It’s not that Robert Altman.
OR
Phil?
“What?”
Why you standing back there?
“Chili farts.”
Okay.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: phil lesh (Page 16 of 105)
“Wook, Gampa! I got a chainsaw!”
“No, Baby Lambert! Don’t start that!”
BrumbrumBRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEE
“I killed a man, Gampa!”
“It’s fine, Baby Lambert. It was only John Popper.”
“So much of him! Gonna play in the entrails!”
“No, Baby Lambert! Don’t play–”
SQUISHSQUISHSQUISH
“–in the entrails.”
“I okay, Gampa. Gonna cast a white guy as Jafar in Aladdin!”
“No, Baby Lambert! No whitewashing!”
“Can’t stop me!”
…
“Wait. Hey, dickface.”
“Me, Dad?”
“Shut up, Grahame. Hey! You!”
Me?
“Why is Gary ‘Legs’ Lambert my grandson now?”
Why not?
“You’ll die obscure. And soon.”
“Yeah! Tell him, Dad!”
“GO WAIT IN THE CAR, BOY!”
“Aw.”
“Gampa, I got new bawoon.”
“Where did you get that, Baby Levon?”
“Nice clown over there.”
“The one with the sign that says ‘Hydrogen Balloons?'”
“And the clown gave me a lighter.”
“NO, BABY LEVON!”
FWOMP!
“Oh, the humanity!”
“I okay, Gampa.”
“Come here, Baby Levon!”
“No, you can’t make me. Look what I got!”
“Is that the debt ceiling?”
“All mine!”
“Raise it, Baby Levon! If you don’t–”
GOVERNMENT SHUTTING DOWN NOISE
“–you’ll shut down the…dammit.”
“I okay, Gampa!”
…
“Hey. Asshole.”
You really shouldn’t call your–
“YOU. You are the asshole. Stop placing my beloved grandson in danger for your sick amusement.”
He’s not actually–
“CUT THE SHIT, FUCKHEAD.”
You’re so mean.
“Gampa, look! I gotta bawooon.”
“Where did you get that balloon, Baby Levon?”
“Nice man in Wed Sox hat.”
“PUT THAT DOWN!”
“No, you can’t make me. Gonna run over here.”
“No, Baby Levon! Stay away from the–”
Wuh-PASH!
“–bullwhip lessons!”
“I okay, Gampa!”
“We should stop scheduling those during the show.”
“I go pet doggy now.”
“No! That’s–”
UNHOLY LAUGHING NOISE
“–a hyena! Who the fuck brought a hyena?”
“I think it’s a service hyena, Dad.”
“Grahame, if I want any crap out of you, I’ll squeeze your head.”
“Aw.”
“Gampa, look! The silver moves!”
“Is that a box full of old broken thermometers? Why would you even own that, let along leave it around children?”
“That’s mine, Dad. It’s a collector’s item.”
“Grahame, I swear to God.”
“Gampa, I got fwamethrower!”
FWOOOOOOOSH
“I okay!”
…
“HEY! Jackass!”
…
“You! The one who ‘writes’ all this bullshit. Hey!”
Me?
“Yes, you. Could you stop treating my grandson like a Loony Toon?”
I could.
“Try your hardest, fucknuts.”
I’ll try.
“You told him, Dad.”
“Grahame, get off the stage. Give me your guitar and your beard and get off the stage.”
“But, Dad–”
“NOW, Mister!”
“Aw.”
Esteemed Commentator Tor Haxson brings to the table an important question, and because I am currently avoiding writing several vital e-mails, I shall attempt to answer this most ponderous of mysteries.
Which Grateful Dead would you want as a parent?
See, I told you it was an important question.
We must start out by noting that none of the Grateful Dead’s children have rampaged through a Burger King, nor been indicted on racketeering charges. Not a one of them has ever been arrested for pissing on a stewardess while yelling “DO YOU KNOW WHO MY FATHER IS!?” They’re all presentable. Any honest reading of the situation must led to the conclusion that the Dead were, at least, decent parents.
But who would be preferred? All members of the band have their pros and cons. To have Phil as a parent means that you would be tall, and have a beard. If that’s how you’d prefer to look, then you should choose Phil. If, on the other hand, you would rather be a hot chick, then Bobby is your best bet. If you’d like a wholesome, hard-working, American name such as Stacy or Justin, then you need to go with Billy; for a hippy-dippy, godless, communist name like Taro or Raya, then Mickey is your man.
Mickey is also an excellent choice because he’s so easy to buy presents for.
“You got me a drum! How did you know what I wanted?”
“Just guessed, Pop.”
Are you going anywhere with this?
Honestly? No.
So why did you write this?
If I stop writing, I’ll die.
Even it’s complete shit?
History will decide its worth.
Go put your head in the stove.
It’s electric.
Put a gun in your mouth in your head in the stove.
Suicide by syntactical recursion. I like it.
Do it.
“So, y’see, the guy is holding the girl’s hand–they’re going steady, I suppose–and, uh, the guy’s looking back over his shoulder.”
“At another girl!”
“Right? I mean: the audacity.”
“Ballsy dude.”
“And people, they change stuff around. Like, uh, the guy’s holding hands with capitalism, but turning back to look at socialism.”
