Apparently, and according to several sources, Miles Davis’ last words were “Tell Cicely I’m sorry.”
Thoughts On The Dead
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Page 4 of 1031
- Rudy in a fake mustache.
- Ficus, randomly selected.
- Ficus, chosen for looks and a positive attitude.
- Cellino or Barnes, whichever one didn’t die in a plane crash.
- My Cousin Skinny, Staten Island’s third-best My Cousin Vinny impersonator who also teaches kids about making healthy food choices.
- Literally whoever picks up the phone; I’m gonna dial numbers at random until someone picks up, and that person is gonna be lead counsel for the President of the United States in his (second) impeachment trial.
- Jared.
- The cyber.
- Cyber-Jared. (Tucked away in the Space Force budget was a line item for “Robot: Awesome” and $14 billion later, Cyber-Jared has killed 21 bus drivers. Luckily, President Biden has issued an Executive Order demanding that Cyber-Jared “cut the crap, roll up his sleeves, and get to work.” That should do it.)
- Mr. Jiggs.
- Cocaine Mitch’s Chinawife.
- The Mooch. (Please, God. You’ve taken so much from me this year, and I ask so little in return. Please let The Mooch represent Basketball Head at the Impeachment. Please let The Mooch put the whole system on trial. Give me this one, O Lord.)
- The rotting corpse of that cop who got beaten to death.
- Something that needs to be summoned via cursed puzzle box.
- Zombie William Jennings Bryan.
- A large man, possibly named Phil, who responds to the accusations by hucking empty Coke bottles at Pat Leahy.
- Fuck it, let Junior do it.
Eagle-eyed Enthusiasts will note Matt Kelly is not being assaulted by any drummers whatsoever in this photo. Hawk-eyed Enthusiasts understand that the look on Jaco’s face might best be described as “currently deciding whether you’re a secret robot assassin.” Hippo-eyed Enthusiasts will take the photo as a threat, and charge and kill it. Aye-aye-eyed Enthusiasts won’t be taken seriously by anyone. Cock-eyed Enthusiasts won’t see dick.
Stop it.
Shan’t.
Shall.
Mustn’t.
MUST!
I haven’t the energy to fight. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it–
God, I hate you.
–but I’m riddled with disease.
You’ve brought it up once or twice.
I’m being inspiring. I’m an inspiration. I’m a hero.
Please just spit up a few more lines about the Dead and go back to sitting quietly and not bothering the nice people.
Fine, but once more: I’m only giving in because–
OHMIGOD I’M ROOTING FOR THE CANCER.
–I’ve lost my wind due to my many and various maladies.
…
…
…
No re–
Do whatever you want, man.
–sponse? Thank you for your support in this trying time. Keen-eyed Enthusiasts have spotted that Bobby’s fit during the Jaco gig includes a sling, and not the Hell In A Bucket video-type sling, either.
Bobby fell off his bike in September of ’86 and spent the next month or so plastered up and unable to play guitar, but still perfectly capable of wearing jean shorts. As usual, Corry over at Hooterollin’ has more info and some context to thereby heighten one’s understanding of the situation.
Also: John Cipollina. That’s it, that’s the whole tweet.
Jaco started off crazy and then got hit on the head a lot, plus he was from Florida; poor bastard was doomed from the start.
ALWAYS A DEAD CONNECTION, TORTURED GENIUS EDITION: Bobby and Jaco were in a band together for 15, maybe 20 minutes. They called themselves Nightfood, and if you wanna know how they were, then listen to this:
Yeah. Don’t play Misty for me, please.
Even for high-class teevee gigs in foreign countries, Chuck pulled his usual “You hire the band; I’m sure they’ll be fine” bullshit. Although maybe he brought the drummer because I don’t think they had black people in Belgium in 1965.
OR
I bet Chuck insisted on being paid in American dollars.
“Carthaginian Jenkins!”
“Yes, General Hannibal?”
“Weird question.”
