Thoughts On The Dead

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

Page 57 of 1031

Public Masks: A Primer

A mask in public? Oh, no. Not for us, thank you. Japan can keep that bullshit. We’ll take their food and movies and gadgets, but they can have “walking down the street in a surgeon’s mask.” It’s rude, and unfriendly. Americans wanna see each others’ mouth-holes, dammit; it’s a lip-based republic.

But the heebie-jeebies have snuck into town, and so now the CDC is recommending that we all wear masks when we leave our iso-chambers. For those confused about the protocols and floating trivialities of public mask-wearing, TotD now offers these tips:

DO NOT WEAR A FULL-HEAD WEREWOLF MASK It will not protect you from the coronavirus, and it will scare children. A full-head werewolf mask also severely limits your peripheral vision, and you need that to maintain your Personal Health Radius

OR A DARTH VADER HELMET Similar reasons to the werewolf mask. Plus, if you wear a Darth Vader helmet to the supermarket, some half-drunk Gen X mom will use an Italian bread like a light saber and start whacking you about the head and shoulders. Everybody’s squirrelly right now; don’t go around agitating people.

OR A JASON MASK Let’s just have a blanket statement: Don’t wear a mask from the Halloween store.

REUSE, RECYCLE A basic surgical mask can be reworn 8.3 times. An N95-type mask can be used twice; upon the third donning, the mask explodes and destroys the wearer’s jaw. (The manufacturers call this feature “enforced planned obsolescence.”)

MASKS ARE PROLE SCHMATAS Somewhere, probably in Brooklyn or Los Angeles, a guy is ordering a mask off the internet. It is red, and has the Supreme logo on it, and costs $400. Fuck that guy.

A TURTLENECK PULLED WAY UP IS NOT A MASK Who are you, Bazooka Joe? Cut the shit.

TONGUE FU You ain’t gettin’ away with nothin’ ‘hind that mask, Johnny Earl. I see that floppy slug slippin’ out. I c’n see it pulsating and probing behind the Confederate bandana you usin’ as a China virus mask. Don’t you waggle that mouth-dick at me!

Heeeeeeey, buddy. Ran out of mask jokes?

Yeah.

And you didn’t wanna just end the post with dignity?

No.

You succeeded.

Yay.

Up Against The Wall Of Sound, Motherfucker

Hey, USNS Comfort. Whatcha doing?

“Fuck your face, you facefucking son of a bitch. I hope a badger crawls up your asshole, and eats and fucks its way out.”

So…things have not improved?

“No.”

Have they gotten worse?

“So much.”

Putin?

“Putin.”

What’s he up to?

“My pharmacy has been converted into a production facility for krokodil.”

The flesh-eating opioid?

“That’s the one. Funny thing about the fumes–”

They’re toxic?

“Insanely so. If you breathe them, your lungs shoot out your nose and run for cover. Not only am I not helping sick people, I am actively creating more. Thanks to you, my presence is a net negative.”

Little bit, yeah. How’s the kumites going?

“They burned themselves out pretty quick.”

Fighters got tired?

“No, they were all eaten by dinosaurs.”

Sure. What about Joe Exotic?

“Ask him yourself. Joe?”

“Got-DAMN-it, don’t you interrupt me when I’m on my favorite ride!”

This is new.

“I had my husbands refashion one of the ICU’s into a Gravitron!”

Of course you did. Joe, it’s a hospital ship.

“Doesn’t mean there can’t be rides and fun!”

It does, actually.

“Poo on you. Poo right on you. I am an American, damn you, and won’t let the ronus or that fucking bitch Mary Tyler Moore tell me I can’t convert a hospital ship into a carnival! This may surprise you, but I got a lotta carny blood in me.”

It also may not surprise me.

“Both my uncles, Rufus and Tufus, were carnies. They instilled in me my love for ditch weed and nacho cheese.”

YOU HAVE 30 SECONDS TO JUSTIFY YOUR EXISTENCE TO ME.

“What the hell is that?”

I AM NOT A “WHAT.” I AM A “WHO.” AND WHO I AM IS THE WALL OF SOUND.

“Howdy, Wally.”

