- Almost instantly, Mickey begins misbehaving.
- He may, in fact, only be upright on that couch thanks to the liberal application of duct tape.
- There’s a handsome guy who works at CNN named Bill Weir, and when Andy Cohen mentions him, Bobby gets real confused for a second.
- Anderson Cooper does not listen to the Dead, nor does he seem to much care for these filthy wretches.
- I just looked up what AC listens to, and it is probably inappropriate to call it “homosexual music,” but it is.
- Although the other AC is similarly inclined, and he has decent taste in jams.
- (Andy Cohen is an outlier, though; let’s be honest. There are, like, three gay guys who don’t like shitty music, and two of them are in Husker Du and the other one’s Steve Silberman.)
- Have you finished being insulting and offensive?
- Dude, you can’t hear what I say in the parentheses; there are rules here.
- The rules are made up, don’t matter, and shut the fuck up.
- I shall ignore you and claim that I won the interaction.
- Jeff and Oteil have not been given microphones.
- That’s just hurtful.
- Just give ’em dummy mics.
- You don’t even have to plug the fuckers in.
- They wouldn’t have said anything, anyway; Jeff and Oteil know their place in the organization.
- And neither is schnockered.
- Twozzled.
- Legless.
- Mickey is drunk enough to get thrown out of bars with Harry Nilsson.
- Billy, speaking for the first time, says that the Dead lived in Haight-Ashbury in 1972; both Jeff and Oteil recognize this as incorrect, but stop themselves from saying anything.
- Mickey is wobblier than Eugene Debs.
- Mickey is more plastered than the Sistine Chapel.
- Mickey is so loaded that Doug Yule wrote most of him.
- We get it.
- THE BOY’S TURNT!
- I thought you were dying?
- Oh, right.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: anderson cooper (Page 1 of 2)
“Um, Bobby?”
“Coop?”
“Don’t call me that. Are we in an editing program?”
ROCK STAR LOOKING AROUND NOISE
“Looks like it. So, uh, we can count out Thelma Schoonmaker. She’s old school.”
“Bob.”
“Razor blades and tape and whatnot. Much more authentic cuts.”
“Bob.”
“Coop, you wanna check out what’s in that chafing dish over there? I’m peckish as all get out.”
…
“This doesn’t bother you?”
“You know what band I’m in, right?”
“Still: this is weird even for you.”
“Actually, no. This is right down the middle for a weekday. Gosh, I could swim in your eyes.”
“Focus, Bob.”
“Why don’t we take a call?”
“What?”
“Caller, you’re on the air.”
“Who am I speaking to? The hippie or the homo?”
“Excuse me?”
“The hippie.”
“Excellent, excellent. This is your president.”
“No, not anymore. I think you meant to call 1972.”
“Goddammit, did Rosemary dial wrong again? Woman can’t run a switchboard. Just no good with electronics. When am I speaking to?”
“2015-ish. Somewhen around then.”
“Seriously, what’s happening?”
“Don’t worry about it, Coop, but I need you to get on the chafing dish. There, uh, could be sliders in there.”
“Now, listen here. I need that young man’s number, the negro singer. The suggestible one. The Republicans are making an outreach to the urban community. And the rural urban community. Wherever the urbans live, we’re going after them, and the young man with the high opinion of himself is a natural fit for our agenda.”
“What’s your agenda?”
“Crushing the urban community.”
“Ah.”
“The number, please.”
“I don’t have it on me, but if you call me back in 1972, I will. Or I did. You know what I mean.”
“Time travel makes everything more complicated, but nothing moreso than conjugation.”
“You got it. Hey, uh, Coop. You wanna talk to Nixon?”
“What’s happening?”
…
“Buddy, God love ya, but you’re adding virtually nothing to this scene.”
“What?”
“Thank you for speaking with me, Ms. Daniels.”
“Call me Stormy, Coop.”
“Don’t call me Coop, Stormy.”
“Lap dance?”
“Not right now. Now, Stormy, you allege that you had a sexual relationship with Donald Trump, who is now the President, 12 years ago.”
“Yes. We met at a golf tournament in Lake Tahoe. There were celebrities all over the place. Kelsey Grammar was unconscious in a hedge. Charles Barkley was shirtless and standing on the Blackjack table singing Lynyrd Skynyrd songs.”
“Sweet Home Alabama?”
“No. Deep cuts. King Charles loves the southern-fired boogie.”
“And that’s where you met the President?”
“It was so romantic. He was slapping his son in public when our eyes locked.”
“Which son?”
“The ugly one.”
“You’ll need to be more specific.”
“The stupid, ugly one.”
“Still don’t know which you’re talking about.”
