Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: john mayer (Page 12 of 42)

Of Course They’re Friends

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Listen, man, you really should hear ‘Ye out. He’s making a lot of sense.”

“MY BLOOD HAS DRAGONS IN IT!”

“See? Don’t you feel like your blood has dragons in it sometimes?”

No.

“I mean, not real dragons. It’s a metaphor.”

“NO! REAL DRAGONS!”

You need to get away from him, Josh. He’s gonna hype you up and give you free ugly shoes, and you’re gonna get overexcited on Twitter and praise Duterte or something.

“You cannot argue with the fact that crime is down in Manila.”

Dude, please. Pull up. This man is in a death spiral.

“If you’re in a death spiral, pulling up is the single worst thing to do.”

It was a metaphor.

“SOMEONE EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT A METAPHOR IS AND DO NOT USE JEWISH DEFINITIONS!”

See! He’s already onto anti-Semitism.

“Well, from what happened today, you’d have to assume that anti-Semitism would be the next step.”

True. But you don’t have to be standing next to the volcano when it erupts.

“MY WIFE KIM IS VERY GOOD AT WRESTLING!”

Run, Josh.

“He’s got such interesting ideas on trousers.”

Like?

“He thinks they’re possessed by Jewish demons.”

All trousers?

“ESPECIALLY CORDUROYS!”

“Why do you want to censor his free thinking?”

I don’t. I just don’t want his free thinking to splatter on the Grateful Dead’s legacy.

ZZZZZZZZAP!

“Holy shit!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Wally, did you disintegrate Kanye West!?

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. AND, YES.

Why?

THE SAME REASON THAT ELVIS KARATE’D HIM: ALL-CAPS IS A PRIVILEGE, NOT A RIGHT.

You two are very needy.

THE KING AND I HAVE MUCH IN COMMON.

Like?

WE ARE BOTH GLORIOUS.

Yeah, okay. Why didn’t you disintegrate Josh?

“Y’know, I’m standing right here.”

HE HAS NOT OFFENDED ME. AND THE DADDIES SEEM TO ENJOY HIM. HE IS MY LITTLE POTATO.

“Don’t call me that.”

HELLO, LITTLE POTATO.

“Seriously, stop that.”

zhveeeeEEEEEEE

“What was that sound?”

DISINTEGRATION RAY WARMING UP.

“Little Potato it is.”

YAY.

You Should Have Seen This Coming, Honestly

Ah, fuck.

“Welcome me back.”

No.

“People don’t want to hear your little Tiny Town stories–”

Little Aleppo.

“–they want more John Mayer. They want John Mayest.”

English doesn’t work that way.

“Ask me about my clothes.”

If I don’t, will you still talk about them?

“Oh, yeah.”

Go ahead, then.

“My shoes were made by a blind man who hates me.”

Makes sense.

“They took eight months to make.”

Why?

“Someone hid his tools and he couldn’t find them for seven months.”

Sure. And the toppermost?

“This is a brand-new creation from Japan’s number one toppermost designer.”

What’s his name?

“Wes Anderson’s Isle of Dogs.

No.

“See the pattern? It’s a reference to my last album.”

How so?

“No one notices it until I point out it exists.”

That sounds right. Can you leave? There’s another two months before Dead & Company tour. Go play around on social media.

“I AM THE KING OF SOCIAL MEDIA AND ALL OF MY BRAINS ARE VERY OPEN AND SMART.”

Oh, shit, I know that voice.

Ah, fuck.

“WHY WILL JOSH MEYERS NOT LET ME TAKE HIS CHILDREN TO DISNEY PLANET? I HAVE MANY CARS!”

Kanye, you need to get the hell out of here and call your shrink.

“MY IGNORANCE IS SHRINKING AND ALSO MY FINGERS ARE MADE OF SPAGHETTI AND DREAMS.”

Uh-huh.

“DONALD TRUMP IS LIKE MARVIN GAYE BUT WITHOUT THE SILENT LETTERS.”

You’re not making any sense, buddy.

