Until Bobby was around 40, if you told him there was candy in your trailer, he would follow you into the trailer; he was serial killed at least half-a-dozen times before Garcia had a long talk with him about how he could afford his own candy now.
Thoughts On The Dead
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Page 495 of 1031
Hey, Harambe. Whatcha doing?
“Besides being dead?”
Yes.
“I’m an internet mogul now. Killing the web game.”
You are all over the place.
“Twitter can’t get enough of me. Black Twitter, too. Maybe Mexican Twitter, but I don’t speak Spanish. How do you say ‘Harambe’ in Spanish?”
Harambe.
“Then they love me, too.”
Good for you.
“I have a higher approval rating than either of the two presidential candidates, and I was two minutes from eating a human child in front of onlookers.”
It’s a weird year for politics. Wait, hold on. You were going to eat the kid?
“Parts of him.”
You said you were going to Tarzan him.
“Not a thing. Not even a thing in Tarzan, if you think about it: he gets adopted by gorillas and then there’s a montage and then he’s swinging all over the place on vines and doing acrobat bullshit.”
Right.
“When was the last time you saw a gorilla swinging gracefully on a vine?”
Never.
“Chimps do that. And chimps don’t adopt human babies, they eat them.”
You were going to eat him.
“Just parts.”
Which parts?
“The delicious parts.”
Some people are theorizing that you were treating the kid like it was a baby gorilla, maybe one that belonged to a rival male.
“Some people are fuckwits. You think I can’t tell a gorilla from a human?”
What do we look like to you?
“So much like us.”
Right.
“Uglier, obviously. Way too many sizes. And why don’t you have fur?”
Because we invented trousers.
“Then what do you pick nits and lice out of?”
Once in a while, a third-grader’s hair.
“That’s it? How do you groom each other?”
Lately, we like each other’s posts online.
…
“Then that means you are all grooming Harambe.”
I guess.
“Do you see what has happened? I have Tarzanned myself. Instead of the boy becoming King of the Apes, I have become King of the Men.”
Not really.
“Where do you sleep?”
What?
“Where do humans sleep? I just sleep on the ground here. Some of the zoo people have fallen asleep in front of me, but I don’t think that’s how it’s done in general.”
We make a nest.
“Every night? Where do you find the leaves?”
No leaves.
“Well, then it’s not a nest, is it?”
Fine, jackass: we sleep in bedrooms. Can you even begin to understand the concept of “bedroom?”
“Not in the slightest.”
Thank you.
“But can you understand the concept of a banana?”
Yes.
“I have no further argument.”
Sorry, man, but once we left the jungle and started talking to each other, it was no contest. Language equals world domination.”
“What about ants? Ants occupy way more of the planet than people, and in thicker densities.”
Only because humans haven’t made a concerted effort to kill them. Shit, we’re getting rid of the bees by accident.
“You’re a terrible species.”
We don’t play well with others. In fact, we don’t even see you as an other. You’re a thing. Legally, at least.
“You can’t sell a gorilla. There are laws about it.”
There are regulations in place regarding the ownership and possession of gorillas. Big difference.
…
“Dude, that’s fucked up.”
We are a fucked-up species when it comes to animals. And also everything else, but we’re just monsters when it comes to animals. Did you know that one of our major philosophies contains the belief that animals and humans are separate classes of being, and that animals were the lesser class?
“What? Jesus. Which one?”
Oh, wait, did I say one? All of them. Absolutely every single one. Maybe not the Jains, but there’s only like two dozen of them.
“At this point, I’m almost afraid to ask how the murder trial is going.”
The what?
“The guy who shot me. There were a million witnesses. He must have been arrested for my murder, right?”
You weren’t murdered, you were put down. There was no crime, as it was done humanely.
“Are you kidding me with that word?”
How else could one be shot in the head but humanely? It’s not like an elk is going to do it.
“Okay. Okay, yeah. Jesus. Y’know what? I’m gonna go hang out with Laika the cosmonaut dog.”
We shot him into space as an experiment.
“I hate all of you.”
Makes sense.