“I’m used to it.”
“Where are the elephants?”
“Glad you asked. As of this morning, we are officially out of elephants.”
“Out?”
“Nothing in the tank, sir. Our elephant well has gone tits-up.”
“I’ve discussed the crudity with you.”
“Oh, sir, we live in Antiquity. It’s rugged and harsh here.”
“No matter. Won’t have your piggy lips ruining my morning. Who runs Italy?”
“You, sir.”
“Truest statement you’ve ever offered, Jenkins. I’m not even from this continent, and now I run Italy. I’m on a streak, kid.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ray Stevens ain’t got nothing on me.”
“Wildly anachronistic reference, sir.”
“Hey, did you ever ask R&D about my idea?”
“Rudicides and Davidaxamagoras?”
“Yeah, R&D.”
“Your idea about cruise missiles?
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah. They said that we would need to invent literally a million other things first before we got to cruise missiles. We just figured out canals, like, a century ago. Cruise missiles will not be available.”
“That one hurts.”
“It does, sir.”
“I mean, it would make our jobs so much easier. No more poring over maps. Find out where the enemy is and just shoot cruise missiles at them until they’re all dead.”
“Sounds like heaven.”
“And then we take their stuff. It’s a water-tight plan.”
“It is, sir. Damn our temporally-based limitations.”
“You’ll get a slapping. Keep it up with the infernal contractions and oaths, and you’ll get a slapping.”
“I apologize, General.”
“Why are you even here? Do you intend to pass gas and leave like you always do? I call it the toot-and-scoot, and I don’t like it.”
“I’ve never done that, sir.”
“The foulness emanates from every hole of yours. Hey, you ever heard of China?”
“Vaguely. Isn’t it on the far side of the Silk Road?”
“Maybe. After we conquer all of Italy, let’s do China.”
“You may be putting the cart before the horse, sir.”
“Carts!”
“Sir?’
“We build carts, and they’re no more complicated than cruise missiles.”
“They are far more complicated, sir. Almost immeasurably so.”
“What if we use bronze? Have you seen what they’re doing with bronze nowadays? It’s amazing.”
“Wonderful alloy, sir. Won’t help us here. Was there anything else?”
…
…
…
“Ele–”
“Elephants.”
“–phants! Why didn’t you aid me?’
“I knew you could get there, sir.”
“Do you not smell them?”
“The elephants?”
“Keep up, boy. Breathe deeply, take in the air.”
TWO CARTHAGINIANS INHALING NOISE
“That is the distinct smell of no elephants. Do you think I don’t know what an elephant doesn’t smell like?”
…
“Sir?”
“Where are all the elephants?”
“Heaven?”
“Do we have a heaven in our religion?”
“Not sure. We left so few written accounts.”
“Couple years from now, Rome is gonna do a number on us.”
“Yes, sir. We’re at the top of the roller-coaster right now. All downhill from here.”
“None at all? Not one elephant?”
“Zero, sir.”
“God, I feel so naked.”
“It’s an new world we’ve entered, sir.”
“I mean: I’m Hannibal. I have elephants. You say my name anywhere in the world and the answer is ‘The elephant guy?’
“They’re an integral part of the brand, sir.”
“How many did we start with?”
“80, sir.”
“And now?’
“None.”
“Hell of a thing. Have we checked everywhere? How about behind the mess hall? Sometimes the men go there to wee on each other.”
“We looked, sir. No luck.”
“Have you tried making a noise with the can opener?”
“Yes, sir. Similarly fruitless.”
“Zip.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nada.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have no elephants?”
“Yes, we have no elephants today.”
“Unacceptable. We need them. Take some of the treasure and go buy us some.”
“Buy us some elephants?”
“Hup, hup.”
“In rural Italy, in the year BC 218?”
“Get a move on.”
“It can’t be done, sir.”
“Is it too late? Well, first thing in the morning when the shops open. But get there early! The good ones go quick. And make sure they’re ripe! You have to tap the skull and listen.”
