Metal Health was the very first record I ever bought with my own money; I was too young to know it sucked, so I loved every note.
Thoughts On The Dead
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Page 24 of 1031
Cover’s better.
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Haberman here.”
“Maggie, ya muff-eating cooze! It’s yer boy, Big Steve.”
“Hey, Bannon. Don’t you usually call me at three in the morning?”
“It’s always three in the morning for me, milk-ass.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? It’s true. LACTOSE IN THE LATTER REGION!”
“Jesus. How high are you?”
“I had breakfast on a yacht. I had lunch in jail. I think I deserve a little something to take the edge off.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“Hell of a day, Milky. I didn’t even know the Post Office had cops, let alone a SEAL team. The way they boarded us, I thought they were there for the drugs.”
“There were drugs on the boat?”
“Not anymore.”
“You’ve really got your toes over the edge of the board, huh?”
“My lifestyle requires multiple revenue streams. The guys I hang out with like to have Art Fights.”
“Art Fights?”
“You whack each other with expensive paintings. I saw a Chinese tech billionaire break a Mondrian over some Saudi prince’s head one night. And that’ll run ya, Mookie. Wanna have high times, gotta have deep pockets.”
“That’s abhorrent.”
“Yeah, well, some people like going to ball games, and other people like plotting coups on mega-yachts with shadowy figures in loose control of crazed militias.”
“You’re the second type.”
“I’m the second type, yeah. That’s my passion, that shit right there. Hanging out in a castle outside Bratislava, getting loaded on PCP with some rogue colonels from Burkina Faso, and wiring two million into their accounts just to see what’ll happen. God, I love that shit.”
“I like spending time with my kids.”
“I have no dealings with children.”
…
“You said that weird.”
“Milky, I’m being railroaded here.”
“Ah. You’re changing the subject.”
“This indictment is all bullshit. They don’t have dick.”
“They seem to have all of your financial records, plus an extensive collection of text messages in which you and your co-conspirators openly discuss how to make the crimes you’re knowingly committing look legal.”
“They indicted me on two charges. Two? If Johnny Jackboot has anything on you, he charges you with a dozen crimes. Two? Two’s a fishing expedition.”
“But the two charges are wire fraud and money laundering. They’re not, like, shoplifting-related.”
“I fucking love shoplifting.”
“Not surprised.”
“That’s one of the reasons I wear so many shirts. Lot of places to hide purloined candy. I haven’t paid for a Kit-Kat in decades.”
“Great.”
“Maybe ever.”
“Bannon, you’re in a great deal of trouble here.”
“Me? Naaaaaaah. Now, Stumpy is in some thick shit. But not me.”
“And by ‘Stumpy,’ you are referring to Brian Kolfage, the Air Force veteran who lost both legs and an arm to a rocket in Baghdad?”
“Yeah. Stumpy.”
“Tasteful as always.”
“Well, we’re not pussies, Monkey.”
“Maggie.”
“We’re men who can take a little ribbing now and then.”
“You stole millions of dollars from a charity.”
“But my point is that we did it in a masculine way.”
“I do not understand how your head works, man.”
“Stumpy loved it when I called him that. Made him feel like one of the gang. Besides, he’s got himself a pair of Lieutenant Dan legs now. I like to stick fridge magnets to ’em when he’s not looking.”
“That’s terrible.”
“He loved it. One time, he didn’t love it, so I called him ‘Kol-fag.’ And then after that he loved it. Good kid. You see that boat I helped him pick out?”
…
“You’re trying to make hi the patsy, aren’t you?”
“Every deal needs a fall guy, and to be honest: I just couldn’t resist making the guy with no legs the fall guy this time.”
“You are a wicked man.”
“Yeah, right? See, here’s the thing: I’ve been dead a bunch of times. Medically dead. For, like, seven or eight minutes at a time. And during none of those mortems did I see an afterlife. There’s no Heaven. There’s no Hell. We will not be judged. And so I figure I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
“But why don’t you want to do something good, something that helps people?”