“KANYE MAKES DOLLARS! I HAVE MADE MORE MONEY OFF MY SHOES THAN THOM MCCANN.”

I don’t think that’s–

“THOM MCCAN’T!”

Wow.

“MY POSITIVITY WILL OUTSHINE THE NIPPLES OF HATRED.”

Leave.

“YOU CANNOT GET RID OF ‘YE WITH YOUR FASTIDIOUS SOUP!”

Buddy, I’m just saying–

KARATE NOISE!

Ah, fuck.

Hey, King.

“ONLY ONE PERSON ‘ROUND THESE PARTS GETS TA SPEAK IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS, MAN.”

What about Wally?

“AH SAID ‘PERSON,’ YOU WOOLY BOOGER!”

Sure.

“WHY IS BRANFORD MARSALIS SO ANGRY?”

Okay, that’s it. Everyone out of the pool.

“THANK YOU VERY MUCH.”

Oh, stuff it.

Some People Are So Touchy

A-well, a-well, a-well uh-huh. Tell me more.

“Stop it.”

Tell me more, how much dough did he spend? A-well, a-well–

“Knock it off! I am fashion forward.”

A little too far forward. I don’t know if the world’s ready for your swag.

“Dude, we don’t say swag anymore.”

No? What do we say?

“Vaporwaaaaaaave.”

I don’t wanna say that.

“And you have to do the hand thing. Like you’re smoothing out sheets. Vaporwaaaaaave.”

That means “cool” now?

“Kind of. It’s like when you’re so extra you circle back to basic.”

John? Buddy? You should get yourself a family.

“But then I wouldn’t have all day to Instagram my online shopping.”

Right. Exactly. You need less free time. Dude, is that your dick?

“What? Oh. No, it’s just a shadow.”

The shadow of your dick. Put your fucking dick away, Song Remains The Same.

“That film was just three hours of Robert Plant’s cock.”

This is what I’m saying. And it’s no longer appropriate. Tuck yourself away.

“Stop looking at my crotch!”

I can’t look higher or lower! I can’t look at your jacket, and I won’t give your shoes the satisfaction of my gaze.

“They’re shouty.”

Go find a soup kitchen and work there.

“Do you do that?”

Oh, God, no. I’m far too selfish and lazy.

“So why are you yelling at me?”

Hypocrisy.

“I’ll say.”

Rizzo’s got a bun in the oven!

“Fuck off.”

Odds And Ends

How about some reading material, Enthusiasts? Collected from around the innertubes and–dare I say–curated just for you out of love, respect, friendshipliness, all that nonsense: here are places to go, stuff to watch, balls to itch, petitions to sign, and one link that, when clicked upon, will hijack your computer in order to mine Bitcoin. (And, yes, you are right to find humor in the fact that mining Bitcoin is speeding up Climate Change; that shit’s deeply funny.) Here we go:

1.

There’s a school in Palo Alto, which is the town that services Stanford University, named Jordan Middle School. This is in honor of a former Stanford president named David Starr Jordan, who was born in Upstate New York in 1851. Now, Enthusiast, your average fellow or filly born in Upstate New York in 1851 would believe a whole bunch of bullshit we’d find abhorrent today, but DSJ wasn’t average: he advocated for the betterment of the blood, and if that sounds Nazi-ish to you, it should; Hitler stole many of DSJ’s ideas about eugenics.

He also may or may not have covered up the murder of his boss’ wife, or murdered her himself.

Naturally, there’s a movement–or, actually, several competing movements–to rename the facility. Some land on the side of efficiency and cost, pointing out that since the school doesn’t bear DSJ’s full sobriquet, just his last name, it would be easy to rechristen the building after Michael Jordan or Barbara Jordan or whomever. Others want to name it after Steve Jobs; these people are assholes.

There is, thankfully, a good idea: name the school after Pigpen. The ol’ Pig–when he was just a little bitty Piglet–went to Jordan Middle, where he studied Lovin’, Juicin’, and Makin’ It With Foxes; he also smoked cigarettes under the bleachers. TotD backs this plan, obviously, as Pigpen was not (as far as we know) a rabid eugenicist.

