Thoughts On The Dead

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

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Transcript Of Donald J. Trump’s Speech in Manheim, PA 10/1/16

“All right, yes. Great. Look at you. Lotta people, biggest crowds. They won’t show it! The unfair media, which is very unfair to me. Someone just told me there were 450,000 people in this hall. Wow. What’s Hillary got? Did you see her? Last speech? Six people. Yeah. Six people, believe me, and two were dogs. Four people and two dogs, I guess, to be specific. Not even good dogs. Very bad dogs. Remember Buddy? Hillary had a dog, Buddy? Hillary ate Buddy. Like she was Oriental.

“I have had a great week, Pennsylvania! The best week. Won the debate, and exposed the corrupt and disgusting media for being corrupt and disgusting. CNN, which has no ratings, none at all, says I did bad. They don’t show the many polls from Reddit that say I won. Twitter says I won. Sean Hannity, who no one will call, says I won the debate. Crooked Hillary called me and told me I won. She conceded the debate. That’s true! I wasn’t going to say that because I thought it wouldn’t be nice, and I just want to be nice, even though Hillary made her daughter Chelsea watch while she killed and ate Buddy.

“Can’t try her! Not in court, Crooked Hillary owns the courts, we know this. Everybody knows this. There are people who have done 10% of what this woman has done, and they’ve been executed. But you can’t try her because everyone has immunity. Immunity! You get immunity, and you get immunity! It’s like on Oprah, who is very boring on television and sometimes very fat, but also tremendously rich and successful. Heard she had an affair with Bill. Did Sex-Crazed Hillary, who is a pervert, join in? Why wouldn’t she?

“So this Lester Holt, who is the worst, is the worst. He should be in prison. The whole debate was rigged against me. Still won. Bad mic! I wasn’t going to say this because I wanted to be nice. Y’know what? I’m gonna say it: Hillary Clinton farted on my mic before the debate. I smelled it. Very distinctive. Sick old-lady fart. Smelled like Parkinson’s, if I’m honest, and I am the most honest person you’re ever gonna meet. Sick old-lady fart.

“And she’s got her points. Little checklist. This, that. Lie, wrong. She called me a racist! That means she called you racists. She calls Bernie supporters trash people. That was the phrase! I heard it, the tape, that’s what she said, believe me. Trash people! This Miss Universe, I can’t believe we’re still talking about this. She got fat! What am I gonna do? She got fat! There’s no way around it. She got fat! My hands were tied. Y’know, you have to ask yourself: was Senorita Universe a Clinton plant from the beginning? Did she win and then get fat on purpose? Very devious people we’re dealing with, folks! Crooked Hillary is very devious and cunning, but also the most incompetent person I’ve ever met. Both those things.

“Every day there are lies about me in the very dishonest media. The New York Times, which is failing, broke into Trump Tower and stole forged documents from my office. I have the surveillance tape, but you can’t see it because I’m under IRS audit. What they printed was a lie, based on fraudulent documents, that Punch Sulzberger heisted from my office safe Ocean’s 11-style. I have always paid my legal obligation of taxes, but if I didn’t, that would make me smart.

“I said this at the debate, which I won. I will release my tax returns when she releases the 33,000 e-mails that she destroyed. When we see the e-mails she destroyed with acid and hammers, then she can see my tax returns. Also, I want to see her birth certificate. Where was Foreign Hillary born? She says Chicago, but we don’t know. Every time I hear about Chicago, it’s about the gun violence that plagues the blacks. Hillary is not a black, so maybe she’s not from Chicago! Or maybe Hillary Clinton is a black? Either way, she ate Buddy the dog.

“She wants to set your aunts and uncles on fire. I want to bring back jobs. Hillary wants to break your feet, and then chase you with horses. Horses! I don’t want to do that. My company did not become the most successful company in the world because I chased people with horses. She wants to sell our homosexuals to the Saudis. I want to let my vice-president decide about the homosexuals. She is not fit to lead the country. She won’t make America great again. I’ll make America great again.”

Jewelry By John

We have a mystery, Enthusiasts. Sherlock Holmes had murders; David Fahrenthold is doing God’s work tracking down Trump’s financials; the Bigfoot Hunters have ‘squatch to track; I have this puzzlement: John Mayer’s jewelry line.

Now, the mystery isn’t “Why would John Mayer have a jewelry line?” but “Does this jewelry line still exist?” Allow me to explain.

John Mayer has a jewelry line. (It makes me giggle when I write it, so that’s why I’ve repeated myself.) You can go to his site and see it, but I’ll provide some highlights. It’s a fairly standard rock star store, and the page is well-designed; you can buy all the normal bullshit, like a Christmas-y wine tote:

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Or, like any other entrepeneur, John will sell you a t-shirt. It is every American’s God-given right to sell t-shirts to one another, and I applaud these offerings as patriotic. You can get a slouchy one:

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Or a flowy one:

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(If you do the math, sleeves cost five dollars apiece at John Mayer’s Online Merch TableĀ®.)

Shirts–of any cut and shape–are a lovely thing, but what about pants? One cannot wear a shirt without pants; the combination instantly strips (no pun intended) you of all dignity. Shirt with no pants is more embarrassing than completely naked.

