“Look what I got.”
Randos?
“The randiest. Although, this guy to my left keeps telling me go home and get my shinebox.”
Yeah, don’t murder him. It comes back to bite you in the ass.
“I’ll try. But, you know, if he keeps disrespecting me my hand will be forced.”
Don’t do it.
“Forced.”
Hey, Bobby.
“Yup.”
Don’t make it obvious, but check out the piece on the guy to your far right.
…
“Oofah.”
Right?
“Garcia’s was better.”
What?
“Jer wear a toupee. From about 1972 onward. Went to the same guy as Gene Simmons.”
This is not a fact.
“Oh, yeah. Real human hair, too. Parish used to get it for him. Sometimes, there’d be chunks of scalp still attached.”
“We doing group randos now? You got nothing, Weir.”
Not randos, Phil. That’s your band.
“This can’t be my band. Where are my children? I made my band with my own balls.”
Ew. And it is definitely your band. That’s Melvin Seals.
“Which one?”
The one that looks like his name should be Melvin Seals.
“I still think I’m winning Rando War.”
These aren’t randos!
“Agree to disagree.”
“They aren’t, Phil. Now this is a rando.”
No, Amir Bar-Lev. That is Michael Moore.
“He smells.”
I would imagine.
“And he won’t stop talking about Bernie.”
I would also imagine. You should get away from him before he rubs off on you.
“His bad luck?”
No, he physically rubs off on people. On the other hand, you might want to stand next to this fucker forever.
“It’s a good contrast, right?’
Totally. Your face has, like, bones in it.
“He just asked if I had any candy.”
Okay. Abort, abort. Get away from Michael Moore. The man makes awful movies and his voice makes me envy the Deafheads.
“But I look so good.”
Find an ugly fucker who makes good movies.
“Hmmm. Wait, I got it.”
“BOOM.”
Dude, you killed it.
“I rocked this shit.”
Why wasn’t the ’81 European tour covered in Long Strange Trip?
“Al Franken made me cut it.”
Oh.
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