“Because it’s more fun to plan international con-jobs on yachts.”
“You really should be more concerned about this, Bannon.”
“Big Steve’s gonna be fine. I’m getting the Dolly!”
“The Dolly?”
“Pardoned!”
“Her name is ‘Parton.'”
“Close enough! Fucklips knows I have enough on him and his mongrel spawn to put the whole family away. He doesn’t want me cooperating. He’s panicking. I bet Yarmulke-dick had to talk him out of pardoning me today.”
“Yarmulke-dick?”
“Jared.”
“Obviously.”
“He might be behind all of this. Little globalist hasn’t liked me since I spanked him.”
“What?”
“I spanked Jared. Physically. He was popping off in a meeting and pissing off the President. So I put him over my knee. I had both the weight and shirt advantage over him, so he couldn’t squirm away. Raised some hell on that ass, Magaroni.”
“Makes sense why he wouldn’t like you.”
“Pussy. You know how many times I got spanked in the Navy? It was constant. You spanked, and you got spanked. It wasn’t personal, it was just ass-stuff.”
“I don’t think Jared secretly orchestrated your arrest.”
“The President’s son-in-law is granted powers beyond your mortal ken. It’s in the Constitution.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It might not be. That might have been the ketamine talking. Hey, Murgle: You wanna hang out?”
“No.”
“I’m already on another yacht.”
“Are you committing more crimes?”
“Yes!”
“Big Steve rides on.”
“I’m having a ball being me.”
I thought you were fucking off for the territories.
“New plan. Also, Post Malone stole my Land Rover.”
I thought you called him Posty.
“We’re not friends anymore.”
I’m sorry for your loss. So, what’s your new strategy for dealing with the pandemic?
“Promise you won’t get mad.”
I NEVER SHOULD’VE GIVEN THE GRATEFUL FUCKING DEAD A TIME SHEATH!
“It is kinda your fault. You may as well have given a tribe of chimps a loaded AK47.”
When are you?
“January of 2020.”
Why then?
“It was a good month for me. Lot of happy memories. I don’t think I had one conversation with a non-famous person in January of 2020. Great month.”
Jesus.
“Hey, I just realized something. If I was exposed to the ronus in August of 2020 before coming to January, then I might be the Patient Zero for Los Angeles. It’s like the Grandfather Paradox.”
I will absolutely write that plot device out of existence if you dildoheads don’t stop infecting the timestream because you’re bored.
“Oh, please. You love the Time Sheath more than we do.”
I do. It’s fun. Is that Hailee Steinfeld?
“She’s 23.”
Not what I asked. And creepy that you went there.
“Just wanted the fact on the table. That’s a fact that’s earned its place on the table. Have an extra setting laid for that fact.”
Stop it. She was so good in True Grit.
“She was not LaBeouf.”
I see what you did there.
“It was fun. Don’t you like it better when we get along than when you’re cruel to me for no reason?”
CELL PHONE NOISE
There’s a reason.
“You’re still pissed about the Time Sheath?”
Yeah, man. Just stay in one of your giant mansions, or your Brooklyn triplex, or your ranch. Stop bopping around the timestream.
“It’s only a duplex.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
Pick up the phone or I turn your head inside-out again.
“Dick.”
…
“You’re on with John.”
“Mr. Brown gonna GET UP ON YOU ALL OVER yeah all right.
“What?”
“Oh.”
“Lumpy eggs.”
“Seriously, how did anyone who loves you allow you to do an interview in this condition?”
“I got a mini-scarf. I’m the Black Mr. Furley!”
“It’s a nice scarf.”
“My wife made it for me. She got gypsy blood.”
“Okay.”
“They call me the King of Soup.”
“Can you give me a moment?”
“I’ll give you lumpy eggs.”
“Great.”
…
“Hey. Dick.”
Yyyyyyeeeeeeeesssss?
“Why do I constantly have to interact with maniacs?”
The Enthusiasts demand it.
“Fuck ’em.”
