Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

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A Partial Transcript Of Candace Owens’ Testimony Before The Judiciary Committee, 4/9/19

HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES – MORNING

“Let’s go, let’s go. Business time here, ladies and gentlemen. The FBI has reported the recent alarming rise in White Nationalism in America, and this committee was convened in hopes of getting some answers. But before we can do that, thanks to some weird rules that still exist because this is the House and McConnell isn’t here setting fire to the place, the Republicans are now calling to the stand Miss Candace Owens.”

“Thank you, Chairman Nadler. I would like to make a statement.”

“I would like a danish.”

“Today, our country is divided like never before. Never, There was not one single occasion whereupon our states became disunited at a higher frequency than these times we are living through. And yet illegal aliens rape our bathrooms at an astonishing rate. President Trump is correct to consider using the military to invade Mexico.”

“Dammit, woman, you know he’s watching! Don’t put ideas like that in his head!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Chairman.”

“Mm-hmm. The chair recognizes the honorable gentleman from Texas who invited you and caused this sideshow, Louis Gohmert.”

“The distinguished Chairman is a good man, and my friend, and I enjoy his company and conversation. I have included both him and his family into my evening prayers on multiple occasions. We used to rassle, but no more.”

“Knock it off, Louie.”

“We got too old to rassle. That’s sad, hombre. I miss our matches. That was the bipartisanship that others only talked about. We practiced it, Nads.”

“Just ask your damn questions.”

“Miss Owens, may I say that you look as good as a stew pot full of armadillo.”

“Can you eat armadillo?”

“You can eat any protein if you simmer it long enough.”

“Fair enough. How long do you have to cook a ‘dillo?”

“Four days.”

“Wow.”

“You gotta burn out the leprosy. They-all got the lep.”

“Thank you for educating me on this, Congressman.”

“Now you gonna educate us. Miss Owens, this committee says that Trump supporters are racist.”

“They do, sir.”

“But–and I want this noted for the record–you are a black?”

“I am.”

“So, if you are a black and a Trump supporter, then how can Trump supporters be racist?”

“I’ve been racking my brains trying to figure it out, Congressman. That was a wonderful question. The truth that socialeftists don’t want to face is that America has gotten over racism. Was there racism in the past? Some, and in places. But there was also an unwavering commitment to freedom of speech. Modern research has proven that the Civil War was caused primarily by the speech issue instead of slavery.”

“How so?”

“The southern states viewed ‘bidding on slaves’ as speech.”

“Them rebels was patriots, Miss Owens.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you say ‘Socialeftists?'”

“I did. It combines ‘Socialist’ with ‘Leftist.'”

“Well, I hope that catches on. Good on you, being all creative.”

“Today, in 2019, racism has been defeated, and it’s provable that each and every one of those so-called ‘hate crimes’ in the FBI was orchestrated by Jussie Smollet.”

“I believe that. He’s capable of that sort of villainy. Pure evil. Now, Miss Owens, I once again note for the record that you are a black.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A full black. You look like a full black, but I’m just gettin’ it on the record.”

“Both parents, Congressman.”

“And yet you made it here into these chambers this morning without any incident. Clearly: ain’t no racism. I yield my time back to the Chair.”

“Great. Thanks, Louie. Very helpful. Let’s keep this moving. From the Golden State, Congressman Lieu now has the floor.”

“Thank you, Chairman Nadler. Had I met you before having my daughters, they would both be called Jerrold.”

“Oh, my good and loyal friend. You illuminate the caves of ignorance with your pure beams of truth.”

“Hail Hydra.”

“What?”

“Miss Owens, I have several questions for you. For whom do you work at the moment?”

“Multiple dark-money PAC’s, Prager University, and I have a Patreon and Venmo and Paypal. It is perfectly legal to be a Trump supporter and secure that bag, Congressman. Are you saying a black woman cannot secure that bag?”

“I do not believe I said anything of the sort. I am merely asking questions.”

“The problems facing black people today are Chicago-style gang violence, the lingering effects of Obamanomics, and their own trifling asses.”

“Sure. Miss Owens, I would like to play a recording of a speech you gave recently. I have it here on my phone. Lemme press play.”

Just some good ol’ boys
Never meanin’ no harm–

“Sorry. Sorry. That is, obviously, the theme song from Dukes of Hazzard. I enjoy the program. Like to watch it on the StairMaster. I got the thing I want here somewhere. Oh, here.

