Educate yourselves, you damned hemispherists. There’s whole continents you got no idea about; don’t be a sap, simp.
Thoughts On The Dead
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Page 145 of 1031
Radio Busterdog live from TXR. Check it out.
THE OLD TAKE O.P.P should rightfully be consigned to the Problem Attic, as it has “cheating on your partner with sociopathic glee” as its topic.
THE NEW TAKE O.P.P is secretly woke, as it encourages both men and women to step out and get some strange; there is no shaming of sluts.
THE RIGHT TAKE The beat is funky, and I like the part where Treach raps really fast.
Enthusiasts, this shot of 5/15/77 from the St. Louis Arena has never before been seen.
That’s because it’s from Giants Stadium in ’78.
No.
That is clearly a stadium, not an arena. It is also clearly Giants Stadium, a dump to which we pilgrimaged to at least twice a year for our entire childhood.
No.
…
…
…
St. Louis.
Go sew your lips to a goose’s asshole.
I just wanted the nice people to listen to the Eyes.
Then why did you feel the need to lie to them?
I didn’t need to. I wanted to.
Go find a goose.
THE EYES IS SO GOOD!
Goose!
“Welcome to the London DMV. Department?”
“Renewals.”
“Take a ticket and wait over there, please.”
TWO HOURS PASSING NOISE
“Now serving Ticket zero zero seven. Desk Five, please.”
“Finally.”
“Good morning, sir. You’re here to renew your driver’s license?”
“No. Not the driver’s license.”
“Pilot?”
“No. Don’t have a pilot’s license.”
“Then what license are you here to renew?”
“Perhaps you should just look up my information.”
“Mmph. Fine. Name?”
“Bond, James Bond.”
“Bond Jamesbond. Okay, lemme–”
“No. My name is James Bond.”
“Then why did you say all inside-out like that?”
“That’s just how I say my name?”
“And why are you wearing a tuxedo? It’s Tuesday at 11 AM, and you’re at the DMV.”
“Can we just get this over with, please.”
“Sir, the tone is not necessary.”
“I apologize.”
“Let me enter your name. How many L’s in Bond?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Okay. Here you are. Ohhhhhh. Thaaaaat license.”
“Yes.”
“How exciting.”
“I suppose. Can we get on with this? I need to get back to work.”
“Killing people?”
“I do more than that.”
“Such as?”
“I enjoy motoring. Travel. I like to date.”
“Wow. Okay, just let me verify some facts. Height?”
“Anywhere from 5’8″ to 6’2″.”
“Weight?”
“Proportional to whatever height I currently am.”
“Eye color?”
“Various.”
“Race?”
“White.”
“That one’s a constant, huh?”
“You bet your bippy.”
“Great. Now all I need is a drop of your blood, a lock of your hair, and a full hand-print.”
…
“Blofeld?”
“I HAD YOU GOING, MOTHERFUCKER!”
“Totally!”
“I got a new mask guy.”
“He’s good! He’s good!”
…
“What now?”
“Huh. You have any death traps?”
“Well, we’re in the DMV.”
“The DMV isn’t a death trap, just a time sink.”
“Yeah. I guess we could go to a diner and have a conversation about how we’re not so different.”
“Have we never done that?”
“We’ve meant to.”
“Well, let’s get ‘er done.”
The best songs are about death, or fucking, or Jesus. Go peddle your love ballads somewhere else, Rube.
“Long history behind those hats, y’know.”
“The ones the Navy guys are wearing?”
“Yeah. Originally, sailors just put jellyfish on their heads.”
“I don’t know if that’s true.”
“It is, it is. Remember what Churchill said: The history of the Navy is based on rum, sodomy, and putting jellyfish on your head.”
“He didn’t say that.”
“Pretty sure he did. Plus, you know: sailors can’t wear helmets.”
“Why not?”
“Scurvy.”
“Let’s just sing the song, Bobby.”
- Parish.
- A biker who has been outlawed.
- Fret-Eeze.
- Hot lesbian action right next to the guy from the record company.
- A band set up wrong.
- Trio of chickies.
- Schmuck in a hat.
- Reef shark.
How many do you see?
“Okay, you’re gonna do the Pum-ba-dee-da part, and I’ll sing the words.”
…
“We’re not doing Happy Trails, Bobby. There’s no Pum-ba-dee-da part.”
“Ah. What about Ah-weem-ah-way?”
“Not singing that one, either.”
“What are we singing?”
“National Anthem.”
“Which nation?”
“America.”
“Happy Trails is an incredibly American song.”
“Bob.”
“So is Lion Sleeps Tonight, now that I think about it: black guys wrote it, and white guys stole all the royalties. Nothing more American than that.”
“Bob.”
…
“How about we do El Paso?”
“Gotta sing the National Anthem, man.”
“Whatever happened to freedom of speech?”
“We’re not speaking. We’re singing.”
“You make a good point.”
“Y’know, Mickey’s not the only one who knows how to execute a proper Merch Yoink.”
Nice. You and Jackie Greene are singing the anthem tonight, huh?
“Yup. Very exciting. We petitioned for a different song, but they were adamant.”
You didn’t want to sing the Star-Spangled Banner?
“Not especially.”
Why not?
“It’s a shitty song.”
Okay.
“There’s too many damn notes in the melody, and the lyrics are all about blowing people up.”
Morning Dew is about blowing people up.
“Sure, yeah, but the narrator of Morning Dew is upset about it. Whereas the authorial voice from whence the National Anthem issues is gleefully martial.”
Good point.
“But it’s mostly the notes. You gotta start down way lower than you’d imagine, or you run out of vocal range real quick.”
I’ve heard that.
“And, uh, you can’t dance to it.”
Strike three. You ever gonna wear that jersey?
“It will almost certainly be stolen by Monet to be worn as a dress on Instagram.”
Yeah.
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