Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: red metal stool

Second Verse, Chooglier Than The First

May 20, 2017 / / 3 Comments

Hey, Oteil. Whatcha doing?

“Singing! And playing bass. But the singing is the headline. Gonna take lead this summer.”

Good for you. What songs?

“It’s a surprise.”

Boo. You know all the words?

“Of course I do.”

Well, forget about a quarter of them. You’re a Grateful Dead, dammit. There are standards and precedents.

“Nope. Gonna kill it.”

You’re a positive man, Oteil.

“What’s there not to be positive about? Playing music I love for huge crowds, making lots of money, flying on private jets, my kid’s healthy, and I got a mohawk. I’m a happy man.”

You’re awesome.

“Right back atcha.”

Nice.

…

…

…

“I know you see me, asshole.”

Hello, Red Metal Stool.

“You’re a hater.

No I just hate you. Your actions and behavior and statements have caused me to hate you. Not a free-floating hater.

“Jealous.”

Of what?

“You want Bobby to sit on you.”

I truly do not.

“Plop right down.”

Is this gonna be all summer with you?

“Yeah, I’m thinking about evolving my character into a more antagonistic-type deal.”

Wonderful.

“Hey, tell Chris Robinson to suck my red metal dick.”

I am not in contact with any of the Black Crowes.

“He looks like hippie Slender Man.”

Granted, but I don’t speak with him.

“Tour, baby!”

Everything about this year is worse than everything about last year, and last year was the worst year.

“Really? ‘Everything?’ The ‘worst?’ You sound like him now. This year is worse than 1920?”

Yes.

“Five percent of the world’s population died from the flu.”

Fuck ’em. I am distracted by the news. This is worse.

“You’re a monster.”

You’re a stool.

“Touché.”

A Break In The Case

April 26, 2017 / / 3 Comments

“Help.”

Hello?

“Help me. Please.”

No, no, no. I am not talking to a road case.

“Not the case. It’s me, I’m in here.”

…

Red Metal Stool! My God, you’re all broken and mangled.

“Get me to a hospital.”

No. You’re not a person.

“A vet.”

Or an animal.

“Blacksmith.”

That’s who you want. What happened here?

“I assume it was terrorism.”

Maybe a stagehand dropped the case.

“No. Terrorism.”

Whatever. Why are you even in a road case?

“Bobby threw me off the bus.”

Why?

“Kept dropping deuces.”

I don’t blame him. Wait. You can poop?

“Yes, and I can feel. And I can cry.”

I hate what my life’s become.

Grateful Deads Prefer Blondes

February 7, 2017 / / 3 Comments

You look very nice.

“Thank you, I had a thorough polishing before the show.”

I’m not talking to you, Red Metal Stool.

“The lady?”

Yeah.

“Y’know, she sat on me before.”

Stop this.

“Nice.”

Knock it off.

“I couldn’t breathe, but I liked it.”

Ew. You looking forward to Summer Tour?

“Gotta be better than the Mexican debacle.”

Yeah, bad luck. You weren’t, um, in the splash zone?

“I was fine. Can’t say the same for my cousin.”

Your cousin?

“White Porcelain Toilet.”

We’re done.

“He’s in therapy.”

I said we’re done.

Bobby, You Knew I Was A Lawyer When You Put Me On

December 29, 2016 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“OH, I DON’T FUCKING EXIST NOW?”

…

Goddammit, Red Metal Stool. Why do you have to act this way?

“He’s NOTHING without me! I’M THE STAR, not him! Oates. He’s fucking Oates, and you treat him like Hall.”

Red Metal Stool, I think you’re getting delusions of necessity.

“I’m irreplaceable.”

You are one of the most replaceable things I’ve ever met. Any two-to-three-foot-tall sturdy object with a flat surface could do your job. Shit, an amplifier could just do double duty.

“This is the elitist attitude that got Trump elected.”

It’s not.

“You look down on the working man.”

You’re not a man. You’re a stool. Two stools, actually.

…

“That’s it. I’m getting my lawyer.”

You have a lawyer?

