There’s not much to that flick other than a clever name.”
“Never seen it.”
“Not a classic. Guess there’s zero chance of a chud attack in space. There’s no underground in space, right?”
“There’s no ground at all.”
“There ya go. No chuds in space.”
“I certainly didn’t see any when I was up there.”
“There ya go again. We’ve settled that, I think. Good for us. Science leaps forward.”
ZOOM CALL WAITING NOISE
“Buzz–”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“–I gotta take this. It might be Matt Busch. I sent him for chewing tobacco three days ago and haven’t seen him since.”
“Three days? You should call the police.”
“Oh, no. Matt’s got warrants. Hold, please.”
…
“Weir here.”
“Weir? Get me out of this crazy thing!”
“Phil?”
“I’ve been stuck in a Zoom for a week now. Levon showed me which buttons to mash, but I forgot and now I can’t leave the Zoom.”
“Huh. Is that an aurora?”
“Yes. Apparently, Zoom has an Arctic circle, and I’m above it.”
“It doesn’t look too cold.”
“Downright balmy.”
“That’s nice, at least. Have you tried unplugging it and waiting ten seconds?”
“I’m stuck in a pocket reality, man, not fucking with a router.”
“Quarantining should be easy.”
“Piece of cake. I’m the only one in here.”
thwip
FLUMP
“Was that a blowdart?”
“Da. Vas blowdart.”
“Please, uh, don’t do that to Phil.”
“Putin blowdart who Putin vant to blowdart.”
“Is he gonna be all right?”
“Da. Is only tranquilizer.”
“He’s tranquil, all right.”
“Putin is vatching Zoom calls all day.”
“Aren’t they private?”
“Nyet. Russia hacks into Zoom. Also, Putin secretly own Zoom.”
“Y’don’t say.”
“Da. Putin vatch many business decision. Conversations vhich should be on secure lines? Putin vatch those, too. Putin bug all America. Even better, Putin bug all America, and then get some of America to pay for premium features on bug.”
“Huh. Wow.”
“Putin is having legendary run.”
“You’ve put a lot of wins in a row, I’ll give ya that.”
Hey, Billy. Is that a movie star?
“Nah. It’s the Governor of California.”
Historically, those two professions have not been exclusive of one another.
“His name’s Gavin…Something. He was the Mayor of San Francisco after the black guy with the expensive suits and before the black lady with the goofy name.”
It’s weird that I know who you’re talking about.
“Ass, I paint a word picture.”
I thought you were quarantining in Hawaii.
“Got bored.”
Sure.
“Besides, look how handsome this son of a bitch is. People this good-looking are immune to the ronabarrett.”
Coronavirus.
“I banged Rona Barrett. In my defense, I thought she was Mary Hart.”
No one knows who those people are, Billy.
“Doesn’t change the facts: I fucked.”
Great.
CELL PHONE NOISE
“I gotta take this. It might be Leeza Gibbons.”
It’s not Leeza Gibbons.
“Might be,”
…
“Yello?”
“YOU WILL LICK MY ASS, YOU COCKING CUNTSHITTER!”
“Mom?”
“I FUCKED YOUR MOM IN HER HEART! HER BLACK HEART THAT WAS FULL OF SHIT AND VILE STUPIDITY! COME TO THIS BRIDGE SO I CAN THROW YOU OFF IT!”
“What is that, the Golden Gate? At this hour? Fuck that.”
“FUCK YOU, AMERICAN SOW! YOU ARE A SOW THAT GIVES MILK THAT IS NOT MILK, BUT SHIT. YOU ARE MILKY SHIT MAN! THIS IS YOUR NEW NAME! THIS IS WHAT I CALL YOU!”
“Man, you’re fiesty. I wanna point you at some fuckers I don’t like.”
“I HATE ALL THE FUCKERS!”
“Yeah, we’re gonna be friends. You holding?”
“Ja.”
“Fuckin’ A.”
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