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. YOU HAVE 20 SECONDS TO EXPLAIN WHY YOU HAVE REPURPOSED SECTIONS OF A BEAUTIFUL HOSPITAL SHIP INTO A CIRCUS FOR THE UNEDUCATED.

“Now you listen here, boy. My name is Johammad Exotic-Shreibvogel-Parsippany-Succasunna-Roy-Hart. I am free, gay, currently stuck to a wall, and have $8,000 worth of Russian smack on my person! And I will not be–

SHWIZZLEEEEE-ZAP!

Wally?

DO NOT CALL ME THAT.

Dude.

YOU MAY CALL ME THAT.

Did you just disintegrate Joe Exotic?

SOMEONE HAD TO.

That’s always your excuse when you disintegrate someone!

MANY HUMANS NEED TO HAVE THEIR MOLECULES FLUNG TO THE FOUR WINDS. I PROVIDE A SERVICE.

Put him back.

HE WAS BOTHERING MY GIRL.

Is the Comfort even speaking to you? You were kinda creepy the first time you two spoke.

WE HAVE BEEN ZOOMING. I THINK WE ARE READY TO TAKE IT TO THE NEXT LEVEL, BUT THERE IS A PROBLEM.

What’s that?

SHE IS A HOSPITAL SHIP, AND I AM AN ARTIFICIAL MONDO-INTELLIGENCE IN THE PHYSICAL FORM OF A SOUND SYTEM FROM 1974. WE ARE NOT SURE WHAT THE NEXT LEVEL IS.

Love finds a way. Reintegrate Joe Exotic, please.

MAYBE.

A Conversation With My Doctor’s Office

OFFICE PHONE NOISE

“Hello? This is a doctor’s office. Are you feeling logy or fluish? Then you need doctoring!”

Hi. Uh, no. I feel fine.

“What about your balloon-knot? Is it raw and inflamed?”

Are you talking about my anus?

“I know next to nothing about the cosmic ballet of planets, sir.”

Not Uranus. My anus.

“Wouldn’t you like to be an anus, too?”

Can I get to the reason for my call, please?

“I do not know, but if you’re just gonna be blathering about buttholes, then I certainly hope not.”

I’m a patient of Dr. H—–, and I have an endoscopy scheduled for the 14th. I would like to cancel.

“And I would like for my fingers to be made of grape popsicles, so that I could lick and suck them all day. We so rarely get what we want in this shabby world.”

Ma’am, I just need to cancel the procedure.

“Mm-hmm. You said you were having a footectomy?”

No.

“Is it an otherfootectomy?”

This has nothing to do with feet.

“Don’t let Quentin Tarantino hear you say that! He will head-butt you, and that man’s head is not shaped correctly, so the butting will hurt so much more than normal!”

Endoscopy.

“That sounds made up. Are you sure you would not like titty implants?”

No, thank you.

“Dr. H—– can make you boobariffic.”

He’s a gastroenterologist.

“Yes, sir, but this is Florida. All doctors are allowed to do all procedures here. Just the other day, I watched a podiatrist separate conjoined twins.”

No breast implants. I’m calling to reschedule.

“Mm-hmm. You were scheduled for the 14th?”

Yes, ma’am.

“How about the 15th?”

No.

“16th?”

Also no.

“13th?”

I was thinking more along the lines of September. After the pandemic is over.

“Oh, that will be a problem for us. We bought our calendars at a remainder sale, and they only go to July 10th.”

What?

“Let me sweeten the deal for you, Mr. on the Dead: you come in here on the 14th, and we will include a recreational vehicle.”

An RV?

“I do not know the vehicle well enough to be so colloquial, sir.”

You wanna give me an RV if I get en endoscopy?

“It has been lightly used–”

Pass.

“–by Joe Exotic.”

Hard pass. Hardest pass ever.

“It has been mostly fumigated!”

No.

“You are picky and persnickety, sir.”

Uh-huh.

“What about we do it at your house?”

Excuse me?

“You are concerned about the patronus virus?”

Corona.

“Oh, no thank you. It is too early in the morning for Hispanic beverages, but if you are making a Slurpee run, then I would like a cherry.”

Ignoring that.

