
Happy Easter, Bobby.
…
…
…
“It’s Easter?”
We’re done.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Happy Easter, Bobby.
…
…
…
“It’s Easter?”
We’re done.

Everyone warned Mother Angelica not to bang the same amount of H that she had been used to before rehab.
“Fuck you pussy bitches. Mama can handle her shit.”
She will be missed.

Little Bobby Foo Foo,
Hopping through the Dead show.
Scooping up the hippies,
And bopping ’em on the head.
Down came the Good Fairy and said,
“Little Bobby Foo Foo,
“I don’t want to see you
“Scooping up the hippies,
“And bopping ’em on the head.”
And Bobby said,
“Well, you know: Billy Foo Foo is punching ’em in the dick,
“So cut me some slack;
“In, you know, the grand scheme of things.”
[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=daxiMb0rITA[/embedyt]
I’m not much of an absolutist, but if you don’t love this song, then I can’t help you.
If you don’t love this song, you don’t love music.

What is this, now?
“You been watching Daredevil?”
Dammit.
“No, no: just messin’ with ya. I am not a blind superhero.”
I know that, Bobby.
“Couldn’t be a superhero in Marin, anyway. Things are far away from each other.”
You could drive. Batman drives.
“Batman sucks. Rich guy punching people. I’m rich, and I haven’t punched anyone in years. And, you know: it wasn’t a nightly hobby.”
Sure.
“I didn’t have a special punching suit. That’s all that Batsuit is: his fancy punching outfit.”
You could wear a Bobsuit.
“Bobshorts.”
What’s a Utility Belt but a spread-out fanny pack?
“Despite the best efforts of my family to steal them from me, I still have a few fanny packs.”
What about a Batcave?
“Got the studio.”
Close enough. You could get Josh Meyers to dress up like Robin.
“That’s not saying much. Kid loves a costume. Besides, I don’t wanna be Batman.”
Who do you wanna be?
“I’m, uh, you know: I’m fine with being Bob.”
Okay.
“Served me pretty well so far.”
Yup. So: what’s with the sunglasses?
“I get ’em for free if I take a picture with ’em on.”
Being famous sounds great.
“Like 95% of the time, yeah. Would not trade it. So many people smiling at you and giving you things.”
Not bad. Wait: with the glasses, you could be Cyclops.
“The guy from the X-Men?”
Yeah.
“He sucks, too.”
He does, yeah.

I’ve posted the screencap instead of linking to the page: I cannot even in a small way support the NRA’s nonsense. I would, however, like to play this game and audition for some freelance writing work.
TotD presents Fairy Tales With Guns:
Cinderella The evil stepsisters bully poor Cinderella until she snaps and shoots them, then all the women at the Curves gym down the street. The gun, you see, had given Cinderella power.
Jack and the Giant Beanstalk Jack trades his cow for magic beans, because he is a small business-owner, and climbs the resulting beanstalk up the giant’s house. The giant shoots him, because Jack was trespassing, and that was the giant’s right according to the Stand Your Ground laws. Plus: Jack was no saint.
Snow White Gonna be honest with you, Enthusiasts: I do not remember how the Snow White story goes. There are bluebirds and dwarves, I know that. Sister named Blood Red. Snow dated a women named Pitch Black in college, and her parents were terrible about it. A witch had an apple. Let’s give the witch a gun. There you go: I gunned it up for you.
Sleeping Beauty The Prince comes in to kiss Sleeping Beauty, but she’s got a Walther P99 9mm under her pillow and she defends herself. SHHPLDAK! There’s brain everywhere: 9mm leaves a big hole coming out: no matter how big your dong is, you could put your dong in the hole.
Hansel and Gretel Hansel and Gretel get thrown out of their parent’s home for loving guns too much, so they take to the woods, where they occupy a bird-watching cabin belonging to the federal government. Hansel teaches Gretel about the secrets of Sovereign Citizenship, and they ask for money on the internet.
Little Red Riding Hood Instead of being a victim, Little Red Riding Hood does a full recon of Grandma’s house. Upon visual confirmation of wolf-related nonsense, Red strapped a gyroscopic mini-gun on (like ones from Aliens), checked her firefield, and pulped that motherfucker. Red had also loaded a tracer for every sixth round, and Red swore she was laser bloodfucking that poor wolf who dared mess with a well-trained NRA member in good standing. Wolf’s body caught fire, too.
But, you see: wolves are protected, so Fedzilla stuck his snout where it didn’t belong and black helicopters appeared from everywhere. Little Red Riding Hood fought her way to the cabin Hansel and Gretel had occupied, killing three federal agents when she took out their SUV with a rocket launcher that it is her sacred right to own and use on police officers.
Red, Hansel, and Gretel held the bird-watching cabin for a few hours but Barack Hussein Obama was determined to destroy this country, and his jackbooted thugs surrounded the place. The tension was too much for Gretel, who put a Mossberg shotgun in her mouth. Insane with grief and just plumb-crazy (respectively), Hansel and Red had animalistic siege sex on top of Gretel’s body.
Minutes later, President Obama himself walked into the cabin and stabbed both of them, with a knife, like a European.
Little Red Riding Hood.
Hansel.
Gretel.
They are now martyrs, but not the Muslim kind: the good kind.