Luckily, there are pants. They’re comfortable:

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I told you so.

And all that is fine and good and run-of-the-mill and what you’d expect from any normal human rock star. There are coffee mugs and ball caps: all the stuff you’d think would be there.

But there’s also this:

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These things are different from the things that came before them. It’s ontological. Plus, the one on the left is not made of candy, and that’s fucked up: you know someone’s going to mistake that for a candy bracelet and try to eat it, and then they will chip a tooth and you’re out fifty bucks.

Also, everything about them is terrible. Children at a fat camp in Delaware made these on a rainy afternoon, and then an insane person priced them. They’re individually awful: number one is–as I mentioned–not candy; two and three look like things Jack Johnson stopped wearing two albums ago; and the fourth is absurd in concept: you’d have to take it off to spin it, so you’d be in constant peril of forgetting just what love is. (A verb.)

But then there was this, Enthusiasts, and it dates from September 22nd:

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Yet here we are in October–excuse me, Rocktober–and the jewelry line remains. Maybe we’ll never have answers, and if we don’t, then that’s okay because no one really cares that much or at all, really.

The Worst American Travel Writing, 2016 Edition

  • “Things I Made up About Australia while I was in Minneapolis.”
  • “I Got Lost While Looking for a White Guy who went Looking for a White Guy who went Looking for a White Guy in the Amazon.”
  • “My Rio,” by Ryan Lochte.
  • “Playing Ping-Pong with FARC.”
  • “Watching Natives Kill Something And Having Feelings About It.”
  • “The Northhampton Grackle: An Uninteresting Bird.”
  • “Foreigners Make Me Cranky,” by Paul Theroux.
  • “A Monkey is Fucking my Armpit.”
  • “The Water Parks of North Korea.”
  • “Dubai on $50,000 a Day.”
  • “Walking the Great Wall of China but Getting Tired and Stopping.”
  • “Syria: You Must Not Travel Here; I Don’t Know Why I Did.”
  • 200 pages on a Cinnabon he ate at in O’Hare Airport, by William T. Vollman.

Pitchfork, No Torches

Thank God, Enthusiasts. You thank Him right the fuck now: get on your knees, or wash your feet, or wrap your forearms in fetish gear; whatever your religion–which is the correct one–tells you to do in order to interface the Most High. Write a card, a tasteful appreciation, to the Lord; use your best pen; not on a legal pad, you classless butt. Thank whichever God does it for you, for I have at last found something to bitch about in this review of Bobby’s new album of cowboy tunes Blue Mountain by the great Jesse Jarnow.

It was tough, I’ll give you that: the review is well-written, and Jobble Jibble–

Stop that.

–knows what he’s talking about, and draws special attention to Bobby’s singing; plus, it’s a glowing, if measured, review for a solo album by a Grateful Dead in Pitchfork. That’s downright subversive. (Don’t worry: The National gets mentioned, because if you write about the Dead in Pitchfork without referencing The National, then someone comes to your house and takes away your new Bon Iver vinyl.)

But I found it.

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Maybe you can’t see it. Look closer.

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EXPLAIN PLEASE.

A Note To Travel Writers

The Best American —- Writing series gets released in October, and I pick it up every year. The sports one is always good, as are the science and tech collections, but the release dedicated to travel writing is always spotty; luckily, you can always tell whether or not to skip the piece by the first sentence.

“I’m walking down an ancient goat path in Tuscany.” SKIP.

“I’m waist-deep in water in the Ukraine.” NO, THANK YOU.

“I’m narrating in the present tense from somewhere exotic.” META-SKIP.

Stay out of the present tense. Present tense is for when teepees have birthdays.

We All Wear Masks

burning-man-mask-hoddie-boobsYou look like an stormtrooper for sexual fascists.

“I serve President Rump, and will make boners great again. I know you want to make boners great again, patriot. But what about your neighbors? Which ones are freaky, and which ones are deaky? You know that deakiness has been forbidden, patriot?”

Stop scaring me.

“We shall ride our tanks made of dicks through the streets, which will flow.”

With blood?

“There’ll be some blood mixed in, sure, I guess.”

I don’t like sexual fascism.

“Of course you do. We’ll tuck you in at night, and then reach under the blankets and do stuff to your crotch.”

You personally?

“Someone with the proper authority over your crotch.”

I’m the only person with authority over my crotch.

“You signed up for Selective Service when you were 18?”

Yes.

“Then your crotch belongs to Northrop Grumman.”

They can’t be trusted with it!

“Neither can you!”

Yeah, okay. Got me there.

“We agree.”

You do have a face under there, right?

“Three or four.”

Nifty. Wanna hold hands?

“I’m seeing an alcoholic furry.”

What?

drunk-mascot-570x321

“BLAAAAAARFFFF. CHHH. CHHH. ChhhhhhhhhMLAAAAAAAAWWWWW.”

Ew.

“Muf muf muf FFFWAAAAAAAAAGGGHHblech. Huh huh huh. I’m good. I’m goBWWWWAAAAAAAAAFF.”

I don’t deserve this.

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