Hanpy Borthday, Dample L’envelope

Jesus. What the fuck, David Lemieux, archivist for the Grateful Dead?

“It’s my birthday salmon. You know the old saying: Catch a salmon on the day of your birth, and you’ll be the luckiest boy on the earth.”

I do not know that saying. That is not a saying.

“Might be just a Canadian thing.”

Yes. That’s a healthy-looking specimen.

“Oh, sure. This ol’ girl will feed my wife–”

Regina.

“–and my seven children for months.”

Gordie, Girl Gordie, Jean-Luc, Fleece, Northstar, and the twins, Billie and Mickie.

“Right. My family.”

Wait. There’s nine of you. That’s a big fish, but it won’t last months.

“None of my children is over eight inches tall.”

Not true.

“We’re raising them like they were normal-sized, though. Except for the cat thing. We’ve had to instill a deep and primal terror of cats into them. Normal kids can play with kitties, but Gordie is the biggest one and he’s the size of a gerbil. Just can’t be around cats.”

You just make stuff up. Can you call up Queen’s archivist and have him clean some shit up and release it, please?

“I don’t know Queen’s archivist. There isn’t a group chat of people who maintain legacy bands’ vaults.”

There should be.

“Yeah, it would be fun. We could exchange tips about alphabetization, and stories about annoying fans.”

I bet Zappa’s fans are the biggest dicks to their archivist.

“I could see that.”

Anyway, Dave–

“David.”

–happy birthday. Many more.

“Thanks, buddy.”

One last question.

“Don’t ruin it.”

You gonna fuck the fish?

“You ruined it. It was nice, and you ruined it. This is why no one likes being part of your little sketches.”

I’m not judging you. Are you going for the mouth or will you slice it open and belly-fuck it?

“You’re on time-out with me. One week. We’re done for one week.”

Aw.