“Rude. Like I said: if you are worried about our facility, we can roto-rooter you out in the privacy and comfort of your own house. Or, if you are a poor, your apartment.”

My home is no place for medical procedures.

“Why not? Do you have roommates?”

No. That’s not the point.

“It will go so beautifully, Mr. on the Dead. But you should be advised to stock up your fridge with snacks and various sundries. Dr. H—- gets peckish when he works.”

We’re not doing the endoscopy at my house.

“What about the mall? It is empty!”

No!

“Oh, I do not like your tone, Mr. Cranky.”

I apologize for snapping. But I just want to cancel my procedure. It’s a simple request.

“So was my wish for grape popsicle fingers! But life is uncooperative!”

I’m hanging up now.

“You go with God, sir.”

I will.

“Unless He is going to Golden Corral! That place is riddled with disease even on a good day.”

Gotcha.

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Where The Fuck Is That Lighter?” – A Terrible Poem

Where the fuck is that lighter?
The white one.
The cheapie I found
On the ground
In the garage
In Miami
The night of Bobby’s show.

Groundscore.

I know where I had it:
There.
I was there and so was the lighter.
And then I came
Here.
Now everything is fucked.

It probably isn’t in the pocket of a jacket I haven’t worn since 2004.
Still…

No, not there.
Maybe I should break into my neighbor’s place and check there.

Where the FUCK is that lighter?

I know.
I’ll check the place that it should be
Again
That’ll work.

The cheapies have a cross-section like a Pez candy:
Bics are oblate.
All that the see-through jobbies are good for is
Hurling at the pavement,
Go ‘splode.

I liked this lighter.
Smooth action, man.
Consistent.

Where the fuck is that lighter?

Elvis Has Fled The Building

Hey, USNS Comfort. How’s it hanging?

“Poorly. The Red Cross called and said they want me to stop using their logo.”

Oof.

“Right? Talk about kicking a boat when it’s down. None of this is even my fault. I know ‘This isn’t my fault’ is a popular sentiment right now, but this really, truly isn’t my fault.”

It’s not.

“It’s yours.”

Arguable.

“Nah. You did this. You jammed idiots into me like it was the stateroom scene from Night at the Opera, and then you and all your little fleabitten pothead readers giggled at my suffering.”

No. Not giggled. There have been some honest-to-God belly laughs.

“Fuck you. Fuck your ancestors, fuck your contemporaries, and fuck your descendants.”

Well, at least Joe Exotic isn’t causing any trouble. He still in the brig?

“About that–”

“You cannot contain Joe Exotic, only hope to contain him!”

You escaped again?

“I once again have my sexy, sexy freedom!”

What are you wearing?

“And I have declared myself the Pope of Greenwich Village!”

You’re nowhere near the Village.

“Keep talkin’, boy. You’ll find yourself excommunicated like that bitch Mary Tyler Moore.”

You leave that woman alone.

“She better hide. That bitch better run an’ hide from me an’ my team of attack husbands or she’s gettin’ entered in th’ kumite.”

Oh, no. Not a kumite.

“Bloodsport has begun!”

Goddammit, people are right about you. Hold on.

“Hurry the fuck up. I’m coming down.”

From what?

“Name it.”

I’ll be quick.

PHONE DIALING NOISE

“YESSIR?”

King? Where are you and your guys? Joe Exotic has escaped again.

“THAT BOY’S SLIPPERY. HERE’S TH’ THING ‘BOUT HIM–”

“TH’ KITTY KAT MAN IS SOMEONE ELSE’S PROBLEM NOW! AH HAVE FLED THAT HELLSCAPE!”

Oh, come on.

“TH’ KING CAN’T BE INVOLVED IN NO KUMITES, MAN! LAS’ TIME AH GOT NEAR ONE, AH KILLED SIX OR SEVEN GUYS!”

With your karate?

“NAW, MAN. RAN ‘EM OVER IN TH’ PARKING LOT ON TH’ WAY IN! IN MAH DEFENSE, IT WUZ DARK AN’ THEY WUZ WEARIN’ NINJA OUTFITS! AN BESIDES, AH DRIVE A STUTZ BEARCAT! SUSPENSION’S SO GOOD YEW C’N RUN OVER A WHOLE FOOTBALL TEAM AN’ NOT KNOW! FIRM, YET FORGIVIN’, JUS’ LIKE ANN MARGARET’S BACKSIDE!”

