Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: phil lesh (Page 24 of 105)

The Mendoza Gang

December 28, 2016 / / 1 Comment

“Look what the busboys got me for Christmas!”

Oh, no.

“I’m a muchacho.”

You’re not.

“Yes. I’m mucho macho. That makes me a muchacho. Simple math.”

You’re not doing math: you’re mangling Spanish.

“Useful hat, too. Like a Swiss Army Sombrero. Need something to dance around? I got ya. Wanna go shoplifting? Easy with this baby.”

Don’t shoplift, Phil.

“Don’t order me around. I’m not your busboy.”

Okay.

“I got three of ’em jammed up in here.”

Why?

“Same reason I got a spare tire in the trunk of the car: emergencies happen. I’d rather have three busboys in my giant sombrero and not need them then need three busboys in my giant sombrero and not have them.”

That is technically logical.

“And since I got it, Jill hasn’t lost me in a crowd.”

You’re not married yet in this picture.

“No, but I got the hat when I was married. Time frays, unravels, tangles, and reknots. Keep up.”

Good point.

Push That Button The Time Traveler Said Not To

December 24, 2016 / / 6 Comments

Give it to me.

“Fuck off.”

Goddammit, Phil: gimme the phone.

“Fuck off. What phone? Fuck off.”

I can see it in the giant pocket of your comfy sweatpants.

“That’s not a phone.”

…

“Playing cards.”

No.

“I’m learning magic. Ned Lagin is coming back and we’re gonna do a Penn and Teller routine in between sets.”

None of that is true. Give me the phone.

“Fuck off. I need it.”

Dammit, all of you need to stop routing your WiFi through the Time Sheath.

“I have to be in touch with the restaurant.”

That’s 20 years away from this picture.

“I don’t exist in 1989. I exist within a picture taken of 1989.”

This all makes my head hurt.

“The busboys must be managed. Last time I left them alone, they tried to form a union. The time before that, they tried to form Voltron.”

That didn’t happen.

“Agitationists!”

Not a word.

“They should be happy for their employment. I house them. I feed them. I clothe them. What more do they want?”

Pay them?

“Never! That’s not how this works.”

How does it work?

“Busboys are social creatures; they follow a hierarchy. You engage the alpha in combat. You best him. Then, the whole pack belongs to you.”

I think you’re talking about otters.

“Busboys and river otters are closely related species. You can’t have my phone.”

APPLE WATCH NOISE

…

At least tell Bobby to take the Apple Watch off?

“No. Fuck off.”

Two If By Band, OR The Duality Of Nature

December 23, 2016 / / 4 Comments

Bobby still has no idea who Ned Lagin is.

OR

Look again. That’s not a balloon.

OR

Phil and Mrs. Donna Jen have assumed what can only be described as boogie-posture.

You just gonna keep posting compulsively all night?

Yes. It’s like knitting. It calms me.

When did you become afraid of flying?

It’s not the flying. I have no fear of flying whatsoever. I like watching out the window during takeoffs and landings; to tell the truth, I still have a child’s fascination with airplanes.

So what is it?

It’s every single thing that surrounds the flying: showing up early, and having your shit together, and being locked in a tube with strangers, and cops everywhere. And then assuming Radical Islamic Terrorists–

Which Hillary Clinton will not say.

–don’t kill me, which they probably will, at the end of the flight I am 2,000 miles away from my bed, books, and desk. And toilet.

There’s a bed and toilet waiting for you.

Sure, full of strangers’ filth and rot.

Your entire family–some of whom are actively dying–will be together for the first time in several years. Your beloved Brother and Sister-in-Law on the Dead are looking forward to seeing you. If you act like an asshole, I will slap you like a wife. You will behave, goddammit, and you will not talk about politics and you will not grouse and gripe.

I’m not a good traveler.

You are like french fries. Still, though: you will not be an asshole.

Are you giving me The Talk?

Yes.

How old am I gonna be before I stop getting The Talk?

Up to you, isn’t it?

Yes.

Quick tip. What’s your favorite sentence the past few weeks?

Oh, that would have to be “We’re all gonna fucking die.”