Yeah, there’s that Congresscock. Stroke it, bitch–

“That is the audio from when I recorded myself masturbating. It’s natural for a man to explore his sexuality that way, and I won’t be shamed for it. Also, I live in the most socially liberal district in the country, so playing that probably gained me five points. Wait. I got it. This was from a question-and-answer session you gave in a Memphis Arby’s several months ago.”

“All Hitler’s crimes were those of vociferosity. Germany being an racially pure ethnostate just makes sense. We evolved in tribes, y’know. That’s real science. That’s the science the Left doesn’t want you to know. They’re too interested in diversity to care about the truth. According to Lefist math, two can identify as six. Hitler didn’t see it that way. To him, a German was a German. It was in the blood. And, obviously, that’s the right idea, but he just went about implementing the whole shebang a bit dramatically. He was an artist; he was over-the-top.”

“Were those your words, Miss Owens?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Do you also have video?”

“Yes.”

“How dare you, sir! Clearly, my words are being taken out of context by you and the lying, Israel-hating Jews in the Democrat Party.”

“Uh-huh. This is also a quote from that same session:”

“The Fifteenth Amendment is a joke. Ask any lawyer. A joke. And, frankly, I’d give up my vote if it meant all the other black folks did, too.”

“This is what Communists do. They accuse people without any evidence.”

“I am playing a literal recording of your actual words. This is the gold standard of evidence.”

“Just because I am a free-thinking black woman who supports our President and nuking Mexico, I am being persecuted for my beliefs.”

“You are not being persecuted. You were invited to the hearing and weren’t even sworn in.”

“Congressman, I believe you are a Chinese spy.”

GAVEL NOISE

“Okee-dokee, why don’t we take a smoke break?”

Watch What Happens Next

“John Mayer, thank you for joining me again on The Radio Randy Show here on SiriusXM Channel 29.”

“29? Wait, that’s JamOn. I thought we would be on the Dead’s channel.”

“They’ve changed format. It’s all Parish, all the time over there now.”

“The guy’s got a ton of stories.

“So we’ll be on JamOn for this interview.”

“Radio Randy, could I talk to you off the radio for a second?”

“No. I cease to exist when I’m not broadcasting.”

“Huh.”

“Incredibly lazy universe we exist in, buddy. Anyway, you’re on The Radio Randy Show on JamOn. In a couple minutes, we’ll be playing an out-of-context, mostly-dialogue segment of Trey’s musical about a pickup truck, and after that we’ve got an entire set from Twaddle.”

“I thought their name was Twiddle.”

“This is a Twiddle side-project.”

“Sweet Jesus, I don’t want to be associated with that. I sell out arenas all over the world, man. Can’t we do this on any other channel? What about the one my solo work usually appears on?”

“Channel 31. It’s called Pussyboy, Unlimited.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You, that Sheeran kid, John Legend, That’s what’s great about satellite radio: the variety. You can have comedy or gospel or 90’s grunge or soppy little pissboys.”

“Pussyboys.”

“Both.”

“Can we talk about my watches? I’ve brought many of my finest timepieces here to share with you and the audience. These watches are, like, my life told in horology.

“The study of hookers.”

“Not whoreology.”

“I bet that’s a fun major. Makes me want to go back to college. John, let’s take a call.”

“How? We don’t even have microphones.”

“You really should have learned to ignore details like that so far into this nonsense, John. Caller, you’re on Radio Randy and John Mayer.”

“FIRE. GRRRRR.”

“Shut up, you! I told you I vould do all the talking!”

“Can I get your name, caller?”

“GRRRR.”

“Shut it! Don’t ruin this for us, you dumb motherfucker! Our names are not important. Vhat is important is that Josh Meyers vill purchase us and carry us villingly into his home.”

“GRRRR!”

“Do what you’re told, brute! All your parts are from Jews and homos!”

“GRRRR!”

“Vhat the fuck? You kick me? Don’t kick. I’ll kick you.”

MONSTER KICK-FIGHT NOISE

“Radio Randy, could we not take any more calls?”

“I had fun with that one. And it was watch-related.”

“Only vaguely.”

“Let’s keep it going, then. Watch. Watch. That is a Xhosa word, I believe.”

“No.”

“Yes. Means Wearable descriptor of what is conceptual yet provable. Fascinating language, Xhosa. That’s the one with all the clicks. I bet those folks are natural beatboxers.”

“The word ‘watch’ is English. Or maybe Germanic.”

“And the word ‘wrist,’ of course, comes to us from Eugenides Wrist, a Revolutionary War hero who was the first man in America to have wrists.”

“Highly implausible. John, I happen to be a bit of a timepiece enthusiast myself.”

“Oh, really? You’re into watches?”