“The Scandinavians have so much to teach us.”
“It’s a meme.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of those. Is this it?”
“No, there’s more than one.”
“Wow. Can I see them on my phone, or is just on yours?”
“They’re everywhere.”
“The future.”
“Sure looks like it.”
OR
They’re reading Thoughts on the Dead.
“Dad, I don’t wanna wear matching outfits.”
“Grahame, goddammit, it’s Father-Son Sunday.”
“I know, Dad. I love Father-Son Sunday.”
“Remember when we went fishing?”
“We’ve never been fishing, Dad.”
“You’re just jealous of my guns.”
“I’m not.”
“Feel ’em, boy.”
“I’m not going to–”
“FEEL DADDY’S GUNS, BOY!”
…
“Very impressive.”
“That’s the power of P90X. Your mother and I are nuts for it.”
“You keep telling me.”
“Grahame, lemme ask you something.”
“Here it comes.”
“When you giving me another grandbaby?”
“I don’t want to have this conversation again.”
“Your brother had Baby Levon. What do you have? A beard.”
“You said you liked my beard.”
“Oh, sure. Maybe I’ll take pictures of it and put them up on the fridge.”
“Dad, please.”
“I don’t care if you’re married or not. Make me a goddamned baby.”
“I’m not really seeing anyone right now.”
“Are you into fellows? You know you can tell me.”
“I’m straight, Dad.”
“I’ll buy you and your boyfriend a baby. Shit, I’ll pony up the extra for a white kid. I don’t care at this point. I want another grandchild.”
“Um, guys? Phil? Grahame? You’re, uh, live on the air.”
“Oh, shit, Gary. Didn’t see you there. We’re on the air?”
“Yeah, Phil.”
“What channel?”
“JamOn.”
“No one’s listening.”
Hey, Phil. Rando?
“Obviously.”
He looks friendly.
“He actually smells friendly, too.”
What does friendly smell like?
“Stew simmering on a pot, maybe a little essence of vanilla.”
If you say so. Hey, you see Fogerty?
“I’ve been successfully avoiding John Fogerty since 1970. Got it down to a science by now. No one avoids John Fogerty like me.”
Not a fan?
“You ever hear him get interviewed?”
Yeah.
“Well, that’s when he’s on his best behavior. Just the most miserable son of a bitch you’ll ever meet. Only thing worse than him was that band of his.”
Creedence was bad?
“Imagine the Three Stooges, but malevolent. I think the bass player was only partly human. Looked like something that escaped from Dulce Base. Used to rub up on foreign cars. Unpleasant in every way.”
Run Through The Jungle’s still a pretty kick-ass tune.
“Whatever.”
You should dye your hair like his.
“Pass. I think he uses house paint.”
I’d think about it. You go chestnut, it could take five years off.
“So I’d only look 72? Fuck off.”
I love our give-and-take.
“No, seriously: fuck off.”
Okay.
This is the worst OKCupid picture I’ve ever seen.
“Shut it, jackass.”
I think the guy to your left is wearing a disguise.
“No, that’s just what he looks like.”
Why does Grahame have to stand all the way over there?
“He knows why.”
Kids.
“Gonna replace him with Baby Levon the second I can.”
Sure. Phil?
“What?’
Are you sure about this?
“The customers love it.”
Yeah, but last year you went insane.
“And now I’m back. Besides, I solved the problem.”
Which was that numerous people were pooping on the bocce courts.
“Won’t happen again.”
You sound sure.
“Mines.”
Oh, fuck.
“They’re not lethal unless you’re reeeeally small.”
Like a child?
“Children don’t play bocce.”
No, but they play in sandboxes.
…
“My plan may have a flaw.”
Little bit.
“I need to get off this fucking hill. Grahame, carry your father down the hill.”
“Aw, Daaaaad.”
“CARRY YOUR FATHER DOWN THE HILL, BOY!”
“Fine!”
What is this?
“I’ve taken up golf.”
Oh, God, no. Not golf. Anything but golf.
“I’m, uh, all in. Found some bliss out on the links. That’s what we golfers call the course.”
Thank you for defining that completely foreign term.
“Lotta fun. It’s actually a very Grateful Dead activity.”
How so?
“Lasts forever, you get fucked up while you do it, and the equipment is stupid expensive.”
Yeah, okay.
“Had to order a custom pair of spandals.”
Spandals?
“Spiked sandals.”
Ah.
“You know that there’s a cart that drives around with liquor on it? They bring it right to you. America, huh?”
Bobby, please don’t become a golf guy. Do any other rich white person thing. Take flying lessons. Learn to paint. How about tennis?
“No tennis. I find the scoring system impenetrable and counter-intuitive.”
And golf’s better?
“Oh, yeah. Much easier.”
Really? What’s a birdie?
“A feathered fishie.”
What’s a scratch golfer?
“The one that doesn’t show up. You scratch him off your program.”
That’s horse-racing.
“Horse-racing and golf are strangely similar.”
What’s your handicap?
“Dyslexia.”
Walked into that one.
“A little bit.”
Very upsetting. Hey, Phil.
“Fuck off.”
Gotcha.
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