Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
This is what a five million dollar vacation will buy you. After the Magic tour, Freddie and his last longtime boyfriend, Jim Hutton, went to Japan for what Freddie delightfully described as his “Million Pound Vacation.” I did the math: that’s five million in today’s dollar.
“Welcome back to England, Mr. Mercury. Anything to declare?”
“Only my genius!.”
…
“And an entire warehouse full of knick-knacks, darling.”
Why does the fact that he’s barefoot kinda make this work?
“Hello, darling. I see you’re wearing clothes: stop that.”
Somewhere on Route 77, there is a stadium; Queen has sold it out tonight.
Can you see the Heineken?
…
Look carefully.
…
Got it yet?
Here is a young Freddie, and he is holding a banana. There is a teddy bear involved.
Here, an older Freddie also holds a banana.
This has been Freddie Mercury Holding A Banana.
Thank you, and buy American.
Goddammit. Garcia?
“What?”
…
“Oh, that. Piss off, man. I started a little fire. Not the end of the world.”
No, that’s a flood.
“Right. We’re all good here.”
Not really. Garcia?
“Uh-huh?”
How come the Grateful Dead never had any pyro?
“Show biz bullshit.”
Not debating that. Still, though: pyro is awesome.
“I think the Dead killed enough people without having explosives onstage, don’t you?”
Excellent point.
…with Cup of Noodles!
Freddie Mercury died today, or yesterday, but not today or yesterday; a long time ago. You understand me.
Hindsight is Cassandra’s evil twin: he shows up after the disaster to tell everyone what they already know. This is to say that Freddie should not have defined “fun” how he did, and certainly not when he did. The “when” is probably more important. A lot of people shouldn’t have done a lot of the stuff they did, but those fuckers couldn’t sing like Freddie could.
Oh, there you are. Where’d you go? I was worried about you. How’d the fight go?
“Between the multicorn and the Freddies Mercury?”
Isn’t it weird that that sentence makes sense?
“A little, yeah. But, uh, it was only a fight for a little bit.”
Orgy?
“Full-on.”
Hey, that’s great. You got laid in Vegas.
“I always get laid in Vegas. Never like that.”
Freaky?
“The Freddies share a hivemind.”
I assumed.
“And a hiveboner.”
I did not assume that. I don’t even think I understand that.
“It’s complicated. And veiny.”
Sure.
“And hairy.”
Freddie didn’t seem like a manscaper.
“I lost my watch in his bush.”
So you’re saying that your first Phish Halloween show was not a great experience.
“Some good stuff happened.”
Like?
“I’m joining Queen.”
They have a guitarist, and he’s better than you.
“Ow.”
Sorry, but true.
“I know, but it still hurts. Anyway, I’m not going to be the guitarist. I want to be a frontman like Freddie.”
You can’t be.
“Why not?”
Queen songs don’t sound good sung in an American accent.
“Yeah?”
Or through your nose.
“You’re a dick.”
You’re already in nine bands and you have so much laundry to do.
“You have to stay on top of it.”
Stop joining bands. Just be rich and bang pop stars and wear clothes. You’re a Grateful Dead now, John Mayer, because 2016 is trying to kill us all, so just be happy with what you have.
“But he wants it all, darling!”
“Oh, no.”
“And he wants it NOOOOOOWWW!”
Oh, those pipes.
“Thank you, darling. I’m often complimented on my plumbing.”
“Freddie, I…where are the others?”
“Rampaging through the crowd like sexual wolverines.”
“Of course. Listen, Freddie: I don’t think this is going to work out. We’re just in different places in life. And I’m not gay. And you died 25 years ago. That last one probably should’ve gone first.”
“Forbidden love! Wonderful, darling. I’ll be Romeo, and you be Mercutio.”
“You mean Juliet.”
“Shakespeare cut out a whole sub-plot. It was a plot about how Mercutio was the sub: sub-plot.”
“Clever.”
“Darling, do you like comic books?”
“I guess. Why?”
“Because I’m going to show you my thing, and then it’s rogering time!”
“Goddammit.”
Can I watch?
“No!”
“I insist!”
Yay.
Stand up straight.
“Please leave me alone.”
Unicorns don’t slouch. They’re known for their posture.
“That’s Mickey.”
And unicorns. Don’t argue with me on this: I used to lie about having a Master’s in Cryptequinology.
“Cryptequinology?’
The study of made-up horses.
“Big field?”
Unicorns, centaurs, zebras, my little ponies.
“Zebras are real.”
Nope. CG.
“I’ve seen them at zoos.”
Hard-light holograms. I thought you were hanging out backstage with Mike Gordon.
“There was a problem.”
Oh, no.
“I got mustard on my onesie.”
Hot dog?
“Sex thing.”
Sure. Go on.
“And Mike says, ‘We’ve got a washing machine.’ So I slapped him in the face as hard as I could.”
Why?
“Washing machine? I won’t be insulted like that.”
So you got thrown out of backstage.
“Yeah, a little. Did you know that Phish has a Parish?”
What’s his name?
“Pharish.”
Sounds right.
“John, darling! It’s me, us!
“That makes no sense.”
“Oh, actually it did make sense.”
“Get ready for a British Invasion.”
“Not again.”
“And again, and again. John Mayer, prepare your mouth and asshole!”
“Oh, I could have lived my whole life without having heard that sentence.”
“We’re going to put you under pressure, John. And you’ll want to break free, but the show must go on. Soon after, though, you’ll realize that the Freddies Mercury are somebody to love, and you’ll be our best friend.”
…
“Bicycle Race.”
“There it is. Yeah, this isn’t happening.”
“Oh, darling. Who’s going to stop us?”
“The multicorn.”
“What?”
“Oh, the multicorn. I see it now.”
“There can only be one.”
“There are five of us, and four of you. There can be more than one.”
“I’m too high for math, Freddies. Let’s do this.”
ROCK STAR FIGHT
…
John?
…
Freddies?
…
Anyone?
Just for Trey?
“I hate you. This is a Photoshop.”
What does the card actually say?
“Washing instructions for the unicorn onesie.”
I would have assumed you didn’t need washing instructions.
“I use them as a launching pad, yknow? They’re the map, but I’m free to go on side quests or little day trips to stain-removalville or wherever.”
How’s the show going, anyway?
“No idea. Between the snapchatting and selfie-sessions with randos, I haven’t been paying attention. Also all the weird bullshit.”
Yeah, I’m sorry for that.
“Really?”
No.
“We meet again, John Darling!”
“Motherfucker.”
“No, not mothers. Fathers, brothers, uncles, nephews. Not mothers, except occasionally and only the ones with giant tits.”
“You’re being inappropriately sexual, Freddie.”
“Darling, I am Freddie Mercury at a party.”
“Okay, you’re being legendarily sexual.”
“Better, thank you. Come to Freddie, darling. Remove my white jeans.”
“You are the only person who’s ever successfully pulled off white jeans.”
“Oh no: you’ll be quite successful in pulling them off, I assure you.”
“Freddie.”
“I’ll help if they get stuck on my hips.”
“Freddie.”
“Oh, fine: I’ll do it myself.”
…
“Put your pants back on, Freddie Mercury.”
“After we’re done, absolutely.”
“Done?”
“You said you were gay for Trey. Are you ready for Freddie?”
“Freddie. Freddie? Freddie!”
(EDITOR’S NOTE: IMAGE REDACTED.)
John?
…
Johnny?
…
John Boy?
“I just wanted to take drugs and see a band.”
But now you have a story to tell.
“I’m not participating in this anymore. I’m calling my lawyer.”
Ooh, I can’t wait to see who that is.
“Goddammit.”
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