2.

Josh has a new guitar! It looks like this:

And no matter what you think, it’s not a Strat. Sure, your eyes are telling you that it’s a Strat, but who you gonna believe: Grammy-winner and clotheshorse Josh Meyers or your eyes? Look at the headstock! Totally not a Strat. Still don’t buy it? Well, go listen to him explain how it’s not a Strat for 40 minutes.

There’s a line from Shakespeare that applies here, methinks.

3.

Hey, guess who the Dead treated like second-class citizens? Did you guess “women?” Well, good for you, smartypants.

Franti Raid

“You, uh, wanna do a thing?”

“Is the thing drumming?”

“No.”

“Fine, I guess.”

OR

Jeff Chimenti wearing a hat is like Scarlett Johansson wearing a space suit. Do not keep your beauty to yourself, Jeff Chimenti.  Does the eagle refuse to fly in fear of embarrassing the pigeon? Let the world see your silvery goodness.

OR

Double potato salad.

OR

I feel like Josh is showing me his invisible engagement ring.

OR

“Thoughts on my Ass! Look at my gum!”

No, thank you, Billy.

“Look!”

Fine. Yes, you have gum in your mouth.

“Sex gum.”

What does that even mean?

“Viagra-flavored. Gum gets soft, and Billy gets hard.”

Ew.

“I’m gonna stick it in stuff.”

Your dick or the gum?

“Both! I used to know some skank in Indianapolis. This chick could chew gum with her swimmin’ hole. Blow bubbles, the whole nine yards. I tried to get her on Star Search, but Ed McMahon called the cops on us.”

Good story.

“I got a million of ’em.”

Putin On The Ritz

“Sure, I’ll talk about my clothes. Thanks for asking.”

I totally didn’t.

“My boots are Marvana featuring Wicky Z for Quilty by Leomberge.”

Never heard of ’em.

“Of course not: you’re poor. The pants are Scaramucci.”

Like the Mooch?

“No, the same guy. The Mooch made my trousers. I don’t agree with his politics, but he can sew like an angel.”

Okay.

“The tee-shirt is Visvim, obviously.”

Obviously.

“Their new line of raw shirts is astounding. Raw cotton, raw dye. The tailors who make the shirts? All they eat is nuts and berries. Completely raw.”

Why?

“You just don’t understand fashion.”

Apparently not.

“The necklace is a Billy Bling. Only forty grand because we’re friends.”

You have the worst taste in men.

“What about women?”

You have predictable taste in women.

“And now we go to the piece de resistance. That’s French for ‘thing that resists.'”

It’s not.

“The toppermost.”

It’s a nice one.

“It’s called Lizards Quake When Dusk Falls On The Desert.”

What an evocative name.

“My new topper-shifu created it for me. His name is Makira Gojira.”

No, it isn’t.

“He’s a marvel. Totally blind. He sews by zen.”

He sews by zen?

“Oh, sorry. I meant Zen. That’s his assistant’s name. Does most of the actual sewing, but Gojira-san oversees. Well, not oversees, but you get the drift. They’re making me another toppermost right now.”

How many do you need?

“It’s not for me.”

Goddammit, Josh, do NOT act as a personal stylist for Kim Jong-Un!

“You’re not my boss.”

Really?

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Asshole.”

I know.

“Is this Kim Jong-Un? I’ve been meaning to talk to him.”

Sure, pick up the phone.

“Nothing looks grim when I’m hanging with Kim.”

“Is nyet Kim, Hot Dog Dick.”

“Ah, fuck.”

“Putin now have toppermost technology.”

“WHERE’D YOU GET THAT?”

“Ve have vays of getting toppermosts, Mr. Dog Dick.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Is so comfortable. Very stylish. Putin is beautiful Soviet peacock.”

“Seriously, where did you get that?”

“Invade Japan.”

“You didn’t.”

“Da. Posion Hello Kitty.”

“Why?”

“I am bad guy.”

“Right.”

“Answer question for Putin.”

“Fine.”

“Vhy Taylor rip off Spike Jonez? New video is just Veapon of Choice.”

“You are way more in tune with pop culture than I’d figure.”

“Putin is online.”

“We’ve noticed.”

“Is no good vith Taylor. She dance like babushka. Putin miss Christopher Valken.”

“I gotta go.”

“You think he kill Natalie Vood?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Da. Putin look better than you.”

“No, you d–

DIAL TONE NOISE BECAUSE PHONES STILL DO THAT IN RUSSIA

“Dammit!”

Meeting Of The Minds


Butterscotch. Tiddlywinks. Foot.

“What are you doing?”

Are you not listing words on your little board?

“Words that have something to do with my lecture.”

Lecture? You’re a lecturer now?

“I know, right? It’s like: where does he find the time in the day to master so many forms of performance? Guitar, singing, acting, Instagramming, and now I’m a teacher. I share my gifts with the world.”

Are you calling herpes a gift?

“Please go away. I’m busy teaching these kids how to write a hit song.”

Do you still remember how to do that?

You know, cuz it’s been a while.

Since you wrote a hit song. Like, a decade or so.

You not talking to me?

“No.”

Fine. Talk to him.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Nope. Not picking up.”

Pick it up.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Nuh-uh.”

Pick it up.

“No.”

CELL PHONE LEAPING FROM THE POCKET OF OVERLY-EXPENSIVE JEANS AND PUNCHING A GUITARIST IN THE NOSE NOISE

“Ow!”

Pick up the phone.

“I hate you.”

Yeah, yeah.

“You’re on with John.”

“Hot Dog Dick! Long time no talk!”

“Ah, fuck.”

“Guess who back? Back again. Un is back. Tell friend.”

“Don’t quote Eminem at me.”

“Slim Shady real hip-hop. No like Lil Xan. He disrespect hip-hop.”

“Why do you know who Lil Xan is?”

“Follow on Twitter. So much beef.”

“Why are you calling?”

“Back on top, Hot Dog Dick! Kim Jong-Un in news again! Didn’t even need to blow up nuke or kill college student this time! Gonna meet Dotard. Take selfie.”

“I don’t think the meeting’s actually gonna happen.”

“Will happen. Take selfie.”

“Kim–”

“Name is Un. Only Korean name go backwards. Children know this.”

“–no one is going to let this meeting take place.”

“I got ace in hole. Gonna talk Annoying Orange into it.”

“Who?”

“He on other line. I three-way.”

“Do NOT three-way me!”

“I three-way. You there?”

“Da.”

“Hot Dog Dick, is Putin. Putin, is Hot Dog Dick.”

“My name is John Mayer.”

“Nyet. You are Hot Dog Dick.”

“Haha! Putin call you Hot Dog Dick.”

“Okay, Putin have to go. Big election coming up. Have press conference.”

“You’re gonna take questions from reporters?”

“Nyet. Vant to gather them in one place so is easier to murder them.”

DIAL TONE NOISE BECAUSE PHONES STILL DO THAT IN RUSSIA

“Hot Dog Dick, I got favor.”

“I’m not doing you any favors.”

“Need new clothes for big meeting. Want to look sharp. Like Joe Jackson. You remember Joe Jackson, Hot Dog Dick?”

“Of course I remember–”

“Sang is different for girl. So true. Is very different for girl.”

“Please let me–”

“Help Kim Jong-Un, John Mayer. Need fancy outfit. Need be flossing.”

“You want me to help you pick out clothes?”

“Yes. You best at clothes. Much style. So fashion.”

“Dammit.”

“Yes! Kim Jong-Un and Hot Dog Dick have storyline again!”

“Dammit.”

 

Dead & Company 2049

“I’d like you to meet my secret, Mexican family.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. None of these people are secret or Mexican. These people are whiter than an envelope factory.

“You’re right. This is Team Mayer.”