Right. Let’s leave that one at home. Don’t pack it.

What if I need it?

You won’t need it.

…

Please don’t be an asshole.

Christmas is known for miracles.

Bundled Of Joy

December 23, 2016 / / 1 Comment

Where the hell are you, Pig?

“Not America! Can’t make hair nor hide o’ one word these people saying!”

Do they sound angry or hoity-toity?

“Hoity-toity!”

You’re in France.

“The Pig don’t like it! I’m a damn California boy. How can a man sing the blues when he’s turnin’ blue? It ain’t natural!”

I agree. How you feeling?

“Not so hot.”

Ha.

“Yeah, I made a li’l joke. Nah, I ain’t so great. S’okay, though. Touring Europe’s just what the doctor ordered.”

Really?

“Hell, no, peabrain! Fact, the doc said to me the exact opposite thing! Was specific ’bout it, too! ‘Pig, whatever you do: don’t let no one drag you ’round Europe on a bus, and then make you stand out in the cold all afternoon.’ Wrote it all down on his pad!”

Well, what do doctors know?

“That’s right. The Pig’s schedule ain’t made by no sawbones!”

Seriously, though: you look cold. Do you want some cocoa?

“Aw, you know they don’t make it right over here. Probably all fancy.”

I’ll find you some Nesquik.

“And if you could rustle up some of them itty-bitty marshmallows, then I wouldn’t mind.”

Sure.

But What Does Ned Lagin Think?

December 23, 2016 / / 9 Comments

“Keith, you want anything special for the show?”

…

…

…

“Pumpkin?”

“Gotcha.”

OR

Ned Lagin asked what key the next song was in, and then proceeded to play vaguely rhythmic and atonal squeaky bloops for the next 20 minutes.

OR

Bobby has no idea who the fuck the skinny guy with all the toys is, and at this point it’s too late to ask.

OR

S. Lighthill! When you absolutely, positively, 100% guaranteed need everything left lying in the middle of the stage, call S. Lighthill.

OR

Billy kept punching Ned Lagin in the dick and fucking around with his patch cords.

“One ringy-dingy. Look at me! I’m Billy Tomlin! Two ringy-dingy.”

OR

Game on: Spot The Heineken.

OR

Someone please feed Ned Lagin.

Desperate Times

December 19, 2016 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Phil. What’s with the kids?

“Human shield.”

…

Dammit, man.

“Things are getting weird out there. Man can never be too safe.”

Well, get a gun if you’re worried.

“Got guns. Gave ’em to the kids.”

Jesus.

“They’re for defense and offense. Between you and me, though: one of them has terrible aim.”

I think I know which one.

“The Dead couldn’t kill me; bad liver couldn’t kill me; cancer couldn’t kill me. This motherfucker ain’t killing me. I’m making it through these next four years.”

This is the correct attitude, but I just don’t think a living moat made of pre-teens is gonna do the trick.

“I haven’t been rounded up yet.”

True. Whose children are these, anyway?

“Mine. Legally, they’re mine.”

How?

“Deadhead parents, man.”

Yeah, but these kids look pretty well-taken care of.

“And you should see how their parents will be taken care of at Terrapin Crossroads from now on! 20% off all entrees! Except fish.”

Give the kids back.

“No. They surround me at all times. No one would dare attack me. If things get any scarier, I’m straight-up duct-taping babies to myself.”

Oh, don’t do that.

“It’s not my wish. It might happen.”

Is someone educating these children, at least?

“The busboys.”

Figured.

Mick, Thick, Hick

December 8, 2016 / / 1 Comment

mickey-phil-brent-12179

LOOK AT PHIL’S TUSHEE!

Stop it.

LOOK!

Knock it off.

Fat Phil had a phat ass.

This is unpleasant.

Well, for all but five years out of life, Phil has been rail-skinny and had no butt whatsoever.

True, but still.

If Phil’s body were a set list, then you would write it “legs>back.”

Right.

No butt.

We all got it.

But here he’s got a Heineken heinie.

And bearded Mickey.

Bearded Mickey is terrifying. Scariest of all Mickey’s iterations.

True.

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