Give it a listen; maybe it’ll help. Did good for me.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Category: Uncategorized (Page 60 of 1031)
Get your roadie to blow some coke up your ass, and turn this shit up way too loud.
Hey, David Lemieux, super-archivist extraordinaire. Whatcha doing?
“Being outside. Rubbing up against strange creatures. Getting sneezed on again and again. You know, the little things that make life worth living and that will surely always be easily accessible.”
Uh-huh. When are you?
“Summer of ’19.”
Ah. Enjoy it.
“If you can keep a secret, I’m kinda taking it all for granted.”
DON’T DO THAT! SAVOR THE CROWDS, MAN!
…
“Don’t yell at me.”
Sorry. Hey, I got the new June ’76 box set.
“You bought the new box set?”
I obtained it. Why do we have to go through this every time? It is now in my possession.
“Gotcha. In Canada, we call that ‘stealing.’ What do you cal it down there?”
Oh, it’s also called stealing here, but Purge Rules are in effect in Florida right now. We’re very much in an “every meth-head for himself” moment.
“That bad, huh?”
Some states are worse than others. Our governor is one of those “personal liberty” guys. He believes people should make their own decisions about their health.
“I think I see the flaw in his belief system.”
People are idiots?
“I didn’t wanna say it. Seemed rude.”
Never rude to tell the truth. So, anyway: loved the box set. Sounds so crisp, I call it Quentin.
“Thanks. We worked really hard on it.”
Liked everything about it. The music, the packaging. The liner notes.
“Ah, Jeez, not this again.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“I don’t deserve one of these calls.”
Do you not, David Lemieuxnovermyhammy? Do you not?
“No.”
…
No, you probably don’t, but we’re locked in to the bit.
CELL PHONE NOISE
Pick up the phone.
“I’m cross with you.”
…
“David Lemieux! Who are you?”
“Hello, Dave Pick. Motherland need you.”
“Is this Putin?”
“Da.”
“How’d you get this number?”
“I am Putin.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“You come to Moscow, Dave Pick. Ve are close to miracle drug for corona.”
“Why do you need me?”
“Scientists vere very unorganized. Write things down on napkin. Most files just chucked into boxes. Ve need archivist.”
“I don’t know about all that, Mr. Putin. Is it just ‘Mr. Putin?’ What do I call you?”
“Boss.”
“See, I’ve got a job already. And I don’t wanna go to Moscow. I really like where I live. There’s fish and moose and bears, and I just love it here.”
“Your bear is little bear. Russia has best bear. Russia is known for bear. Vhen someone say ‘Russia,’ you think ‘bear.’ Canadian bear is nyet good bear. Veak bear.”
“I’m gonna have to go ahead and disagree with you there, if you don’t mind. Canadian bears are incredible animals.”
“Nyet. They are like big raccoons. Are sissy bears that eat from garbage. Russian bears nyet eat from garbage. Have inner dignity gained through suffering.”
“Can’t join you. Just can’t agree with you. Sorry, but I can’t. I won’t let my bears down.”
“Ve stage bear fight.”
“Oh, no. Let’s not do that.”
“Da. Vill happen. Now Putin vants to see. Putin is bored in Kremlin, anyway.”
“You watch Tiger King?”
“I’m Putin, not dead. Of course I vatch Joe Exotic. Ve make bears fight in honor of Joe. He is disgusting homosexual, but he is also brave tiger varrior and great songwriter. Maybe I should tell Dummy to pardon him.”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing. Is settle: Dave Pick come to Moscow, ve have bear fight on internet.”
“Mr. Putin, I really can’t.”
thwip
FLUMP
“Oh my God, someone just blow-darted the guy in the mascot costume!”
“Da. Putin did this.”
“Why?”
“Because is fun being Putin. Men come get you in ten minutes. Please nyet to be struggling.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
…
“Umm…”
Dave?
“David. And, uh, what just happened?”
You got a job. And an invitation to a sporting event.
“I didn’t ask for any of that.”
None of us asked for any of this, buddy. And yet: here we are.
“Are men really coming for me?”