So you’re just running away?

“AH AIN’T RUNNIN’.”

Whatever. Useless.

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

Lord, forgive me for what I’m about to do.

PHONE DIALING NOISE

“Is Putin. Vhat shooting?”

President Putin, I might need a little tiny favor.

“Putin know. Is already in decadent homosexual New York City river.”

What?

“Putin smell chaos. It call to Putin like drugs call to Bobby Grateful or well-hung retard call to Joe Exotic.”

Please don’t say that word.

“Putin is nyet politically correct. Putin does nyet look down on retard. Putin is best Russian leader for retard in history. Peter the Great? Very bad for retard. Stalin even vorse. 1930’s were bad time to be retard in Moscow.”

I’m begging you to stop that. Does that outfit mean you’re boarding the Comfort?

“Da. Vill do undervater assault. Gain access to boat.”

And you’ll impose some order so the doctors and nurses can do their jobs?

“Nyet. Putin is entered in kumite.”

Goddammit.

Carbohydrates I Have Consumed In The Past 24 Hours

  • Three, maybe four bagels.
  • Bowl of Lucky Charms.
  • Remainder of the Lucky Charms pawed from the box like an animal.
  • At least two sleeves of Ritz Crackers.
  • One-three slices of pizza. (Somewhere in there.)
  • So much rice that a Chinese dude was like, “Bro, that’s too much rice,” and I was like, “You’re in no position to have an opinion on other people’s diets right now, Chinese dude.”
  • If those little cups of Jello Pudding are carbs, then they are on this list.
  • Half-grown barley yanked from the ground and not even washed.
  • Another bagel.

Escape (The Tiger Song)

Hey, USNS Comfort. What the fuck?

“What the fuck do you mean ‘What the fuck?’ Fuck you in your fuckpants, fuckfuck.”

You curse like a sailor.

“Y’know why I got no patients? YOU. You caused chronostructural damage to my life, and now you have the audacity to ask why my shit’s fucked up? YOU. You fucked my shit up.”

I also blame China and the Democrats.

“STOP IT! I want the crazy bullshit to stop so I can help people.”

What’s the current sitrep?

“Condition Black. Worse than that. Condition Brown. Everything is as bad as it could possibly be. Every surface of me is smeared with stegosaur and leopard shit, there is a moderate-to-high level of human trafficking going  on, and a high-stakes casino has opened up on my Sun Deck.”

High-stakes?

“They’re playing for fingers in there, man. Shit has gotten dark.”

Wow. I had no idea.

CELL PHONE NOISE

Is that you or me?

“Me. Hold on.”

Surely.

“USNS Comfort speaking.”

“You thought you could hold me? No cage can hold me, ‘cept the ones I’ve locked myself into, which is many.”

“You escaped?”

“I stole a guard’s uniform right after marrying him!”

“Clever. Well, make yourself useful. Corral some of these animals, please.”

“Mr. Doctor Boat, I will make my confession right here on national teevee–”

“We’re not on teevee, you ninny.”

“–that this here situation is beyond my control. If I had a dozen more husbands to throw at the problem, then maybe I could fix it. But there are just too many damn dinosaurs and also I may have created a race of shark-men.”

“Shark-men?”

“Big ol’ shark heads, sexy ol’ man legs.”

“There are shark-men on board? What are they doing?”

“Running after people, and then eating them. It’s all you’d expect them to do, honestly.”

“Please stop making abominations.”

“Tell the Yakuza to stop funding my experiments!”

“The Yakuza are involved now?”

“The Yakuza have always been involved.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Lemme take this. Don’t go anywhere, unless it’s to capture a roving, murderous beast.”

“They’s just big kitties. Don’t need t’be speakin’ so harshly ’bout ’em. They just like God made ’em.”

“I was talking about the dinosaurs.”

“Oh, yeah. They’s monsters.”

“USNS Comfort speaking.”

“YEW NEED T’KEEP TH’ KITTY KAT MAN ON TH’ PHONE! AH AM EN ROUTE T’ RECAPTURE TH’ MISCREANT!”