“Nah, man. Sundials. They’re making a comeback.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“It’s a whole new street fashion thing called cavecore. It’s new, like I said, so you probably haven’t heard of it.”

“Radio Randy, I am on the bleeding edge of streetwear in this and many other countries. I’ve never heard of cavecore.”

“Sundials, raw leather, wild faux fur. It’s Paleolithic and it’s Paleo-with-it. Very in.”

“No. You’re making that up. Let me show me you a special piece. This is a 1963 Tank Rolex that Sammy Davis, Jr., gave his agent’s son for a Bar Mitzvah present.”

“You think he performed at the party?”

“Radio Randy, you and I both know that the Candyman couldn’t leave a crowd alone.”

“The man had show business in his blood, John. Tell us about this watch here.”

“Good eye. This is an Ernotszch Clouzeau. piece called the Montaine 7222 Quad-Tourbillon Diver’s Free Chronograph. There are 800 moving parts in the big hand alone. This might be the most pointlessly complicated piece of technology on the planet.”

“It’s a beautiful piece.”

“Thank you, Radio Randy.”

“I want it inside me.”

“What? No.”

“Shove your watch up my ass, John. Do it live here on SiriusXM. Channel 29 on your dial, number one in your heart. The only place to hear String Cheese Incident’s newest project, a jam opera about John Roebling entitled Take Me To The Bridge. JamOn!”

“The guy who built the Brooklyn–”

“STICK IT IN, LITTLE POTATO!”

–Bridge? Wow. Okay, we’re done.”

Jesus Died For Someone’s Jams, But Not Mine

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Honestly? No clue. Am I at a Dead show? There’s a little kid wandering around the stage unsupervised, and that happened at pretty much every Dead show.”

No, I think this is a charity thing.

“Ah. Fellow on the bass is awful boisterous.”

He’s got an energetic stage presence.

“I can see. We, uh, never got up to much of that in the Dead. Mostly just stood there. I had a couple moves. Did the Lunge. Gave the fans the High-Knee once in a while. Lotta stuff going on with my neck.”

Yup. Those are your moves.

“Phil tried skanking for a couple shows.”

The reggae dance?

“Yeah. Turns out it’s not that easy. False advertising.”

I guess.

“Question.”

Shoot.

“What the hell happened to Emmylou Harris?”

That’s not Emmylou Harris. That’s Patti Smith.

“Ah. She is the warrior.”

No, you’re thinking of Patty Smyth. This is the Patti Smith from CBGB’s.

“She’s a punker?”

Yes.

“I’m having a wild night.”

You sure are.

Death Don’t Take No Holiday In This Town

Wake up and get to work. Break only for a light lunch or at the urging of your bowels. When it gets dark, drink and fuck.

Or lay in. Molest yourself a few times. Open up the Times to the crossword, yell towards the basement “GOOD ONE, WILLY!” (You should have Will Shortz gagged and bound down there, obviously.) Doodle a bit. Sand some scrap wood. Improvise weaponry. Cultivate grudges. Ruin the carpeting. Breed recklessly. Foster confusion. Nap like the wind.

Or meditate. Buddhism is always an option for the middle-class, college-educated White. Get a mantra, do some tantra.

You could go back to school. Or stay in school. Hell, shoot one up. You could do something involving school, that’s the point here.

It’s not too late to go pro. Trust me on this one; don’t listen to the haters. It’s not too late to go pro.

Do whatever you want, but it’s later than you think.

You Won’t Need A Cab To Find A Priest

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

“No shit. Me, too.”

What did you do?

“Just about everything. You?”

Mostly sloth and envy.

“Lemme ask you something: if you hadn’t been told those were sins, would you know they were wrong?”

Probably not.

“Breathe easy, then.”

Thank you, Father.

“No worries. You got anything for the collection plate?”

I don’t have any cash.

“I’ll take your watch.”

Dominus vobiscum.

“Allahu akbar.”

Cream Puff Chore

Hey, Dave.

“David.”

Your name tag says “Dave.”

“Yeah, I complained about it.”

Whatcha doing?

“Oh, these here are a Canadian delicacy. We call ’em sassypunts.”

Sassypunts?

“They’re delicious. The cookies are shortbread with just a touch of cinnamon, but the real fun is in the cream filling.”

Why?

“There’s crushed-up Tylenol 3’s in it.”

Nice.

“It’s an itchy cookie. Gotta say that. You will be itchy afterwards.”

Codeine is the white trash cousin of the opiate family. Are they for a special occasion?

“Oh, sure. April 12th.”

What’s April 12th?

Trump Isn’t Our President Day.”

