“How would you characterize my slide playing, Otis?”
Ruff!
“Good boy!”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: bob weir (Page 137 of 198)
Call a spade a spade: Bobby’s an anthem whore. Give him a ride to the game, a free jersey, and a happy fat guy, and Bobby will America the fuck out of the place.
In this photo, we see Bobby about to harmonize about freedom before a San Francisco Bulls game. If you are wondering why you’ve never heard of the SF Bulls, consider that they played in the ECHL, which stands for East Coast Hockey League. That should tell you something. Was there actual hockey played? I’m picturing a bunch of guys in street shoes sliding on shitty ice and hitting each other with broomsticks. (I would go see that sport.)
Also, this post very nearly got titled “Greatest Score He Ever Goaled” so I think you all owe me a thank you for hitting the big red button on that one.
“Holy shit, he’s still talking about that fucking coach of his from 50 years ago. Why couldn’t he have liked Zeppelin?”
Phil looks happy: that’s because he’s a professional. But they’ll start the song when Walter White over there spits out the gum and not a second sooner.
Billy and Bobby are giggling because someone bet them Mickey wouldn’t be wearing a Dead shirt.
Mickey is laughing because the other two are and he just wants to be part of things.
“You ever met a god? Not God, a god. Minor gods, right? Well: minor compared to the God, but pretty fucking major compared to your average guy or gal, I’ll tell you that.
“Y’see, the thing people don’t know about summoning a god–or a demon or what have you–is that you don’t bring them here, no, of course not: that’s what the containment spell is for. It creates a third place, an Interspace, where if the creature decides to eat the universe just out of spite, it won’t eat the actual universe. It’s like when they hold college football games at a neutral location so things don’t get trashed.
“That was what we were doing all these years: collecting karmic energy to keep the eschatological chains on this goddamn monster we summoned by accident all those years ago. We needed the applause, the joy, the waves of ethereal glory coming from those throngs to keep him down.
“You should come see the reunion tour. Cheer as loud as you can. Trust me on this one. Chains rust.”
Honestly, you two: knock it off. Yes, Keith ate a handful of off-brand hippo tranquilizer and crawled into the piano twenty minutes ago but he has a weird way of sensing things even when he’s comatose.
PLUS Bottom right, third guy in, blue shirt: is that the Phantom of the Opera? What the dick is going on here?
ALSO Mickey is there why?
AND If Garcia doesn’t have a lit Camel in that left hand we can’t see, I’ll blow the Pope in Macy’s window.
“Garcia.
“Garcia!
“GARCIA!”
“What’s going on, Bob? Our heads are physically touching; you don’t have to scream.”
“We’re sharing a mic! Classic rock move, man.”
“Yeah, about that: you wanna go the fuck back to your own microphone before I call Parish?”
…
“Just wanted to sing with my buddy is all.”
“Aww, sorry, Bob. C’mon back.”
“Really?”
“Fuck, no. Go where you’re supposed to be.”
Caught here in mid-smirk, Bobby is trying his hardest not to openly mock his band member in front of a paying crowd, but the fact that Phil has matched his sweatband to his t-shirt is not helping matters.
Other things Bobby’s sweat can do:
- Induce labor.
- Cause glass to corrode.
- Flavor coffee.
- Remove calcium deposits and hard water stains.
- Magically reinvigorate pixies.
- Write secret messages in lieu of invisible ink.
- Provide a soothing balm to sufferers of Morgellon’s disease.
- Wood glue.
- Lube (Non-sexual.)
- Lube (Sexual.)
- Provide a base-note for Bobby’s cologne, Thighs by Bobby.
- Can be matched with chicken or beef.
- Smell like the balls of an angel.
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