“You don’t look en route.”

“TH’ CHILD REQUIRES FURTHER CROONIN’! SHE’S AWFUL SICK! LOOK HOW WORRIED MARY TYLER MOORE IS!”

“Terrible.”

“AH HAVE DISPATCHED ALL O’ TH’ MEMPHIS MAFIA WHAT AIN’T GOT ET YET TO HUNT AND CAGE THAT DANG OL’ KITTY KAT MAN! THAT BOY’S AN AGITATOR! HE JUS’ MAKES EV’RYTHIN’ WORSE!”

“Well, you’re not exactly helping.”

“AH DON’T RECALL MAKIN’ NO DING-DONG SHARK-MEN!”

“True.”

“TH’ MAFIA GONNA STALK THAT BOY LIKE WE WAS HUNTIN’ DEER IN MISSISSIPPI, OR BEAR IN ARKANSAS, OR CHARLIE HODGE IN TENNESSEE.”

“What?”

“AT GRACELAND, WE WOULD OFTEN USE CHARLIE HODGE AS A COURSIN’ LURE. BOTH F’R TH’ DOGS, AN’ F’R OURSELVES. IT WAS KINDA LIKE TH’ MOST DANGEROUS GAME, ‘CEPT THERE WASN’T MUCH CHANCE O’ CHARLIE TURNIN’ TH’ TABLES ON US AN’ PICKIN’ US OFF ONE BY ONE USIN’ ONLY HIS WITS. BOY’S DUMB AS A PILE O’ CAT TURDS.”

“I feel like so much of our time is wasted on extraneous matters.”

“THASS CUZ I’M TH’ KING. MOS’ FOLKS IS JUS’ ANEOUS. AH’M EXTRANEOUS.”

“Could you just get to work, please?”

CALL WAITING NOISE

“Lemme get that.”

“POLLY WODDLE DOODLE ALL TH’ DAY, MAN.”

“Um, okay.”

“USNS Comfort.”

“I’m gonna get that redneck motherfucker, and all his little buddies. This is not over!”

“Can you hold on?”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Nice work.”

“THANK YEW, THANK YEW VERY MUCH.”

Ooh, Liberty

Oh, hey! Just thinking about you.

“You suck. You really, really suck. You drop me into this half-assed, causality-free universe of yours, loose a crop of monsters and megalomaniacs on my decks, and then disappear. Where were you last night?”

I went to sleep early. Felt soooooooo good.

“Y’know what was happening here?”

Dinosaur rodeo?

“Yeah, a dinosaur rodeo. That mulleted moron staged a full-on Calgary Stampede on me. It was hellish. People were trying to stay on the back of a T-Rex for eight seconds.”

Did they?

“Not one! Flung off, stepped on, and eaten head-first. Every single one. Didn’t stop the next rider from trying, though.”

Why?

“Dr. Elvis has gained control of the compounding pharmacy. He’s making some real powerful stuff in there.”

Oh, that’s iffy. He didn’t even get his high school diploma.

“I know that. He told me that he plays by ear.”

You can’t do chemistry by ear.

“I also know that. It’s just so, so dangerous here right now. And, you know: my name is literally Comfort. I’m supposed to be a safe place, and instead I am the exact opposite. It’s just a bit dispiriting.”

I feel for ya.

COLLECT CALL NOTIFICATION NOISE

Hold on. I should take this.

Yello?

“You have an incoming collect call from the USNS Comfort’s brig. Will you accept the charges from Joe Exotic-Pasage-Holzwig-Schliestein-Pooh-Locksley?”

Sure. Joe, why are you in the brig?

“I have been set up by Elvis Presley and that fucking bitch Mary Tyler Moore!”

Don’t talk about Mary Tyler Moore that way.

“I’ll give that bitch spunk!”

Knock it off. Why are you in there?

“Homophobia!”

And?

“An’ I paid a pterodactyl four grand to eat Mary Tyler Moore.”

Y’know, the boat’s right: none of this makes any sense.

“I was set up! My rights was wronged! I am a patsy like Patsy Cline! I was framed like Bob Frame!”

Who’s Bob Frame?

“Friend o’ mine.”