“Counselor, do I have a case?”

“Yesss. Thisss man hasss ssslandered you.”

Snake Tee-Shirt?

“Sssnake Tee-Shirt, Esssquire.”

When did you go to law school?

“Corresssssspondence classssss.”

Makes sense.

An Unlikely Subject

July 31, 2016 / / 2 Comments

bobby tech sound check

“Look at him. Ignoring me.”

Red Metal Stool?

“Standing like that. ‘Hi, I’m Bobby and I don’t need any help standing.’ After all I’ve done for him.”

Don’t do this.

“Could not have made it through Santa Clara without me. Could not. Statement of fact.”

You should be happy for him.

“Fuck him!”

Jesus, Red Metal Stool.

“Maybe, who knows, just maybe, things can happen, and I don’t know: what if someone hit Bobby in the knee with a pipe like that ice skater?”

Don’t even say that! Not funny! Not cool!

…

“He used to need me.”

Aw, buddy.

“I barely even smell like quinoa farts any more.”

Ew, buddy.

“Someone changed a baby on me yesterday.”

Oh, no. That is not great.

“Ugly baby, too.”

That’s worse.

“They’re gonna throw me in the warehouse when tour’s over, man. They’re gonna throw me away.”

No, no, no. You’ll go–

“If you say anything about going to a farm with other stools, I’ll fucking murder you.”

–to a farm…yeah, okay: the future looks bleak.

“I’m married, y’know.”

I didn’t know that.

“Two step-stools.”

We’re done.

The Most Exciting Stage Show In Rock And Roll

June 9, 2016 / / 2 Comments

IMG_4520

“If I gotta watch this motherfucker play Candy Crush one more time…”

OR

“Josh showed this to me. It’s called Snapchat. I have no idea what the hell it is, but I have 30,000 followers.”

OR

“Selfie?”

“I don’t wanna selfie, Bob.”

“Selfie?”

“No, Bob.”

CLICK

…

“Selfie.”

“Jesus, Bob.”

OR

“Hey, fucker.”

Excuse me?

“Dickfooted asseater.”

Me?

“Only two of us here, and you’re the asshole, so you must be the asshole, asshole.”

…

Red Metal Stool?

“THOUGHT I WAS DEAD, DID YA?”

Oh, settle down.

“I’m in the system, jackass. I got tenure. They get rid of Chimenti before they get rid of me.”

Shush.

“They can’t fire me. I know things. Thiiiiings.”

Yeah, yeah. Congratulations on making it to the tour.

“I’M THE HEADLINER, FATHERSUCKER.”

Ew. You’re awful.

“You dropped me, man! Where have I been?”

You never really caught on. Someone in the Comment Section called you Scrappy-Doo.

“Which one? I want a name.”

Absolutely not.

“Was it one of the Canadians?

I’m not saying.

“Let me back in.”

What? Where?

“Your little fan-fiction.”

IT IS NOT–

…

–fan fiction.

“Sure, right. Lemme back in. I could be a recurring character.”

Dude, you’re a red metal stool and your name is Red Metal Stool. There’s not much to work with.

“You could flesh me out.”

You have no flesh. There’s just not much to you.

“Precarious Lee started as a pun!”

I started in my father’s balls. From lowly origins, etc.

“What about the Wall of Sound? That’s a pile of speakers, for fuck’s sake, and it’s on t-shirts!”

LEAVE ME OUT OF YOUR WHINING.

…

“Can he hear us?”

He can hear everything. Stop bothering me, or I’ll take away your name. You’ll just be the red metal stool.

“You wouldn’t do that.”

And delete all the posts with you in it.

“What? Jesus, man.”

I’ll wish you away to the cornfield.

“You’re fucked. Y’know that, man? You’re fucked.”

…

Ah, I’m sorry. I’m cranky.

“Well, still: that was a terrible thing to say.”

Yeah, but you’re a stool that doesn’t exist and I’m just working some shit out here, y’know?

“I can understand that.”

You can?

“No. Fuck you.”

Better answer.

The Stacks

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