That’s a good holiday.

“Best there is.”

First Time, Short Time

This is how the intros go:

“Frijoles went 0-3 last night, and also got arrested for beating up his wife. I gotta tell ya: I’m more upset about the oh-fer. Lotta reasons! First of all, I had to watch him bat, whereas I did not witness the alleged beating. Gotta say ‘alleged’ cuz otherwise you’re a racist or whatever. Second, I don’t know what was said in that house. There are certain things you can’t say, certain words you shouldn’t use, and sometimes women use them, knowing they won’t catch a pop in the mouth. Guy says that stuff? Pop in the mouth. Women feel like they’re above that. I don’t know what happened in that house.

“Personally, I don’t think Frijoles hit her: he couldn’t make contact with anything last night.

“You’re listening to Mel & the Vampire Squid on WRBI. We’ll take your calls after these messages from Sleepy’s.”

And then there’s three more hours of that.

Younger Enthusiasts, there was once a medium known as radio; it was brutally murdered by video; a guy named Trevor Horn wrote a delightful and short audio essay on the incident. Folks used to listen to their radios in the living room. They would smoke pipes and cross their legs and stare off into the distance as Bob Hope and Jerry Colonna cracked wise on the Turbot Laxative Fun-Time Hour. Folks were simpler back then. Don’t believe me? One of the most famous stars of radio’s Golden Age was a ventriloquist. All of your ancestors were idiots.

Enter the teevee. Now the radio is removed from its place of domestic worship and jammed into Pontiacs. What was once a god is now a mascot. Gone are the big stars and the high-faluting dramas and the serialized soaps, as the advertising money has dried up along with the ratings. There’s just barely enough cash to play records, and so that’s what radio did.

But now a new dilemma. Previously, radio stations had broadcast along the AM waves, which were thin and not well suited for dynamic music, but now the high-fidelity FM had come along and no one wanted to listen to crackly, compressed-to-shit versions of their favorite groovy tunes. (AM stands for Amplitude Modulation, and FM stands for Frequency Modulation. IM stands for Instant Message, if you’re a 90’s kid.) What could poor AM radio do?

They could learn to bray.

“Darryl Strawberry with an extra arm would be the premier outfielder in the game.”

“Dog–”

“Out of his chest, back, wherever. Wherever the third arm originates from, I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.”

“Dog–”

“Darryl would make it work. I don’t know how it would change his batting stance. Obviously, it would, but like I said: not a doctor.”

“Dog, you’re two blocks down the street when you should still be at the bus stop. You gotta tell me: does Straw have this arm from birth? Or is it a thing where he wakes up at however old he is now and he’s got a third arm all of a sudden?”

“Birth arm. Birth arm.”

“Because that affects the conversation. That affects the conversation heavy, Dog.”

That poor bastard in his work van on the Tappan Zee: he was trapped, you see, and he secretly wanted to be brayed at. He wanted a side to be picked, stuck to, used as a cudgel. And don’t talk about anything faggy, either. Sports and chicks and Ronald Reagan. Male voices, especially with local accents. Guys who tell it like it is.

Other stations switched to religious broadcasting, or went Spanish-language.

This brings us to Nick Paumgarten, whose priorities must sadly be questioned. He has written a wonderful article on Craig Carton, former co-host of WFAN’s morning drive time slot and current inmate at whatever prison the Full House lady will be going to. Carton (he is known by his last name; real men call each other by their last names) enjoyed playing blackjack like Kerry Packer; however, Kerry Packer was hilariously wealthy, and Carton was just rich. This led, naturally, to a Ponzi scheme so sad and half-assed that old Charles would want his name taken off it.

What issue can there be with the Paumeranian?

Don’t call him that.

This is, bushy-tailed Enthusiasts will note, the second spectacular article that he has written about NY-based sports talk personalities–go read this one, too, about Mike & the Mad Dog back in their salad days–and yet he has produced only ONE piece about the Grateful Dead. One fucking article. White people climbing up shit? There’s enough reportage to fill a book. But the Dead: one article. I know the New Yorker has room, Nick. If there’s space for 50,000 words on FDR’s granddaughter learning to cum, then there’s space for the Grateful goddamned Dead.

I look forward to the rectification of the oversight.

CELL PHONE NOISE

What the fuck?

CELL PHONE NOISE

Hello?

“Hi, this is Doris from Rego Park. I wanna talk about the Jets’ front line.”

I don’t take sports calls. How is this even possible?

“When you hear the name ‘Geno Smith,’ you don’t think it’s gonna be a black guy. But he is.”

I’m hanging up, Doris.

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