“It was one of them. He whimpered away and Donald had me brought to his table.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“He talked about himself.”
“Sounds right.”
“Then he started showing me magazines with his picture on the cover. But, like, weird magazines. Cat Fancy. Linoleum Losers.”
“Linoleum Losers?”
“It’s just pictures of kitchen floors from the 80’s. And columns by Andrew Sullivan.”
“Jesus.”
“And, so, I’m a sassy gal so I say to him, “Donald, if you don’t stop talking about yourself, I’m gonna spank you with those magazines.”
“Okay.”
“Except I didn’t get to the last part of the sentence. When I said ‘spank,’ he stood up and pantsed himself in the middle of the restaurant. Leaned over the table, the whole bit. And he’s muttering. ‘Roll it up real tight. Reeeeeeeeel tight.'”
“And what did you do?”
“I spanked him, of course. Besides, Charles Barkley was egging me on.”
“Then what?”
“We went up to his room and he used the bathroom. Heard a lot of grunting, can’t lie to you. When he came out, he was wearing a garment that wasn’t quite a robe, and not a kimono, but definitely not a coat.”
“It’s called a toppermost.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Move on.”
“So, we sat on the bed and I thought he was gonna make a move, but we watched shark documentaries for two hours. He kept pointing to sharks on the screen and saying, “That one’s gay. Gay shark. I can tell when sharks are gay.’ When I got home, I called my friend Lisa who’s a veterinarian; she said sharks couldn’t be gay. But Donald was very sure about it, so I don’t know who to believe.”
“And then you had sex.”
“I laid there while sex happened. And afterwards…well, I just don’t know where the Filet-O-Fishes came from, but there they were. He must have had them secreted within the bedclothes or something. He kept trying to feed me, but it’s just not romantic to feed someone a Filet-O-Fish. It’s not like chocolate-covered strawberries or whatever.”
“No, not romantic.”
“He kept dripping the tartar sauce on my boobs.”
“Not romantic at all. Now, this was right after the birth of his son. Did he mention that, or his wife at all?”
“He did.”
“What did he say?”
“He said ‘Fuck them.’ Wait, he did try to show me a picture of his newborn, but it was the Gerber Baby. It was literally a wrapper torn from the jar. I pretended like I believed him to be polite, and then he tried shoving the Filet-O-Fish back in my mouth. So I left and found Charles Barkley’s room. That man is a walking party.”
“What happened with your relationship with Trump after that?”
“He would call me all the time. ‘Turn on Discovery Channel, the sharks are gay again.’ That sort of thing. He said he was gonna buy me a condo, he said he was gonna get me on The Apprentice, he said he was gonna make me Secretary of the Interior. Men and their promises.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Mm-hmm. Let’s fast forward to 2015. Donald Trump is running for President and people are clamoring for your story. How did the media find out that you and he had had an affair?”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly discreet about it. I used to play his phone calls on the set for everyone. I had a tee-shirt that said Ask Me About Donald Trump’s Dick. It was gonna get out eventually.”
“And you turned down the offers in favor of $130,000 to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement. Why is that?”
“I was threatened. A large man in a trenchcoat approached me in a parking lot and began telling me all about Richard Nixon’s crimes. So I said, ‘What?’ And he was like, ‘Oh, sorry. Wrong person,’ and walked to a different level of the lot. Then another large man in a trenchcoat approached and threatened to eat my children. He gave me a note written in torn-out letters from magazines. I have no idea who the author could have been.”
“Can you tell us what the note said?”
“Yes. ‘There was no sexual collusion! All of this is a Bitch Hunt and why aren’t we talking about Bill Clinton and his many, many rapes? Sad!’ But it wasn’t signed, so–like I said–I have no idea who wrote it.”
“No idea.”
“None whatsoever.
“So, uh, you’re a weatherman now?”
“No, Bob. I’m interviewing a woman named Stormy.”
“Ah. And this gal is who?”
“She is an adult actress.”
“Like Betty White.”
“Not that kind of ‘adult,’ Bob. Pornography.”
“Keith did that for a while. Not a pleasant-looking man, but he had a hog on him. He went, uh, what’s called ‘gay for pay.’ Although sometimes he would work directly for drugs, and he called that ‘straight for weight.’ Keith would stick it anywhere if you paid him.”
“I have no idea who this Keith person is.”
“Now, uh, why are you interviewing this sex-lady?”
“Because she apparently had an affair with the President and then got paid off to keep quiet.”
“To keep quiet? Billy used to pay chicks to tell everyone how well he humped.”
“I don’t know who these people you keep talking about are.”
“They’re top men, Whitey.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“And, uh, now this Stormy woman is the Special Counsel?”
“No.”