I’ve been saying that for years! But they’re insistent, and some of them send me drugs and cash. Hey, I tell you what: You send me drugs and cash, and you can stop having conversations with despots and dopers.
“That’s extortion. What you’re proposing is the dictionary definition of extortion. It’s against the law.”
FORMER TEEN HEARTTHROB’S HEAD BEING TURNED INSIDE-OUT AND THEN BACK NOISE
I am the law.
“I hate this stupid universe.”
BEST: Former President Barack Obama giving the Democratic base the red meat it had been craving from him since the day he was supplanted by Trump. His impassioned and inspiring words gave all who heard them the impetus to vote this November like they’d never voted before.
WORST: The possum attack halfway though President Obama’s speech was unfortunate. Both possums and former Presidents contain more blood than you’d imagine. Poor optics for the Dems.
BEST: The inclusion of Republican voices indicated the Democrats were now the party of the Big Tent, signalling to moderates and centrists that a Biden Administration would be one that strives to reach across the aisle and compromise.
WORST: Colin Powell’s weird rant about “re-invading Iraq.” Is that even possible? I guess we’ll find out.
BEST: The delightful and joyous celebration of America in all her regional glory that was the Roll Call. Each state appeared in its own video, highlighting their idiosyncrasies and playful goofiness, tho weighed down by the burden of history. Sure, we’re Americans. But the country is the United States.
WORST: The delegate from Idaho shouldn’t have taken his balls out. I know he was trying to make a point about potatoes, but I disagree with his storytelling choices. His balls were really hairy, too, and potatoes shouldn’t be hairy at all, so it was a just a total fiasco.
BEST: Bill Clinton, for a small segment of Gen-Xer’s who, despite all evidence, still feel an affection towards the man they know as Bubba, who played saxophone on a chitty-chat show one time.
WORST: Bill Clinton, for everyone else.
BEST: Joe Biden’s personal stories of loss, faith, and struggle resonate with hard-working, red-blooded Americans.
WORST: Holy shit, Joe Biden’s life is depressing. The guy’s cursed or something.
BEST: Rating are up 40% from 2016!
WORST: That was a lie. The ratings are terrible because no one wants to watch iPhone videos of non-performers giving speeches to their backyards. The balloons were the point. We mock the balloons, but the National Conventions were–and had been for 50 years–teevee shows with a specific and well-evolved quality of production. The show had expectations to meet: the shots of dancing uggos in the audience, the pontificating nonces in the press booth, the quadrennial speech that train-wrecked, and–of course–the balloon drop. Ten-thousand red, white, and blue balloons floating down onto a packed crowd is fine teevee. John Kerry sitting alone in his kitchen is less entertaining. No one wants to watch this shit.
BEST: The Castro Brothers’ interpretive dance about the history of the labor movement. Those two move as one.
WORST: In what is known in the show business industry as a “hot mic incident,” Minnesota Senator Amy Klobuchar was recorded choking to death, and then gutting, a staffer. That’s just bad message discipline, and it’s the sort of thing that your opponent uses in ads. You don’t go handing your enemy swords.
BEST: Hillary Clinton laying out with lawyerly precision the danger that would arise in allowing Donald Trump a second term.
WORST: She told us how dangerous it would be to let him have a first term four years ago and nobody fucking listened, and we’ve only gotten dumber as a society since then, so hope is fool’s gold at this point. Bolt a tent to the top of your SUV and head for the Low Desert.
BETS: Gimme Fosdick’s Folly in the 3rd, My Portly Bunny in the 5th, and Valentine on the morning line.
WURST: No one crams meat into meat casings like the Germans, no one.
BTS: America doesn’t even make its own Boy Bands anymore. We gotta import ’em from Korea. That’s a sign of an empire in decline right there.
WORKS: Look upon them, you meat casing, and despair.
Yo.
Yuh-huh?
Maybe it’s time to call it a night.
For good?
No, we’re not there yet, champ. I meant hitting the hay.
Yes, please, want some.
