Jesus.
“Look! Bruce!”
Is he alive? Like, all the way?
“Why must you be this way? Bruce is fine.”
He looks like he just saw a ghost. And then dropped dead.
“The man is healthy as a horse.”
Barbaro?
“As healthy as a healthy horse.”
If you say so. Tell him I can’t tell that he dyes his hair.
“What is your hang-up with men dying their hair?”
If I gotta be gray, then so does everyone else.
“Misery.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Asshole.”
Yup. Pick up the phone.
…
“You’re on with John.”
“I CAST ASIDE YOUR MUGGLE NAME AND CHRISTEN THEE FANGORIO!”
“Uh-huh. Who’s this, please?”
“I am Crowley, the Grand Abbot of Thelma and Lord Pooh-Bah of Ordo Templi Orientis.”
“Uh-huh. Who?”
“You never read Hammer of the Gods?”
“About Zeppelin? Always meant to. Is that the one where they stick the fish in the chick’s–”
“That one, yes. What about Ozzy?”
“What about him?”
“He wrote a whole song about me.”
“Would I know you from anywhere other than classic rockers trying to seem scary?”
“I guess not. But I assure you: I am wicked.”
“Wicked what?”
“Huh?”
“Wicked smart, wicked drunk, what?”
“I’m not from Massachusetts, you flea-brain. I meant ‘wicked’ in the Biblical sense.”
“Ohhhhhh. Okay.”
“Y’know what? I’m just gonna call the guys from Greta Van Fleet. They’ll know who I am.”
DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
…
“Jackass?”
Mm-hmm?
“Could you not let your momentary Zeppelin fanhood leak into the rest of the universe?”
I can almost guarantee that Peter Grant will be managing the Grateful Dead within hours.
“Figures.”
Recent Comments