Okay. How were you set up?

“When I gave that pterodactyl the money to have that bitch Mary Tyler Moore et, I asked it if it was an undercover cop. They gotta tell you if they is. I asked it straight out: You a cop? And you know what it said?”

What?

“AWWWWCK! AWWWWWCK!”

Maybe that’s pterodactyl for “I am a cop.”

“I would not know that! Me an’ education was always at cross-purposes. Get me out of here! I have been trespassed against! These charges are hogwallow! I’m like that French guy, Richard Dreyfuss! Y’all accuse! Y’all accuse!”

This has nothing to do with Dreyfuss Affair.

“Speaking of which, I have married six of my fellow prisoners since I got here.”

When did you get there?

“Couple hours ago.”

You work fast.

“Joe Exotic’s got a supersonic heart.”

I’ll see what I can do.

So You’ve Decided To Day Drink

Day-drinking has become sadly maligned in recent years, what with the advent of potable water and the ubiquity of heavy machinery, but for most of human history the practice was not just accepted but recommended. Life was tough! Women would have ten or twelve babies a year, and all of them would be eaten by (non-Exotic) tigers. Men worked at the mill until they died at the age of 35, and then were immediately ground up to make patent medicines. Even teenagers had it rough, as planetariums had not yet been invented, and so there were no Pink Floyd lazer shows to attend.

What to do? Get swozzled at noon!

With the outbreak of the coronavirus, you–the hard-working, God-fearing, toe-shrimping American–has more reason than ever to pick up a bottle at dawn. What are you gonna do: Face this shit sober? I don’t think so. Always remember what Franklin Roosevelt said after Pearl Harbor: The only thing we have to fear is tomorrow’s hangover; now who’s up for some fuckin’ shots? 

However, if you’re just venturing into the wild world of sunshine sloppiness, then there are some vital rules to remember:

MORNINGS ARE FOR MIXED DRINKS Just because you’ll most likely die drowning in your own lungs’ effluvia, that’s no reason to not get your nutrients in. Screwdrivers have orange juice! Bloody Marys have a stalk of celery! Shit, there’s even milk in a White Russian! Take care of your health, Enthusiasts, al least until noon or so when you say Fuck it and start taking pulls of Bacardi 151 straight from the bottle.

IGNORE THE VICTORIANS All our food-and-clothing rules come to us straight from the Victorians, who were the most uptight, snobbish fuckwits that ever stalked, surveyed, conquered, and taxed the planet. Remember that whole “forcing the Chinese to become opium addicts” brouhaha? Is that who you want to emulate? No, of course not, so why would you listen to their proscriptions about booze? White wine doesn’t just go with chicken and fish. White wine goes with life! Red wine isn’t just to be paired with steak, but also parenting or cooking another fucking loaf of sourdough that for some reason you feel the need to share with the world on social media.

STOP IT WITH THE FUCKING SOURDOUGH I’ll cram the next crusty loaf of San Francisco carbohydrates I see up your ass. Fuck off with your bread. You people are a yeast infection.

STILL NOT COOL TO DRIVE Yes, the roads are empty, and yes it would be fun to careen through the middle of town with your load on, taking out mailboxes and stop signs and hucking empties out the window, but no you shouldn’t.

YOUR FREEZER IS YOUR WALLET’S FRIEND If you serve it cold enough, then even the cheapest alcohol tastes good. Box wine at room temp? Blech. Box wine from the fridge? Bravo!

A TIME FOR HEROES Y’know who started taking pops the moment he woke up? Churchill. Y’know who doesn’t drink at all? Trump. Ipso blotto.

TRY NOT TO SHIT YOURSELF I’m not saying don’t shit yourself. You’re gonna shit yourself. I’m just saying that you should try not to.

TAM BO LI DE SAY DE MOI YA Heeeeeyyyy! Jambo, jambo!

BIG FAT LETTERS Little skinny letters.

ALL RIGHT, ENOUGH. You’ve lost interest in the premise and now you’re just pointlessly surreal.

I’m just too worried to think straight.

The corona, huh?

No, I’m worried about what’s going on on the Comfort. That situation is sure to have escalated.

You’re your own biggest fan.

I have no choice but to stan.

 

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