Hey, Garcia. Whatcha doing?
“Smoking and drinking.”
That sounds fun.
“Well, you know, man: it is. Why people do it so much, right? Besides: when in France, drink and smoke.”
Is this that weirdo gig at the French guy’s house?
“There was gonna be a festival in Paris, or near there, anyway; got cancelled. We’re staying here, enjoying the hospitality; I think someone has a super 8 camera or something.”
Rich hippie benefactor?
“We do attract ’em, don’t we?”
Yup. Garcia?
“Yeah, man?”
Your hand looks like The Thing from The Thing.
“With Kurt Russel?”
Yeah.
“Great movie. Fuck off.”
Sure.

What are you doing?
“I killed this thing.”
Nope.
“Did it with my clawwwwwws.”
…
You get into the catnip?
“Get your fucking piss cup out of my fucking face.”
Wow.
“Think you’re better than me?”
Simmer down, cat.
“I’m like Wolverine, but not Australian: I’ll mess you up, monkey.”
You do not handle the nip well.
“You a narc?”
What?
“Nip narc. You’re a fuckin’ nip narc, maaaaan!”
I regret starting this conversation.
“Prove you’re cool. Do some nip. In front of me. Do it, man!”
How? I’m a person. Catnip doesn’t work on us.
“BANG IT, MAN.”
We’re done.
Cryptical Development has a first-hand account from the 3/24/71 show I just posted about: go read it. Then come back here, because I have stolen all the photos accompanying the well-written tale and will say witty things about each, or maybe just one, or the whole post could suck.
Who knows what the future holds?
Okay, you back? Wonderful. You always come back to me. No one else has what you need. No other website–
I’m going to cut you off early on this one.
–touches your buttocks like I…dude. Stop interrupting.
Stop being weird.
I’m not being weird. I just want to rub my wordboner on strangers’ eyeballs.
That right there. That’s the weird I mentioned. Stop doing it.
My posts are boners made of words: they’re full of life, and I want people to look at them.
Just show the pictures of the hairy white people making a racket.

Which points out another interesting aspect of this show: Peanut!
Also, this was apparently a benefit for the Sufis, who did this:

“PUT.
“THAT FIRE.
“OUT.
“SCHMUCK.”
“Oh, hey, Bill. We were just–”
“Don’t you ‘Hey, Bill’ me, you goddamn maniac. Put that fire out!”
“Oh, Bill: this is a sacred fire.”
“I don’t care if it’s the Pope’s Zippo lighter! Put it out! Put it out now!”
“You can’t just ‘put out’ a sacred fire, Bi–”
PSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH
PSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH
PSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH
…
PSSHH
PSSHH
…
…
…
PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSSSSSSSSSHHHHH
“It’s out, man.”
“Well, it was a sacred fire. I wanted to make sure. WINTERLAND IS MADE OF WOOD AND OILY RAGS! No fires!”

The Sufis chanted and then their choir came out; the Dead played with them for the last few numbers, but there’s no tape.
Hero of the Picture: Billy, who cares so little about any of this Sufi bullshit that he doesn’t even want to punch a Sufi dick. (Sufi dicks spin when you punch them.)

And here’s another shot of Peanut, and Pig with the last bit of fat he’d ever have.
This show might be more interesting than good, Enthusiasts: 3/24/71 from Winterland; the hook of this performance is this is the fewest Grateful Deads you’ll ever hear.
Obviously, TotD:Â there were only five Grateful Deads from 2/19/71 to 10/21/71, you’ll say.
And I’ll say, Please don’t help. I can do this all by myself like a big boy.
Then you’d say, Did you just say “like a big boy?” That is creepy phrasing for a man your age.
And I would run into my bedroom and self-harm.
This is not how show recommendations are supposed to go.
Stop censorshipping me.
And that’s not how the English language works.
Shh. Anyway: yes, there were only five Grateful Deads for eight months, but you can only hear four of them on this recording; according to Bobby (or Garcia, maybe), they “forgot” Pig’s organ,* so it’s just the two guitarists, Phil, and Billy for this short-ish set and it sounds like no other show: raw and lean and bar-bandish.
Check it out, and stay for the Uncle John’s Band featuring some of the most painful harmonizing you’ve ever heard.
*This is not true. I thought that this was the night Pig’s organ got repossessed, but that was late ’69 or early ’70. I don’t know what happened, but I know that the official story (as much as a deadpan aside from the stage can be called official) isn’t true.
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