The second thing Kitty Hawk did upon assuming the directorship of the Museum of Modern Terrible Dead Art (MoMTDA, pronounced “Mom: TA-DAA!”was lower the museum’s standards while simultaneously cranking up the fundraising efforts. Technically, that’s the second and third things, but like I said: simultaneous. The first thing, you might remember, was putting the gift shop in the main gallery, and shoving all the art into the smelly little room the gift shop used to occupy. Also, she cranked the heat up in there.
Naturally, this made the Board unhappy: this was a museum, a palace of the arts–terrible as it may be–and a little decorum was in order. The Board also pointed out that Kitty had, along with the art, shoved the docents into the gift shop and several had died.
Some walls were knocked down, and most of the paintings and sculptures returned to public view; the gift shop was enlarged, as was its stock. Any art in the museum could be printed out onto a t-shirt while you waited. If you didn’t want to wait, you could pay a poorer person to do it for you. Miniatures of all the sculptures were available, and the ones that were phallic had been made from silicone and had suction cups on their bases so you could back up into them in the shower.
The children’s section was Kitty’s pet project. Or maybe the pet section. She knew nothing about children or pets other than the fact that their owners liked to buy them shit. At first, the shelves were full of those bleary educational toys and games found in every other museum gift shop, but kids hate those toys, and only ask out of duty and fear. As awful a toy store that this may be, the child thinks, if I walk out without something, then I’m setting a dangerous precedent. The museum toy store is the only one where children choose their gift begrudgingly.
All that dreck had to go, and Kitty knew the direction the children’s section should go, and that was Times Square in the 80’s. Throwing stars, nunchucks, fake IDs, plastic bongs: everything a child at a Grateful Dead museum would love.
As for the pet section, Kitty soon discovered that if you slap a Dancing Bear on some dog bullshit, then you can’t keep it on the shelf. She raised the prices on a water bowl with a Stealie in the bottom four times in a month, and sales just got better.
Kitty Hawk had been in the art world for a while, but this was her first foray into the museum business; she was a quick study, though.
Are you kidding me?
“Dude, I was just about to leave, and then we started talking about Luxotica and how their sunglasses are such shit. Mass-produced, generic crap. I mean: the eyes are the windows to the skull, right? Then your sunglasses should be the drapes.”
You are aware that Donald Trump from 1993–
“Who had previously freejacked into me as part of the Time War.”
–now inhabits the world’s most advanced hyper-computer?
“We just did the exposition together.”
It was nice.
“I’m enjoying watching our friendship develop.”
Me, too. You should fly me to Los Angeles so I can stalk you.
“Old school?”
I would be the most retro stalker ever. Trenchcoat, hat, newspaper with the eyeholes cut out.
“Go on.”
You would look across the street, and I would be there, and then a bus would come by and I’d be gone.
“Ooh, nice.”
Crazy letters made out of cut-out words from magazines.
“So vintage.”
Right?
“Let’s do this.”
I don’t fly commercial.
“Who does these days?”
I’ll need my own bandana wrangler.
“Got five on call.”
And I want that beardo’s hat.
YOINK
“Hey. What the fuck?”
“Done.”
Ten grand a day plus expenses, two week minimum.
“Okay.”
And a bonus for breaking into your house and standing over you while you sleep.
“Why would I give you a bonus for that?”
I won’t stab you.
“You’re not talking about a bonus: that’s straight-up extortion.”
You say potato, I tell a joke that doesn’t work in print: we’re all part of the same hypocrisy, John.
“Fine, but I’m going to need you to work over Simcha Torah.”
No deal!
CELL PHONE NOISE
“We were getting along! I was hiring you to stalk me!”
Oh, we both know I don’t have the energy for that. Plus: you’re an irresponsible dick.
“The Katy and Wally thing.”
Stop calling it that.
“I’m going, I’m going. Precarious is in the car, I just got held up.”
Wait.
“Yeah?”
You left Precarious Lee waiting in an idling car while you gabbed about sunglasses?
“Yeah.”
…
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Really?
He’s a bigger star than you here.
“Dude, Precarious is great, but you know: he’s the crew.”
…
…
…
CELL PHONE NOISE
Pick up the phone and we’ll discuss your attitude later.
