“You said you knew the damn song, Bob.”
“I know lots of songs.”
“This song. The one we’re playing right now. The Boxer.”
“Oh, no. Never did any of that. I’m more of a tai chi man. Much more relaxing. And, uh, you don’t get punched in the nose quite so much.”
“The song! The song is called The Boxer!”
“Is it about Boom Boom Mancini?”
“No, Warren Zevon wrote that one.”
“We could do Werewolfs of London. I know that one in and out. You got a slide I could borrow?”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Paul, I gotta take this.”
“What!?”
…
“Weir here.”
“ARE YEW HAVIN’ TROUBLES WITH YER ACCOUNTANT, HAIRY GARCIA?”
“Oh, no, Elvis. Everything’s copacetic.”
“AH GOT NO IDEA WHAT COPACABANA MEANS, SO AH WILL ASSUME YEW ARE SPEAKIN’ IN CODE AN’ NEED RESCUIN’!”
“Don’t you usually wear clothes?”
“NO.”
“Ah. Right. Don’t you usually wear jumpsuits?”
“UH-HUH.”
“Well, that’s settled.”
“AH WON’T HAVE MAH BES’ FRIEND HAIRY GARCIA GETTIN’ ROUSTABOUTED BAH NO TINY BAGELFACE! AH WILL DON MAH FINERY, GET IN TH’ STUTZ, AN’ BE THERE MOMENTARILY.”
“Sure, uh-huh, gotcha.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGHT PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
…
“Okay, what chord are we on?”
“Bob, who the fuck was that?”
“Elvis.”
“Elvis Elvis? He died 40 years ago. What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Paul Simon, are you familiar with the concept of semi-fic–”
“Oh, just shut the fuck up.”
*Gonna be straight with you, Enthusiasts: I’m a little disappointed in myself that it took all day and four posts to come up with this title. It really couldn’t be more obvious.
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