“Sir, is it possible you’re thinking of honeydew melon instead of elephants?”
“Quite possible, indeed! I do believe those leathery beasts were my tether to reality. I’m like Spain after the Reconquista.”
“Sir?”
“Unmoored!”
“Clever, sir.”
“Bring me my elephants, damn you! Is it the shipping? I don’t care how much the shipping is, Jenkins! I’ll eat the shipping!”
“It’s not the shipping, sir. Procuring war elephants is a mindboggingly intricate process. It is both labor and resource-intensive, and it takes place on an entirely different continent than the one we currently inhabit. It’s gonna take maybe six months to get any more elephants.”
“I will pay for Fed Ex!”
“No dice, sir!”
…
“What kind of animals do they have here?”
“I’ve noticed a lot of goats.”
“Good enough. Sew some trunks to their noses.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I love it when a plan comes together.”
Friends, are you feeling down? Low? All fagged out?* Well, let your ol’ pal TotD sell you some bullshit. You know of food delivery services, and companies that will bring you groceries, but have you tried Opiates Brought To You Regularly? Calm your nerves! Settle your disposition! Still your bowels! With OBTYR! And for just a small upgrade fee, we’ll throw in Person Bringing You The Opiates Pretends To Believe You’re In Pain. Can’t get that deal on the internet!
“TotD,” you ask, “what does ‘regularly’ mean?”
BAZOOKA NOISE
And I shoot you in the face with a bazooka. Don’t fucking interrupt me, muchacho. My attention span is tenuous at best right now and I want to get through this, okay? I don’t come down to where you work and short your Gamestop. But I guess “regularly” means “whatever you can talk your doctor into.”
For those who act RIGHT NOW, we are able to add a free gift, which is Saving ‘Em Up And Getting Real Loose With It. While there’s a certain pleasure to a constant, low-grade administration of opiates, some prefer to chonk three or four pills down their throats and get their nod on. WE DO NOT JUDGE, even though that is some objectively rat-assed, dirtbag, junkie bullshit.
(WARNING: Side effects include a $100,000 hospital bill, bedsores, semi-insanity, and foreigners entering your room without asking permission.)
*I apologize for this.
I DON’T.
Asshole.
I’M A BRAVE WARRIOR ON A JOURNEY OF HEALING.
I’ll tell you what happened when I get my wind back. My sails are rigged, though. Just waiting on a breeze.
Humans get homesick. You take us from where we’re comfortable and we just fall to pieces sometimes.
And then we come home, where everything smells right and is where you left it.
6:53. Go to 6:53. It cured my cancer.*
OR
Prince listened to a lot of Zappa.
OR
It takes a rare and specific combination of complexion and chestiness to pull off–really pull off, man–yellow.
OR
“Guy takes a sax solo while the rest of the band vocally encourages him” is some Ascended Master shit. This happens at a show you’re at, make an offering to Schnitzel** on the way home.
OR
Prince shared a gift with George Clinton and Miles Davis and James Brown: He was preternaturally good at hiring drummers.
OR
Couldn’t play the oboe. Any other instrument in his hands, he’d coax phrases from immediately, then break your heart shortly thereafter. Not the oboe, though. The doctor said it was a phase. Princes go through phases, that’s what the doctors said.
OR
This fucking hospital is full of fear bears.***
OR
If one gets a blood transfusion–I’m asking for a friend–how much conjecture on the ethnicity of the donor is permissible? Obviously, in public, out loud, the answer is “None, and even considering it makes you a monster.” But if we’re keeping it between ourselves, I would say that one is not allowed to have a Hard Pass List, but a general ranking of preferences is only natural.
OR
They’re gonna do a Prince biopic, and it’s gonna be awwwwwwwwful and never mention what a religious whackadoo he was.
*Nah.
**A god, and also delicious.
***It is not; I just wanted to short-circuit your brain a little with the phrase “fear bear.”
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