Okay.
Are you fleeing?
“No, of course not. I’m camping.”
…
“Yeah, I’m fleeing. I smell doom. Society has, like, ten weeks left.”
So you bolted a tent onto the top of your Land Rover?
“This is one of several escape vehicles for Goodbye Day.”
Goodbye Day?
“That’s what we call the day the supply chains sever and the power goes out. We think it’s real close!”
Who is “we?”
“Luxury Survivalists. Our bug-out bags are Louis Vuitton.”
Dammit, Meyers.
“Birkins for the ladies, obviously.”
Who is in this group with you?
“Bill Maher, Steve Aoki. Posty.”
Post Malone?
“I’m his friend. I call him Posty. We all went in on a ranch in New Zealand to get our citizenships, and we have a G6 on 24-hour standby. G6 can do that route non-stop.”
So what’s the hippie van for?
“What if antifa blows up the plane?”
Antifa?
“Or the Boogaloo Boys.”
How long are you spending on the internet each day?
“Not gonna lie: I have increased my consumption recently.”
You’re not gonna get into Qanon, are you?
“No?”
…
“Nooooooo.”
Goddammit, Meyers. Don’t you go yak-headed on us.
“I’m not into Qanon.”
Good.
“I’m into Jewanon.”
Less good. What is Jewanon?
“It’s like Qanon, but there are more Jews.”
Are the Jews helpful and compassionate, kind to strangers, and ethical to a fault?
“No, the opposite.”
Ah.
“And they are also werewolfs.”
Sure. Do we need to have the talk about “embarrassing the Grateful Dead” again?
“Billy also believes in Jewanon.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“You just don’t wanna hear the truth.”
Pick up the phone before I turn your head inside out.
“Can you do that?”
FORMER TEEN HEARTTHROB’S HEAD TURNING INSIDE-OUT NOISE
…
FORMER TEEN HEARTTHROB’S HEAD RETURNING TO NORMAL NOISE
“I did not enjoy that.”
No, I wouldn’t imagine anyone would.
CELL PHONE NOISE
Pick up the phone.
“Asshole.”
…
“You’re on with John”
“Zebba-YAAAAeeeh.”
“Pardon?”
“Huckonamooooostragoostra!”
“Mr. Brown?”
“Lumpy eggs!”
“Are you okay?”
“Zebba zebba. MAMA’S GONNNNNNNNA WORK IT OUT. Zebba.”
“Can I maybe get you a cup of coffee? Some water?
“Lumpy eggs!”
“Uh, okay. I could rustle up some eggs.”
“Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.”
…
“Hoo.”
“I’ll see about those eggs.”
“Zebba.”
Could Garcia play jazz?
Kinda. If you had never heard an actual jazz guitarist, you might think so. Those with a working knowledge of six-string swing-cats might not share that opinion.
Could Garcia play jazz that he and David Grisman had transmogrified into bluegrass?
Yes! Quite well, in fact.
Did Miles Davis only like Garcia because Garcia fawned over him?
Probably a little.
Isn’t that a bit…Trumpy?
Yes! Quite Trumpy, in fact.
Y’know your eyebrows are falling out, right?
Go fuck your brother, you shit-sack.
DON’T YOU GIVE HIM SHIT, SHIT-SACK!
Fuck both of you dudes.
Eat me, muchacho.
EAT HIM, MUCHACHO!
I hate bold-faced guy.
That fucker’s on my list. Actually, that fucker’s my whole list. It’s just him.
You’re a friend.
I dance with who brought me.
- These ones.
- They are, as I already mentioned, excellent. Excellence is so rare! Press excellence to your loving bosom; grill it a cheese; ask your mobster buddies to find it a no-show job. Love up on excellence.
- These shows were shared with us, undeserving sinners and slackers tho we are, by Cascadia’s own Mr. Completely. That’s a Seal of Approval right there, boy howdy. That guy’s the Michael Jordan of recommending stuff.