Yes. Nyet to be struggling.
Hey, Pope Francis. Whatcha doing?
“I’m-a tryin’ not to cry. Is-a sad. Look at all-a this. Should be all-a full with-a da people. They-a come together to love-a da Jesus with me, but not no more. Is-a breakin’ my heart.”
Ah, man. I’m sorry, Your Holiness. How does the Pope deal with sorrow?
“I-a pray.”
Sure.
“And I eat-a da ice cream. When-a dis is all over, there’s gonna be a roly-poly Pope.”
We’ve all been stress-eating. What’s your favorite flavor?
“I like-a da Death By Chocolate, but I can-a only eat vanilla.”
Why?
“All-a my clothes is-a white.”
I guess.
“I’m gonna have to let-a my cassock out a little.”
Are you following the doctor’s recommendations, Your Holiness?
“Si, si. Am-a self-isolating. Between-a you and me? Not-a that tough to do when you live in-a da Vatican. One bedroom apartment? Very difficult. You go-a da stir crazy. But I got a whole country here. Is-a no bad.”
Is it really just you in there?
“No, no. Benedict is-a here, too. Can I make-a da confession to you?”
I don’t know if that’s how it works, Your Holiness.
“Which one of us is-a da Pope?’
You.
“Then don’t-a tell me how da rules go. I know-a da rules. I make-a da confession. You ready?”
I am ready, my son.
“Dont-a get cute.”
Sorry. You clearly have something you want to get off your chest. You can absolutely share it with me.
“Grazi, grazi. Here is-a my confession: If-a da corona don’t kill him, I will.”
Benedict?
“Si, si. He’s-a drivin’ me nuts. Every day he got-a da new theory. On Monday, he say that da Chinese do it. On Tuesday, he say that da Chinese was-a framed by-a da Knights Templar. On Wednesday, he say that there ain’t no Chinese. So I says to him If there ain’t-a no China, then how come there’s spare ribs in-a da fridge? And you know-a what he says?”
What?
“He said he eat-a da spare ribs!”
Oh, he’s the worst.
“I was-a lookin’ forward to those! Put-a my name on-a da tupperware and-a everything.”
I’m sorry, Your Holiness.
“Grazi, grazi. And he has-a da guests!”
Pope Benedict is having guests during self-isolation?
“Si, si. His-a whole clique. They all…how you say…bitchy little twinks? Is-a this right?”
Yeah, I think that’s the right phrase.
“They drink-a da quarantinis and yell at-a da teevee. They watch-a that show where-a da men in dresses are mean to each other.”
RuPaul’s Drag Race.
“I no like-a that show.”
You’re not the demographic.
“No, no.”
You watch Tiger King?
“Hey, I’m-a da Pope, I’m not dead. Of course I watch-a da Joe Exotic.”
What did you think, Your Holiness?
“That guy needs-a da Jesus. I know I say that about everyone, but I-a mean it this time.”
Good call. Are there any Bible verses that you think would help us keep our spirits up right now, Pope Francis?
“Si, si. And is-a da short one, so you can-a remember easy. Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”
That was just exactly perfect.
“Si, si. Is-a from Galatians.”
Galatian? Wow, deep cut.
“I know-a two things: the Bible, and that-a da lady on the show fed her husband to-a da tigers.”
Bless you, Pope Francis.
“Bless us all, always, but-a especially now.”
Separate the artist from the art.
“My house! My house is on fire!”
“The Chinees did it.”
“The Chinese? What?”
“Not the Chinese. The Chinees. Bob and Ethel Chinee. You know: the Chinees. They live down the street in the house with all the security cameras and suspiciously few Uighurs.”
“What? I don’t care right now. The house is actively ablaze!”
“Some say it is. And others say that putting it out might be worse than letting it burn. But the important thing is fixing blame, and that goes to the Chinees.”
“We can determine fault later! Right now, the primary task needs to be fire suppression.”
“We disagree here, friend. I believe that our number one priority needs to be pointing fingers.”
“None of that matters right now!”
“Are they paying you to shill for them?”
