Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Bobby’s jersey says LORAX.
Also, Jeff Chimenti is my favorite person. Look at him, all goony and happy and magical. If you catch Jeff Chimenti, then he must grant you wishes; if you made a paintbrush from his hair, the art you create would go with any sofa. Jeff Chimenti talks in his sleep, but only inspirational messages and compliments. An anagram for “Jeff Chimenti” is not “Wow, he’s great.”
Also also: the fun and games are over. I need to know where Billy was.
Mickey might be having a seizure. Bobby is squaring up on his man, but Mickey might honestly be having a medical situation.
If it wasn’t official, it is now: 2016 makes no fucking sense at all.
“I figured it out.”
The Rando War has been over for a week, Mickey.
“Still, though: look at him.”
That’s a rando. Good job, buddy.
“And he’s a good one. He’s randsome.”
He’s got pretty eyes.
“So do I.”
You’re wearing sunglasses, Mick.
“Behind them.”
Oh.
Five minutes into the honky-horn symphony, Billy looked backstage and noticed a roadie who had clearly been beaten to death with honky-horns. Then, he looked down and noticed Mickey’s baseball gloves and all of a sudden Billy knew he’d been set up.
OR
The geese came suddenly and with anger. Billy accepted his feathery death; he was laughing as the birds ate his eyes.
OR
I guarantee these things come with a lecture about how “everything’s a drum, man.”
OR
Holy shit: Mickey is not wearing a Dead shirt. AND he doesn’t have his Stealie earpiece in. Mickey is momentarily bereft of Dead bullshit; he’s had nightmares about this for years.
OR
“Billy?”
“Yeah Mick?”
“They’re like boobies.”
“They totally are.”
OR
Shortly after this picture was taken, the rest of the band joined the Rhythm Devils for Drums, except for Bobby, who took one look and started making calls about the next Ratdog tour.
Listen, I’m just saying.
All I’m doing is saying.
“Who’s that sexy tall thing singin’ my song!?”
What?
“Next Time You See Me! That’s a song the Pig done penned!”
You did not write that, Pig.
“But I made it mine!”
Sure.
“Now they got some sweet l’il filly warblin’ my tune!”
Um.
“Although just between you and the Pig, I dunno bout that lass! Haircut’s awful suspicious!”
Please stop being from the past.
“Like to climb that mountain.”
That’s a guy, Pig.
…
“Okay. Yeah. I see it now.”
His name’s John.
“Well, he should grow hisself some damn whiskers as to not confuse the public!”
I’ll tell him.
“And tell him he can keep singin’ Next Time! He didn’t fuck it up too bad, I guess.”
Wasn’t a train wreck.
“But if he gets his skinny l’il ladyfingers near Two Souls in Communion, he’s gettin’ a Pigtergeist!”
I will definitely tell him.
Here’s the secret to this photo: that woman is 6’8″. Swear to God.
“What did I do?”
“The watch thing, Bob.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, who you are, or where I am.”
“You haven’t let that stop you yet.”
“Sure, sure.”
“You made fun of my watches onstage. ‘Just like a Swiss watch.’ That hurt. It’s like all those long, one-sided conversations I had with you about watches were wastes of time.”
“Seems that way.”
“Bob!”
“Listen, Josh: it’s a new Bob Weir. I’m doing jazz hands, and I’m tossing out zingers.”
“Oh? We’re doing zingers now? Cuz…you know…”
“What?”
“When did you start doing jazz hands, Bob?”
“I’ve never done jazz hands.”
“You’re doing them right now.”
…
“Is this jazz hands?”
“What did you think they were?”
“Sex thing.”
“No, Bob.”
“The way Billy taught me, they are.”
“That goes for everything Billy teaches.”
“Sometimes he teaches lessons.”
“He does.”
“Yeah, yeah. Josh, I’ve thought it over and I’m going to continue doing whatever the hell I feel like.”
“Worked for you so far.”
“Seems that way.”
“We’re very conscious!”
Um. Okay. Of what?
“The problems facing society.”
Sure.
“We’re aware of them.”
Right. Conscious. But you still haven’t answered–
“And we’re together.”
“Hi.”
“It’s the two of us.”
Uh-huh. Hence, the alliance. What exactly is it that you–
“I’M BECOMING AWARE OF SOMETHING!”
“Can we do it together?”
“Of course!”
I’m not talking to you two anymore.
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