- Maybe if you don’t, Mr. Davis comes to your house and punches everyone living therein? Sure, he died 30 years ago, but would you put it past him? I wouldn’t. Mr. Davis was and continues to be a feisty dude.
- At least one of these recordings features a band that contained Chick Corea and Keith Jarrett. At the same time! That’s like getting soup and salad.
- At least one of the recordings that does not feature Messrs. Corea and Jarrett features Pete Cosey, and he looked like this:
Which you’d have to believe scared some white people, and that’s–returning to my initial assertion–excellent. - What else are you gonna listen to? Goose? Grover Washington, Jr.? Dokken? You gonna throw on Dokken when there’s nine or ten hours of Electric Era siting there plump and lovely like a Fresno rentboy? (Fresno has the plumpest rentboys. Everyone knows this.)
- Cuz if you don’t, you’re a non-playing motherfucker. And we all know what Mr. Davis thinks of non-playing motherfuckers.
Enthusiasts, I do not prefer my ties dyed. To my way of thinking, clothes are like wide receivers: They need a very good excuse not to be black.
HOLD THE FUCK UP, MUCHACHO.
Too far?
Too far, too much, too everything.
I would like to blame my actions on my health condition. I don’t know if you’ve heard–
Jesus, dude.
–but I have a wee touch of the cancer.
Y’know, you’re milking it.
…
Did you just accuse me of milking my cancer?
Like an aggressive farmhand.
IT’S CANCER.
Some suffer silently.
I’ve never done anything silently. I even snore, so I can still raise a dumbfuck racket while I sleep. I’m a squawky nitwit and I don’t see it changing.
Uh-huh. But maybe your decrepitation doesn’t need to be the prime focus of the site. Remember when this was about the Grateful Dead?
Who?
Then you inflicted your fiction on the nice people.
They deserved it.
And now you’re doing your imitation of Bob Hope in Road To Hospice. It’s depressing. Can’t you die more cheerfully?
I cannot.
Try. Slap a smile on,
It hurts to smile because the poison gave me thrush.
RIGHT THERE. That’s the morbid shit I’m talking about. Stow it, buster.
Don’t you talk to me that way. I’m a brave battler! My fight is courageous! I will slay the dragon of pestilence, chase it from my body! I battle bravely!
…
Please don’t say–
TOTD STRONG!
TotD…wow.
I wear my bad luck like a crown.
Y’sure do, champ. Why did you start typing this time?
Oh, right: I was gonna plug. A lovely Enthusiast, generous and giving of heart, sent me a tie-dye; it is a pleasing garment in red, white, and blue, and it was made by hand, which means there is no shirt like it anywhere in the world, not even locations where many hippies gather. My shirt is sui generis, and so is the candana*. Again: I am pleased.
So if you’re a tie-dye guy or an earthen mama, pay a visit to the Firefly Shirt Company on Facebook or at their Etsy store. Not only will you be procuring yourself a quality piece of clothing, but they ship via the USPS, so you’d also literally be saving America from fascism. Be a hero and buy some merch.
Point of order.
You’re still here?
I never left. I have a point of order.
Whaaaaaaat?
How come this merits a plug? Plenty of kind Enthusiasts sent you stuff.
Plenty of kind Enthusiasts sent me weed. And, you know: that’s still technically a crime. You don’t plug crimes.
You should offer a plug, though.
You’re right. Anyone who wants to be thanked publicly for committing a federal offense, please e-mail me. Or say something in the Comment Section.
Has this attitude ever helped you?
Not once.
I admire your tenacity.
You should. It’s awesome.
*I have accumulated a passel of new Twitter followers of late; some may be encountering the word “candana” for the first time. It is a portmanteau of “cancer” and “bandana,” and refers to the chemo du-rag.
Didn’t I tell you to cool it with the cancer?
YOU CAN’T FOLLOW ME TO THE ASTERISKIAL ZONE! THIS IS MY TERRITORY!
Oh, jam it up your ass.
FUN FACT: TotD grew up on Tanglewood Drive!
© 2025 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments