Hey, Garcia. Whatcha doing?
“Getting married.”
I gathered. Is that wood paneling? Where are you, a VFW hall?
“Whatever, man. Don’t piss on my big day.”
Is this the one who dumped your remains in the Ganges?
“Yeah.”
You knew how to pick ’em.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: manasha garcia
Happy Father’s Day, Garcia.
“Shh.”
Sorry.
“Just got her to sleep.”
What’s the point of a baby sleeping if you can’t Instagram it?
“What?”
Nothing. That’s Heather, right?
“Yeah.”
Pretty name.
“Pretty girl. I like girls. Some guys wanna have boys, but I like girls.”
That is good to hear.
“Why?”
…
“Good God, what is that?”
Your family.
“Just one?”
Couple of ’em.
“I gotta get some gigs, man.”
Happy Father’s Day.
“Sure, yeah.”
Which wife was that? Massapequa? Monstermash? Whoever she was, if her leg wasn’t there, we would be able to see Garcia’s balls. Which brings me to the topic of the evening: let’s discuss Garcia’s bush. Now, some Dead scholars assert that–
No, no. Not gonna happen.
No.
Nuh-uh.
–his pubis was…how did you do that? We alternate lines. That’s not supposed to happen.
Neither is you speculating on a dead stranger’s genitals for a thousand words.
Bush is not genitals.
The entire area is off-limits. This is over the line. I know sometimes it seems like there isn’t a line, but there is, and Garcia’s crotch-curlies are over it. Way over it. Can’t even see them from the line.
I understand your point, but this is a fascinating topic. I mean: Garcia had all the hair in the world on his skull, but below the neck, he was as sleek as the orca on his shirt. Which side did Garcia’s potato salad take?
…
Please don’t say–
CIVIL WAR.
–Civil War. I hate you.
You mention that a lot.
I hate you a lot. I hate you a very lot.
Hey, Garcia.
“Hey, buddy.”
Which wife is that?
“Second? Third? Let’s just say ‘current’.”
Was she the crazy one?
“You are gonna need to be a shitload more specific than that. Virtually everyone in my life could be described that way.”
Well, what’s her name?
“Marsupial.”
No.
“Mamalookaboobooday.”
Don’t think so.
“Malthusian.”
Her name is an adjective describing a discarded theory of population growth?
…
“This isn’t Mountain–
No, it’s not fucking Mountain Girl.
“–Girl, is it?”
…
“I’m sure it’ll come up in conversation. Or I’ll read it in the divorce papers. Fuck it: we’re on vacation.”
I noticed the shirt.
Evidencifications part the 24th in the case against Edie Brickell and that one of the wives who wasn’t Mountain Girl (her name is Mahna-mahna or something) was correct in thinking this lady was on the make.
This is from Brickell’s Wikipedia page, about the first time she met her husband-to-be, Paul Simon.
“Even though I’d performed the song hundreds of times in clubs, he made me forget how the song went when I looked at him,” she said with a smile.
She said this about Paul Simon. Paul Simon looks like he should be demanding gold under bridges, only to be ignored: this man resembles an ineffectual troll. In a hair hat.
You think she does that hippie chick scat-improv thing when she does it?
Twiddley squeeee,
Dod diddly num.
You know what my
butt needs? Your thumb.
Jesus, man. It’s Father’s Day.
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