Choosing to save a few bucks, Billy and Mickey chose to get their hair cut not by the expensive-but-worth-it Big-Dicked Sheila, but by Shakey Wally, who should not have been trusted with scissors.
Thoughts On The Dead
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
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Hey, Phil. What’s with the iPad?
“Candy Crush.”
Cool. What’s with the bass?
“It’s expensive.”
You can tell.
This photo’s the comfort food of Dead pix: Mickey’s wearing a Dead shirt, Phil’s a mess, everyone’s got terrible haircuts, and Billy’s punching renowned gastronomical adventurer Wylie Dufresne in the dick (not pictured.)
Bobby only porked the teen fox he’s holding onto, but he did allow the other two to watch. Billy also watched, but he wasn’t allowed to, he just did it.
Hey, Bobby. How you–
“POTATO SALAD TIME!”
Yeah, huh?
“Right? You were too busy admiring the ‘Tater to notice whatever’s going on with my collar.”
Holy guacamole, what fresh hell is hanging around your neck, man?
“No idea. Best I can figure is that it’s someone’s conception of what we’ll be wearing in the future.”
Like Paul Reiser’s suits in Aliens?
“Exactly like that, yeah. But less Jewish.”
Naturally.
“You remember how I promised not to use the Time Sheath technology anymore?”
“You mean after you got caught trying to abandon Ned Lagin in the Pleistocene?”
“I wasn’t abandoning him, Bob. He wanted to see a stegosaurus.”
“But you handcuffed him to a tree and left him there.”
“One thing has nothing to do with the other.”
…
“Did Stegosaurs live in the Pleistocene?”
“I have no idea. Anyway, I might have snuck ahead 40 years, just to take a look around. Plus, my contract was up and I was/will be due for a new phone.”
“How do you use that thing, anyway? The cell towers haven’t been put up yet.”
“Oh, you just beam the signal through the Time Sheath technology. Bear worked it out.”
“Huh.”
“Roaming charges are astronomical.”
“So, what about 40 years from now?”
“Our fanbase seems to be intact, but a good number of them have far more money than brains.”
“How so?”
“You wouldn’t believe what kind of money tickets to our last shows are going for.”
“Fifty dollars.”
“More than that.”
“Sixty.”
“Way more.
“Eighty-five.”
“This’ll take forever, so I’ll just tell you. Five figures.”
“With the decimal point?”
“No, Bob.”
“Jeez.”
…
“Garcia still gonna be dead, Phil?”
“Dead as disco.”
“Future seems all fucked up.”
“That it does, Bob.”
“I’ll still cash the check, though.”
“Fuck, yeah.”
Ned Lagin is just about the same size as one of Billy’s more whiskey-soaked boners. Phil’s beard weighs more than him.
In dog money, a seat behind the stage with no view is going for $4900.
“I was up near Mendocino trading crank for fake Nazi memorabilia when I stopped into a local pool hall to shoot some eight-ball and pick a fight with an Oregonian. Met this fine honey there, we started riding together.”
“And bangin’.”
“That’s right, baby. Let Big Poppa Bob talk, okay?”
“Sorry, Big Poppa Bob.”
“Oh, I forgive you, my luscious lamb.”
“Giggle.”
“We ride into San Bernadino, except I had plumb forgot to let the Angels know about me being on their turf, and then one of the Angels–Wretched Gary, I think it was–sees me and, well: it becomes this whole thing.
“The Angels swarm us and next thing y’know, we’re in their clubhouse, and if you know anything about the Angels or their clubhouses, you know that your screams will not be heard. Also, the bathrooms are filthy, but that’s to be assumed.
“We’re going back and forth about respect and territory and honor and carburetors and pomade and then this little filly here volunteers to shangalang the Angels’ wangs to make the whole thing even. It was such a gritty, team-first move.”
“The only stat that matters is W-L.”
“You got that right, honeybuttocks.”
…
“Oh, the arm? Well, if we’re being completely honest here: Big Poppa Bobby has always enjoyed partaking in the splendor that is a good blowbang.”
“He sprained his wrist jerking it to me slobbering a Motorcycle Club.”
“That, I did.”
Stop this right now.
Hey, Mickey.
“Can’t talk: lecturing people.”
…
Godammit, take that thing off. You look like a putz.
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