You should make some trades. I think this team needs a rebuilding year.

“Nah. We’re a finely-tuned machine. All the way on the right there is Stubby Maybelline. He’s my personal croupier.”

Why do you have a personal croupier?

“Never know when the bones are gonna call.”

Fine.

“Next to him is the Human Post-It.”

I don’t get it.

“Those aren’t tattoos; they’re, like, notes I wrote to myself. ‘Pick up milk, bang Demi Lovato’ that sort of thing. Sometimes, I just doodle on him while I’m on the phone.”

Doesn’t seem cost-efficient.

“And next to him, of course, is Pete Ulrich.”

Who’s that?

“Skeet’s younger, far less talented brother.”

Sure.

“Jumpsuit Jean, the Jumpsuit Queen.”

Obviously. And her purpose is?

“Jumpsuits.”

Right. What about the beardo?

“That’s Not Your Father’s Gorton’s Fisherman.”

I’ll say.

“No, that’s his name. Not Your Father’s Gorton’s Fisherman. Gorton’s did a rebrand of their corporate logo and they’re paying me a million bucks to cross-promote it.”

Nice work if you can get it.

“Plus a  truckful of fishsticks. You know the saying, ‘They’ll back the Brinks truck up to your door?’ Well, they did, but the truck was full of breaded cod or whatever the fuck it is.”

I’m going to go back to ignoring you until the next time you’re a Grateful Dead again.

“Cool. See you Friday in Boston.”

Dammit.

The Music Never Stoppermosted

Why are you here?

“Picking out my Oscar outfit.”

You’re going to the Oscars?

“I’m dating Jennifer Lawrence.”

She seems awful.

“She is. Big crack smoker.”

Crack? Wow, retro.

“Yeah, her aesthetic is ‘Revere, Massachusetts, in 1992.’ She screams the N-word a lot.”

Why are you with her?

“Star’s a star.”

You’re despicable.

Oh, fine: talk about your clothes.

“THANK you! You’re just rude sometimes. As you can see, I’ve acquired a new toppermost. It’s called Sexual Diabetes.”

That’s a terrible name.

“It sounds better in the original Japanese.”

Can toppermosts be made anywhere other than Japan?

“Kinda. You could create a garment that wasn’t quite a robe, and not exactly a kimono, but definitely not a coat in any foreign land, but it’s gotta be from Japan to be called a toppermost. It’s like Champagne and sparkling wine.”

Sure. Did you pick this out yourself?

“Oh, absolutely. No toppermost-sei has an internet connection or anything. Gotta go to the source. I just got back. Could not sleep the entire time I was there. Things started getting weird. Then, Bill Murray seduced me obliquely.”

That’s the plot to Lost in Translation.

“Let me twirl for you.”

Oh, don’t.

“I’m gonna.”

GUITARIST TWIRLING ON A SIDEWALK NOISE

“Did you see that?”

Unfortunately.

“The way the fabric blooms out like an enemy’s blood in the river of a fresh dawn?”

Huh?

“Again: sounds better in Japanese.”

You’re like a fashion weaboo. Stop being obsessed with Japan. It’s the creepiest country to be obsessed with.

“Dude, Germany.”

Yup, you’re right. Sorry. Japan is the second creepiest country to be obsessed with. Why are the calves on your pants so tight?

“In case I have to kick something.”

That’s it.

SLAM!

walkwalkwalkwalk

SLAM!

“Did you just walk out of the room?”

“Excuse me? Hey!”

“Well, how the fuck do I get out of here?”

I Only Want To Hold You

Put the teen down, Josh.

“Did you see Call Me By Your Name?”

Goddammit, you put that underage youth down.

“But he’s so ripe.”

Ripe? What?

“I want to do laundry with him, and teach him proper skincare.”

Please don’t do this.

“Dude, we’re in Florida. He’s been legal for seven years here.”

Stop it. Jesus, it’s like talking to Billy.

“He’s got a butt-chin. Think of our kids. Their whole heads would be clefted.”

Put the teen down, Josh.

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