“I thought we were talking about Stormy Mueller.”
“We weren’t. And there is no such person.”
“Well, then, I’m lost.”
“This new thing, Dead & Company, it’s got something. It’s cooking, y’know? Hot band. I haven’t learned the bass player’s name, but he’s a player. Real player.”
“What was that you were telling me about Garcia, Bob?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s still there. A little. I can see him out of the corner of my eye sometimes. I think he’s okay with what we’re doing.”
“Wow.”
“If he were alive, he’d still be in the Dead, of course.”
“Sure.
“And if Phil were alive, he’d still be in the band.”
“Nope.”
“Only, you know, only thing I got a problem with is the tempos. Some of those songs are just too slow. Especially the ones I sing.”
“Bobby.”
“Gotta goose it. Needs a little goosifying.”
“Bobby.”
“The choogle’s getting a bit droopy, is all I’m saying.”
“Bob, you complaining about the tempos being too slow is like Jack the Ripper complaining about all the dead whores.”
…
“Do you want to get dinner after this?”
“OH, FUCK THIS! NO!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I just got out of this bullshit reality.”
“You don’t like it? It’s kind of fun. Have you met Wally?”
HELLO, ANDERSON–DO NOT CALL ME THAT–COOPER. WE MEET AGAIN.
“Why have you accepted this weirdness so readily?”
“You never took acid, did you?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“In this situation? Quite a bit.”
“And furthermore, Les Paul was the most accurate boomeranger I’d ever seen. He could hit a koala–”
Bobby.
“–at a hundred paces without nicking the bark–”
Bobby.
“–of the eucalyptus tree the koala had been…I’m giving a speech here, man.”
No. The bit’s over. There were some lies, then some chaos. Smattering of running gags.
“Business as usual, huh?”
Yeah.
“Huh. Y’know, I had a real knock-out of a speech.”
Shame people didn’t get to hear it.
“I’ll tell it to Coop.”
Who?
“YOU SAID I COULD LEAVE THIS FUCKED-UP REALITY!”
“Sorry to drag you back, buddy. How’s your summer tour going?”
“I don’t have a summer tour, Bob. I’m not a…can I go home? You said I was free to leave.”
“I’m not in charge.”
“Who is?”
“I thought you were. Now can you just settle your horses and listen to this speech before Elvis shows up and starts kicking people?”
…
“Yeah, okay.”
“Great.”
“You left me here, you son of a bitch.”
“Oh, hey, Coop. Ah, dammit. Knew I forgot something. I made a note in my Apple Watch about it, too.”
“So, what happened?”
“Tell ya the truth, I don’t know how the gadget works. I mostly just yell towards my wrist.”
“Okay. Where were you? That roadie person showed up with the thing and then you disappeared.”
“Right, yeah. Well: I had a gig, and he lost interest.”
“Who’s ‘he?'”
“I’ve explained this a couple times to you. Semi-fictionality is–”
“STOP SAYING THAT WORD THAT’S NOT A WORD.”
“You don’t have to yell.”
“I’ve tried everything else!”
“Haven’t clicked your heels together.”
…
“That’s not funny, Bob.”
“Not trying to be. Only way to get out of here. Wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Do I have to say–”
“Well, of course you have to say–”
“I’m just asking.”
“I mean: duh.”
…
SHOE CLICK
SHOE CLICK
“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place–”
“Nah, I was fucking with you.”
“–like…WHAT THE FUCK, BOB?”
“You know: prankster.”
“Hilarious. Am I trapped here?”
“Oh, no: this is the last picture. You’re free to go after this.”
“So, just ride this out.”
“Yeah. Nothing weird’s gonna happen.”
OH MY GOD. ANDERSON COOPER. I AM A FAN.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Hey, Wally.”
DO NOT CALL ME THAT. I LIKE YOUR HAIR, ANDERSON COOPER. IT IS SILVER LIKE A BLIMP.
“Is that a sound system?”
“It’s not ‘a’ sound system, no.”
WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE MY MOUNTAIN?
“Precarious tell you Coop was here?
“Don’t call me that.”
DO NOT STEAL MY LINES, ANDERSON COOPER. I LIKE YOUR EYES. THEY ARE #3399FF.
…
“Please let me go home.”
“Bob, I’d like to go home. Or leave this place. I don’t understand it.”
“Yeah, sure. Lotta people are like that at first. Chimenti hates it in here. Gives him the heebie-jeebies. Meyers loves it, though. Kid likes being looked at.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Semi-fictionality.”
“Stop saying that word that isn’t a word.”
“Coop–”
“Don’t call me that.”
“–there’s more to the real world than there seems. No. Wait. The real world is exactly like it seems. That’s why it’s the real world. It’s just that there’s other realities.”
