Dammit, Jeff Chimenti, move your hands and give us the triple potato salad action we’ve come to demand from our favorite content providers. Seriously: look how close we are.
OR
This looks like one of the promo pictures for a sitcom set in a family-owned pot shop. Bobby is “Pops” and he runs the place (in between naps) with his son “Jeff Chimenti,” who is played by Jeff Chimenti. His other son, a hard-charging finance executive from New York, comes home for some bullshit and ends up running the shop with his spacey dad and out-there brother. This is John Mayer, playing “Thumb;” for great stretches of the program’s runtime, the main and secondary characters beat him with sticks, and point, and laugh, and beat him about the face and head.
“Ha, ha,” they say. “Your name is Thumb.”
And Pops and Jeff Chimenti and the rest of the cast–the sexy, sassy, ethnic clerk, and the store manager who I’m thinking we need a Holland Taylor-type for– they take the sticks and poke Thumb in the soft places of his body. Perhaps a wrestling move is attempted.
“Why are you–”
Jeff Chimenti brings a brick down on Thumb’s chest. Swings it from way over his head and the Holland Taylor-type, when she hears the crunch of the sternum, cums. The second blow is shorter, but more direct: to the head, and with the brick’s point. Another crunch.
He stands over the body and extends the bloody cudgel towards the camera.
“THIS IS CAPITALISM!”
And then he kills himself by eating the brick.
Netflix has committed for eight episodes.
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Sadly, those are not Miller High Lifes. (TotD not being a beer person, but being highly suggestible, the official beers of the site are Heineken because Phil and Miller High Life because a blonde who lived in a terrible Hollywood apartments where the door and living room window open onto the catwalk; she used to say she was like a guy because she could only cum once and then she was done; she parked her bicycle in her kitchen, or in mine; she sat on the edge of the tub to watch me shave. I can’t remember her name, but I’ll always remember she demanded Miller High Life or nothing at all, and so it’s the shitty beer I’ll choose over the other shitty beers.)
OR
Jeff Chimenti’s shirt is immeasurably cooler than John Mayer’s.
OR
Hey, Bobby. You having a stroke?
“I don’t know. How’s my tongue look?”
GUITARIST STICKING OUT HIS TONGUE NOISE
Straight and true.
“Then, uh, it’s not a stroke.”
Good. So, uh, what’s going on with your face?
“That I don’t look vengeful?”
Yeah.
“Good tour.”
Yay.
OR
Off-White?
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but Virgil Abloh–”
Yeah, yeah, Louis Vuitton. His old stuff was fine, but since he got so big, I don’t know. He used to print the name of his company on bullshit so much more authentically.
“You’re very closed-minded about fashion.”
I’m not. I can appreciate high fashion. Crazy people make art for slender people to wear in front of rich people. Sometimes, folks still get mad about it, and that makes it fine by me, too. Or fashion throughout history. Silk road and whatnot. But this streetwear thing is depraved.
“Depraved? Depraved?”
You’re paying someone to advertise for them. The brand requires recognition and cash to survive; you’ve given it both. Plus there’s the issue of lies, John.
“What lies?”
You are not off-white. You are very white.
“I’m not that white.”
Your father was winter camouflage and your mother was hospital sheets.
“That’s rude.”
No, you know what’s rude?
“What?”
“Ow.”
Somebody’s publicist fucking hates you, dude.
“This is just mean. Why is this in the newspaper? There are only two fresh quotes in here, and the rest is just rewritten copy! And the second one is hearsay! Jesus, I’m getting fucked like a backwoods chimneysweep.”
I’m not familiar with the term.
“In the backwoods, you’re allowed to fuck the chimneysweeps.”
That didn’t help.
“Hey, you went to college.”
Barely.
“Help me with this, Is ‘He had to join the Grateful Dead because he talked too much about all his famous girlfriends’ a logical statement?”
No. And it’s not really the accusation that the bigwig thinks it is.
“He’s saying it like joining the Dead was a punishment.”
Like how in the old days, judges could send you into the military. The Famous Person Court sentenced you to three-to-five years of Grateful Deading for the crime of talkin’ poon.
“Don’t say poon.”
I probably shouldn’t.
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