“Who?”
“Bob and Ethel.”
“Paying me? What the fuck is wrong with you? Just grab a hose, for Christ’s sake!”
“I’d like you to look at these graphs and charts regarding the Chinee’s internet usage in the past few weeks. I think you’ll find them illuminating.”
“The fire is illuminating! It’s lighting up the fucking neighborhood! Let’s get the immediate danger dealt with, and then we can determine what started it all.”
…
“Nah. I’m gonna talk shit.”
“Thought so.”
One morning, the king was bathing in the river. It had rained well in the days previous, and so the flow of the water was mighty. The king was carried off in the current. His courtiers dove in to save him, but they could not. Some drowned.
A poor man–let’s call him Ron–swam to the king, grabbed him, tucked him under his motile arm, brought him back to shore, deposited him on the banks. Many saw the rescue, and so the king was forced to reward Ron.
“Do you,” Ron asked, “play chess?”
“I dabble,” answered the king, and Ron felt a deep revulsion in his stomach and also gall bladder.
“Wonderful. Your Highness: today, I would you to place one grain of rice on the first square. That will be my reward for saving your life.”
The king agreed.
“And then tomorrow, you shall place two grains of rice on the second square.”
The king was copacetic.
“The day after that, four grains. Each day doubles the amount of rice. That’s the equation here. Can you live with that?”
And the king, who was never very good at math, agreed.
Ron knew what most half-clever ninth-graders know, which is that exponential growth curb-stomps linear growth over even the shortest of long runs. This is what it looks like:
That familiar hockey stick configuration. See how each day is greater than the day before? That is sub-optimal. One would prefer a different readout. These statistics are not in our favor, and someone should pay to have them changed. The billionaires are in charge of the truth these days, so let them change this one. Make it Gaussian! the billionaires cry. Gimme a bell on that curve, they sing. Nope. Hockey stick.
Chinese had ’em, thousands of years ago. Swept through. No one knew what to do with the dead. The Greeks, and then the Romans. Poor Justinian. The New World, too. Those liberal professors’ll have you believe that the the white man brought disease to the hemisphere, but it was already here among the Aztecs. Polio. Remember polio? You don’t, and thank The Lord and his angel Dr. Salk for that. The history of humanity is the history of virality.
There is a new Dylan song, which was not available during the 1919-20 Spanish flu outbreak. Hosannas for that, at least. Progress is such a balm.
2500 dead on April 1st, 5000 on the 4th, and 10,000 on the 7th, and then the numbers keep going. They are terrible numbers, and someone you know is one of the digits. I am sorry to tell you that. I am sorry to hear that, too. The virus got in early, and our leaders were schmucks, and now it’s just a question of where the peak shall be.
Protect my mother, O Lord, from whom you took my father. You owe the woman that, Lord. Cup your hands around Nephew on the Dead, as well, Lord. He’s not hurt anyone, not even a little
We will again.
Most likely, we will again.
Slap up against one another, sweat, sway, and–most importantly–subsume. This is the goal. I become we. Shoulder blade knife fights and illiosacrums poking and prodding. Have your tickets out and ready. The Sportatorium is buzzing tonight. National act’s in town. The kids are whole hog on the merch tables. Sizzling aisles, and the bars have long been overrun, and who the fuck brought a beach ball? Dicks and tits and pussies and asses and everyone singing, most dancing, some crying, and the drugs coming on harder than you’d anticipated.
The drugs always come on harder than you’d anticipated.
You play the Chuck Berry covers, and we’ll pay ya and undulate a little. Sing your words back at ya. It’s a deal. Bring the big amps. We like it loud. Deal? Deal. Meet you back here in three months.
Are you drunk and wobbling around YouTube again?
I’m not drunk.
…
I’m drinking.
Backsliding son of a bitch.
We all have our faults.
The ghosts of electricity howl in the bones of her face.
If I ever wrote a line that good, I’d cut my fingers off. Welp, no need for these anymore I’d figure.
I don’t know how to respond to this, and I’m not gonna tell you what to think. This exists, and I am bringing it to your attention.
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