Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Besides the insidious and frankly insipid misogyny of Never Love a Woman, the song contains some terrible advice: a woman in tight trousers should be trusted. She’s not armed. A lady in a trenchcoat and cargo pants probably has a flamethrower on here, but the chick in the tight jeans isn’t even wearing underwear.
Also: that is the wrong way to play the piano. I quit taking lessons in the fifth grade, but I do remember some stuff.
Koalas are just dumb raccoons. Raccoons are omnivores, capable of eating just about anything, which you would think would make life easier: no, it just presents more decisions. Koalas, on the other hand, can only eat one thing and therefore don’t need intelligence.
The more things you eat, the smarter you are.
Whales.
…
Excuse me?
Whales. Specifically baleen whales. Blue whales, humpbacks, right whales, etc. Only eat one thing; very smart.
I wasn’t talking about fish.
I’ll ignore that. What about elephants?
Elephants have a varied diet.
They really don’t. They mostly just jam trees in their mouth.
They gotta know which trees, though.
What about people on juice cleanses? They only ingest one thing, and most of those folks have college degrees.
Most?
Probably all.
Yeah, you have to be real educated to be that dopey.
True.
My initial statement may not be based on solid science.
No.
Raccoons are definitely better than koalas, though.
Oh, yeah. Our chubby, disease-ridden tree-dwellers are better than their chubby, disease-ridden tree-dwellers.
God bless America.
Sure.
The hoi polloi goes for My Sharona, but Rock Nerds know that The Knack’s best song was Good Girls Don’t. (Although, whoever allowed that harmonica to remain in the mix should be executed. That should be played by a Vox organ, or a Farsifa if you don’t have the money for a Vox.)
I heard Tori Amos’ version of this genuinely strange and dark tune this morning and was happy to realize that my hatred is sincere acoustic covers of pop tunes is not gender based: annoys me when men and women do it. Thanks, Tori.
(This post should not be misread as an endorsement of Bob Geldof.)
Hi, Hirokatsu Watanabe, radar specialist from Japan. Whatcha doing?
“Ah, Dead-san. Mushi-mushi. Have radar. Study pyramid. Hai!”
…
Can you do this without the accent?
“Sure.”
It was straddling a line
“I see where you’re coming from. No worries.”
So, what’s going on?
“Turns out King Tut’s tomb has extra rooms off it.”
Really?
“Think so. Pretty sure. Can’t just poke through the drywall, y’know?”
The radar says there’s stuff in there?
“Weird stuff. There’s one thing that looks exactly like an out-of-tune piano, but that makes no sense.”
None at all.
“Couple pieces of luggage.”
Sure.
“Plus there might be a skeleton in there.”
No!
“Oddest thing: looks like it’s wearing a denim jacket and a Greek fisherman’s hat.”
Goddammit. Billy!
“Whaaaaat?”
Did you use the Time Sheath to brick Benjy up into the wall of King Tut’s tomb?
…
“Hey! I did! Totally forgot about that.”
Well, there’s a Japanese guy giving the place an ultrasound and he might have found the evidence.
“Good with technology, the Japanese.”
Could you get one of your magical devices to retrieve the body, please?
“Nah.”
Always great to catch up with you, Billy.
“Kiss my dick.”
Wonderful.
The right of a free and prosperous people to sell each other crap shall not be infringed.
Although, putting a “Fuck Communism” sign on a temporary t-shirt stand is redundant: an economy’s freedom and robustness can be measured by the amount of guys selling t-shirts outside an event.
Also: her back.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AunQSK4DaNQ
“Freeman, it’s a well-known fact that all of the Grateful Dead was in the CIA.”
“Texe, I know I keep asking, but are you positive that’s your name? Seems like a typo.”
“That’s what they want you to think.”
“Ah. Yes. I see it now.”
“Circles within circles, Freeman. Getting back to the Dead–”
“I followed them for years.”
“Is that right?”
“Well, my hair did. My ponytail gave Bobby’s ponytail a tugger in ’86.”
“Was it under some kind of mental control, possibly by HAARP technology?”
“No. Bobby’s ponytail asked. Said please, so my ponytail dipped its hand in the humus and got to work.”
“Great story.”
“My ponytail wrote and performed a one-ponytail show about it. Good reviews.”
“Getting back to the Dead: as I said, it is known that they were CIA members.”
“Aw, Texe, that ain’t the half of it: CIA, NSA, PBS. You know that show The Americans? About the Soviet spies in America With the girl who cut off her hair?”
“Keri Strug.”
“Yeah, her. Anyway: that show was based on the Godchauxes.”
“I did not know that, Freeman. The world holds so many mysteries; maybe that’s why it’s hollow.”
“Communist spies working directly under the KGB. They were raised in one of those secret Soviet town where everyone spoke English and trained to go undercover.
“This explains the lack of childhood photos of Keith.”
“Right. And it has been revealed on many internet sites and once in an actual book that Phil was an alien.”
“Still is.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Once and alien, always an alien.”
“Was he a lizard or a grey?”
“Neither. Cat Person from Felicidae IV, Throneworld to the Felis Empire.”
“Right. Also CIA, though.”
“Texe, to say Phil Lesh was a CIA agent and a bored, galaxy-hopping, shape-shifting alien is just scratching the surface. All the evidence points to Mr. Lesh being a high-ranking member of at least seven global conspiracies.”
“Illuminati?”
“Obviously. Plus: the Philluminati.”
“How many people were in that, Freeman?”
“Just Phil. It was a very secret society.”
“Wow. What about the Knights Templar? How do they fit into this?”
“The entire band were Knights Templar, but they couldn’t be trusted with the swords.”
“I could see that. How much devil worship was there?”
“What you’d expect. Not too much. Not excessive.”
“Freeman, all our global masters like to leave clues out in public like they’re the Riddler.”
“I have noticed that about conspiracies, yeah.”
“How has the Dead advertised their affiliation with their various secret societies?”
“Texe, when you finally realize you’re living in a clockwork world managed by aliens, Jews, re-animated Hitler, and super-intelligences from eight trimensions over, you start to see signs everywhere.”
“I’ll bet.”
“The Dead advertise their occultism and connections to otherworldly power in many ways. For example, the Steal Your Face logo reveals their thrall to the Babylonian god of mischief Enki.”
“Thrall, Freeman?”
“Thrall, Texe. In return for their loyalty and Jerry Garcia’s finger, Enki granted them special abilities and watched over them and gave them lesser demons to use as the road crew.”
“How does the logo figure into it?”
“Enki thought it was cool.”
“Fascinating. Let’s get back to our original point: the CIA. How involved were the Grateful Dead and the CIA?”
“For six months in the 80’s, Bill Kreutzmann was the interim deputy-director of the CIA.”
“That high up?”
“That we know of, Texe.”
“Wow.”
…
“Are you sure–”
“It’s my name, man.”
“–that’s your name? Okay, okay.”
“Leave it alone.”
“Sure.”
(With thanks to the well-educated and dignified Chris Jennings for the video. His award-winning book can be purchased from the sidebar. Go do so.)
Good ideas take work. Fighting cancer is a wonderful idea, and doctors and scientists and researchers toil long into the night mixing potions and chanting and summoning the Spirits of Health. (I do not know how medicine works.) Good ideas need constant maintenance and sober reflection to not crumble in the face of life’s apathy.
Bad ideas, though, are like weeds: they’ll grow until you set the roots on fire and salt the soil.
Viva Cuba.
300 brave Spartan poplites defended the Hot, Buttered Gates.
The Big Short in two minutes:
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