“Bob.”
“Just because a reality isn’t official doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist is what I’m getting at.”
“Bob.”
“And your reality–that’s the official one I was talking about–got a bit shanghaied by a fictional one. But you’re still Bradley Cooper–”
“Close enough.”
“–and maintain the essential character thereof. Thus: semi-fictionality.”
“You mean fan-fiction?”
It’s not fan-fiction, you shallow jackass!
“WHO THE FUCK WAS THAT?”
“The narrator. Ignore him.”
…
“Okay. Okay. I am clearly either having a psychotic break or a very vivid dream; either way, I’m gonna go with it.”
“Great idea. Much smoother that way.”
“How did I get in here?”
“My best guess is you got swept up in that rando glitch. Time stopped being linear, and got a little quadrilinear.”
“What does that mean?”
“It went in four directions.”
“Obviously.”
“And, you know: things get tangled like that, it has repercussions down the line. Innocent people get involved, and they usually are very confused.”
“Count me as one of them. So: we are in a ‘rando glitch’ and time has stopped working right? Is that what you’re saying to me?”
“Well, I said it better, but: yeah, mostly. No worries, though. Got a guy on the way.”
“A guy? To do what?”
“Listen, Coop: what I’m about to say is going to sound strange–”
“What you’re about to say?”
“–but the Dead kinda has a time machine. A sheath, if we’re being accurate.”
“A time sheath.”
“It’s capitalized.”
“A Time Sheath.”
“Yeah.”
“What does it look like? I’m having trouble picturing it.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Fine. But this whatever-it-is can fix whatever-this-is?”
“If it can’t, then nothing can.”
“That’s a bit of a deus ex machina, isn’t it, Bob?”
“No, no. Not at all. It’s just a machine with godly powers that alters the plot at will.”
“Right. And where is it?”
“Warehouse in Marin. Well, it was. On the way as we speak.”
“That’s great. I mean, I still think I’m dreaming, but that’s great. Four, five-hour flight? Great.”
“Oh, no. No flying. Can’t take a Time Sheath on a plane.”
“Why not?”
“Afraid of heights.”
…
“The Time Sheath is sentient.”
“Of course it is.”
“But it’ll be here soon. Organization’s best man is behind the wheel.”
“Driving? That’ll take forever!”
“He knows a shortcut.”
“I don’t understand what you mean by ‘trapped,’ Bob.”
“Coop–”
“Don’t call me that.”
“–we’re stuck here for the time being.”
“Again: I don’t understand.Are you tripping on pot?”
“Probably not. Anyway: you can’t leave.”
“The dressing room?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah.”
“Oh, of course I can.”
DOOR OPENING SOUND
…
DOOR CLOSING SOUND
“Bob, nothing’s outside the door.”
“Yup.”
“No, I mean nothing. An existential void. Neither form nor formlessness. If God’s fridge were empty, that would be what it looked like. It wasn’t even the opposite of reality, because that implies a binary and causative coexistence with reality: what I saw outside that door had absolutely no relationship with reality.”
“There’s your problem. This isn’t reality.”
“I am back to not understanding you.”
“Are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?”
“Okay, you’re a crazy person and I am considering this a kidnapping. I’m calling the police.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Hello, this is television’s Anderson Cooper and I am being held hostage.”
“Heeeeey, man.”
“Who is this?”
“That sounds like Soup, Coop.”
“I’m Soup, man.”
…
“Did you dose me?
“No, do you want me to?”
“Who is this idiot on the other end of the line?”
“That’s Soup. He’s cool.”
“Heeeey, man.”
CELL PHONE HANGING UP NOISE
“Yeah, the thing is: place is lousy with minor characters and they just about got the run of the joint.”
…
“What?”
“It’s complicated at first. It’ll make more sense in the next post.”
“Post? What?”
As I mentioned, Bobby’s in the Maple Kingdom for a charity gig; it’s in a real swanky joint and Bobby will be taking only the classiest questions from Anderson Cooper, who is so fancy he’s secretly a Vanderbilt. (By the way: Shepard Smith hate-masturbates to Anderson Cooper nightly.)
Masturhates?
Sure, why not?
Yay, I helped.
Shh. But before Bobby meets all those swells, he sat down at the local TV channel for a little one-on-one with some jackass who needs a shave. (Although, you know: he’s sitting next to Bobby, so he looks okay; Bobby has combed his hair with his fingers.) I only watched a minute or two, but in the time I spent with the clip, Bobby started talking about STEM, but then he forgot what two of the letters stood for, and he added one of his own.
Then he started talking about his best friend, Jimi Hendrix.
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