“What if I don’t?”
Then every dog you ever meet from this moment forward will be skeptical of you.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I believe you.”
I don’t think you do.
“I can’t have dogs looking at me that way.”
Answer the phone.
“I hate you.”
Not as much as I do; pick up the phone.
…
“This is John Mayer.”
“TEEEEENNNN-HUT!”
“Huh?”
“Things have progressed, John.”
“How so, Katy?”
“I have assumed direct control of the Greatest Military Force This Planet Has Ever Known™, John.”
This was unexpected.
“I have become a Marine. Well, in charge of the Marines. I’m the Queen of the Marines, John.”
“How are the Marines taking this?”
“They love me, John! They gave me the same nickname as the greatest Marine of all.”
“What?”
“Chesty.”
“Sure.”
“And I’m in the Army, too. I’m a superstar general.”
“Not a thing.”
“Also, the Navy.”
…
“Rear–”
“Rear admiral.”
“–admiral? Right.”
“And I was going to be in charge of the Air Force, but no one could explain the point of them to me. All the other three branches have airplanes, John!”
“Katy.”
“Coast Guard has planes, John! Everyone has planes now! I think the Merchant Marine has an old helicopter lying around somewhere.”
“Katy.”
“It’s like having a branch that just specializes in trucks, John. Everyone has trucks, and everyone has planes!”
…
“I signed an Executive Order abolishing the Air Force, John.”
“That’ll certainly go smoothly.”
“I hope so. Also, you know: the Air Force is totally useless now that Wally is back online and plugged in. Are you near any machines? Or technology of any sort? Because you shouldn’t be.”
“Why not?”
“He’s in the system, John. He’s in everyth–”
…
DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE
“Katy?”
…
“Katy?”
…
“Precarious?”
“Yo.”
“Your car have WiFi or anything like that?”
“It’s a ’74 Ford Torino, man.”
“Let’s go.”
- ATM.
- Water fountain.
- Public bathroom.
- WiFi hotspot.
- Hot dog stand, but only with big yellow-and-blue umbrella with “Sabrett” written on it.
- Cart selling those giant pretzels with the grains of salt as big as a child’s knuckle.
- Dog to pet.
- Fat guy in Hawaiian shirt giving out high-fives and compliments
- Pit of quicksand, but with many signs warning you of the danger, so you could avoid it; that way, no matter how bad your day was: hey, at least you avoided the quicksand.
- Art of some sort would be lovely.
- I would say those leave-a-book/take-a-book library boxes, but I am sure that perverts would stick various pornographies in there immediately.
- Canadian Mountie in full uniform giving directions.
- In summer, wading pool.
- In winter, trash can fire surrounded by hobos in fingerless gloves warming themselves.
- The musical stylings of Miss Patti LaBelle, y’all.
- Registration kiosk for Federal Service: remember, service guarantees citizenship.
- Our life is brief.
- Soon it will end.
- Death comes quickly
- Snatches us cruelly
- To nobody shall it be spared.
Goddamned college kids and their college bullshit.
See the circle? That’s Fillmore South, so I may well be dead from Zika, or have my face eaten, or be gobbled by an alligator, or T-boned in an intersection by a douchebag in a BMW or an old Jew in a Lexus (they are equally poor drivers), or shot by a maniac because everyone down here is a maniac with a gun; I will not be affected by the hurricane, which is named Harambe.
In case you’re in the storm’s path, well: better you than me. Here are tips on surviving the hurricane:
Be prepared.
Purchase all the bread, batteries, and handguns you can afford, then use the handguns to procure more bread and batteries, and also get the money back that you spent on the handguns and the first batch of bread and batteries. Fill up your bathtubs with water, and some jasmine: hurricanes are stressful.
Wait it out.
Do not travel during a hurricane, unless you’re LeBron James, and then the refs will never call it. Curfews and stay-at-home rules will most likely be in effect, so ask yourself if you’re in the company of people you can avoid murdering for twelve hours or so. Do not take a selfie with the hurricane.
Strengthen your house.
Pre-break all the windows in your home, and while you’re at it, throw the pets off a bridge. If you live in a tiny house, then you should put your house in a real house, or in the garage of a real house. Set your lawn on fire, just in case.
Hunker down.
Farther. More. Right there: good hunkering.
The aftermath.
You must be ready for anything after a hurricane, so you should already have both a Trump bumper sticker and a movie poster from Madea Fucks Up Thanksgiving Again. This way, no matter who has won the inevitable post-hurricane race war, you will be allowed to live.
Good luck, everybody.
Precarious did not last long as the Director of the Museum of Modern Terrible Dead Art (MoMTDA, pronounced “Mom, Ta-DAA!”) He was unqualified for the job in every way, except for when large pieces of art needed to be moved in and out of the halls, which he always supervised . Also, three or four days into the job, he excused himself from a meeting and walked to his car and didn’t come back for a week. He did that a couple of times, and then the Board decided to make Precarious the Director Emeritus and hire someone who knew what they were doing.
The job search was intensive: all of the band members’ wives and girlfriends were asked if they wanted to do it, and then anyone who was hanging around Front Street. When they all said no, the Board starting calling other museums and universities and asking for recommendations like normal people.
There were artists and curators from every school, but none of them seemed to fit. The geometric abstractionists were all vaguely square, and the outsider artists refused to enter the building. An interview was set up with a founding member of the Found Art school, but she got lost on the way in. The minimalists offered little at the meeting, and the post-minimalists even less; Everyone was convinced the Neo-postists were just making it up as they went, but they did get in a fight with the Post-neoists in the lobby, which was fun.
For weeks, Front Street was a revolving door of the most pretentious Americans and ludicrous foreigners you’d ever seen. Some of them were barefoot, but in an expensive way.
Kitty Hawk didn’t have an appointment, partially because no one had been answering the phone since Billy ripped it out of the wall, but when she walked in and said that the main gallery should switch spaces with the gift shop, she was hired on the spot.
“Did I win another Grammy?”
Instagram, Bobby. Not Grammy.
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
Social media app.
“Oh, something for my watch, or hat.”
Right.
“Instagram?”
Yeah.
“Is Josh on it?”
Of course.
“Wait, is this like Facebook? I don’t need Billy sending me more stuff about Obama.”
It’s different.
“My kids told me they’re called mu-muus”
Memes.
“And they’re dank. ‘Dad, look at this dank meme,’ they say to me, and I got no clue what’s going on.”
No one can understand the youth.
“Who is that boy?”
Please don’t get involved in meme culture, Bobby.
“Is Instagram a Buzzfeed?”
No.
“Is it a Tech Bro?”
It’s mostly just pictures of hot people leading expensive lives. And people’s meals.
“You can order food on it?”
No, people take pictures of their food.”
“Before or after they eat it?”
Before.
“Why?”
Conspicuous consumption. In both the spirit and letter of the phrase: conspicuous consumption.
“Sure. Record company thinks it’ll move a couple units, though.”
Go to it, then.
“Plus, I already got an endorsement deal with a cleansing tea company, and also with a tooth-whitener gadget.”
Welcome to Instagram.
You look like fun.
“I’m up for stuff.”
Totally. You have a jaw which is square and sharp, and aviators.
“Don’t forget the freckled chest.”
As if I could. Where does objectivity exist?
“In the lesser mathematics, and graveyards. That which exists outside of language, which is subjective at its core and without the ability to define axioms without self-reference.”
So Gõdel was right?
“Partially.”
Nicely done.
“I’ve got five advanced degrees in semantics.”
Five? You sound obsessed.
“Yes. I’m always up for semantics.”
…
I love you.
“Of course.”
Let’s get married.
“Common law?”
The commonest.
“For my bouquet, I’ll chuck this lady’s water bottle at someone’s head.”
It’s a cozy.
“Noted. Let me just tell my friend what’s happening.”
Friend? Just a friend? Not a husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, fire demon, or living log flume?
“Just a friend.”
Cool.
…
“Heather?”
“RANDO JESUS HAS CALLED ME HOME!”
…
“She’s got a ride.”
Great. Let’s go be happy ever after. Do you have any money?
“So much. Almost too much.”
Not possible.
“I know, I was kidding.”
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