Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: shawn mendes

Neckin’

December 3, 2018 / / 6 Comments

Kiss him, you fool.

“I’ve told you to stop. Shawn and I are friends.”

Friends who insert.

“I’m begging you, man.”

Teach him of sexuality’s limits, John Mayer.

“What does that even mean?”

Pee on him.

“Dude.”

Let him drink from Chuck Berry’s thermos.

“Ew.”

C’mon, man: stick your elbow in his butt.

“That’s not even a thing. Leave me alone. I’m at a fancy party with my famous buddies and I don’t want to talk to you.”

That’s fine. Talk to him.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Goddammit.”

…

“You’re on with John.”

“Meyers? Nephew on the Dead here, and I’ve got Giraffe on the Dead with me.”

“Hi.”

“What are you up to for Hanukkah? The Guy made latkes; you wanna come over?”

“I’m good, pal.”

“They’re delicious. You dip ’em in applesauce. You know what else is good dipped in applesauce?”

“What?”

“Everything. Applesauce is the tits, man.”

“Uh-huh. Listen, I gotta–”

“Hold for Giraffe on the Dead.”

“–go…what?”

“Meyers? Giraffe on the Dead here. Can you swing by and bring a ton or so of leaves? I’m starved.”

“I’m hanging up.”

Just Another Mendes Monday

November 27, 2018 / / 5 Comments

Your ward gave a very moving interview to Rolling Stone.

“He’s in a weird place. He’s a young kid.”

He is a boy with issues. He feels life so deeply.

“He’s literally 20.”

…

Wow. Dude, you should protect him from show business.

“Right?”

I’m impressed he hasn’t taken a shit in a Koo-Koo-Roo yet. If I was famous when I was 20, I would have been dead when I was 20 and a little bit older than at the beginning of the sentence.

“He’s got a head on his shoulders.”

Honestly, John. Watch over the boy. He seems sweet. Keep the monsters away from him.

“Well, I’ll try but there’s only so much you can do for another human–”

You keep that candy for yourself, bro.

“–being if they’re on a path of…you’re not listening.”

Every moment you’re not pulverizing his pucker is a moment gone. Like tears in the rain.

“Don’t bring Rutger Hauer into this.”

Look at that! Look at that, John Mayer! It is yumptious and sense-pleasing! Grab yourself some before the juice turns to wine, now, when he’s ripe! Squeeze him, Mayer! Demand the boy’s juices!

“You’ve become intolerably strange lately.”

Listen, man, someone in Hollywood is gonna snipe that tight yaya. Might as well be you. Plus you could get a piece of the publishing.

“I could get a piece of the publishing.”

Ass and publishing. Two things it’s always nice to get a piece of. Now hold onto the boy with your powerful thighs and ride him like a pudgy Marine recruit. Haze the boy, John Mayer. Haze him with your gonads.

“I know better than look forward to the phone call, but this is just not the way I wanna live.”

Buy the lad chickens, and have your ethnics prepare them.

“I employ no ‘ethnics.'”

Woo him, damn you! Woo! Write him a song.

“I might write a song with him, but I dunno about–”

A love song about his sourpuss. You know the face when you eat a lemon? That’s his button. I call it a sourpuss.

“Jesus.”

BUT IT’S SO SWEET.

“Are you okay?”

Honestly? Eh. Could go either way.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“You’re on with John.”

“How you pronounce this thing again?”

“Hey, Nephew on the Dead. It’s an umbrella.”

“YEBBA!”

“Close.”

“BENNA!

“Closer.”

“Lou Pinella.”

“Less close. Excuse me? Uncle on the Dead?”

Mm?

“I told you I don’t wanna talk to the baby.”

You respect that baby or I’ll turn you inside-out.

Their Struggles

November 20, 2018 / / 3 Comments

God, you look old when you stand next to him.

“Leave me alone.”

You on a date?

“No, I’m at an award show. Shawn and I are just friends.”

Friends with benefits?

“No.”

Friends that like to tickle each others’ ballsacks?

“No.”

Coochie coochie coochie.

“Is that the ticking noise?”

Yes.

“We don’t do that.”

I notice that even though Shawn’s taller than you, your hand is on his shoulder and his is on your back. Is that a dominance move?

“It is not.”

Is he your pup? Do you two engage in silicone-based genital plumping? Do you make him sleep on the floor and call you Master Noodles-And-Beef?

“You truly, truly need to get off the internet.”

Why is he glowing and you’re so greasy? It can’t be the lighting, because you’re in the same light.

“Can we be done?”

Wanna get into that shit?

“No, I just hate you.”

We’re not done.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Hate you so much.”

…

“You’re on with John.”

“Hållo. Describe everysing you did today. Leåve nossing out.”

“Who in God’s name is this and what the hell kind of accent is that?”

“I am Karl Ove Knausgård, and I have decided to write about you, John Mayer. This morning, I awoke at 0612. The baby was fussing in her room, not crying or even babbling, but making low murmurations. What could they mean? Are they infantile poetry, and by this I ascribe intentionality to her sounds, of meter and rhyme as though these could exist in the pre-verbal world of this infant, this child I have created. I am barefoot and quiet as I enter the kitchen which my wife, a failure of a cow, has left in disarray from the previous evening. The balcony is there and so is my packet of Pikk cigarettes. There are 14 left within the soft paper-and-plastic wrapping with the outsized warnings printed upon. I regard the warnings as I do my daughters burbling. Perhaps they mean something, and perhaps they do not. I piss off the balcony and steam rises from the wet parabola, as it is May and therefore the temperature is below 10 degrees. Inside the house–”

“Excuse me.”

“–my coffee is making itself. I have pressed the button to begin the process, but otherwise am uninvolved. The beans have come from Ethiopia, a country I have never been to, but–”

“HEY!”

“–mean to visit one day. Excuse me?”

“I have literally no idea who you are.”

“My presence here is a sop to the more literary of the readers.”

“Uh-huh. I’m gonna pass on the whole thing. Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Brad Pitt?”

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with my success. I am one in a long line of Norwegian diarists to find worldwide fame.”

“Gotcha.”

From Boys To Mendes

May 29, 2018 / / 3 Comments

Hey. Humbert Humbert.

“I don’t get the reference.”

Don’t worry about it.

“Have you ever longed?”

I don’t want to have this conversation with you.

“Yearned?”

Or that one.

“Wanted to kidnap your two-decades-younger doppelganger and use sex magick to steal his dewiness?’

You don’t know any sex magick.

“I can make my penis disappear.”

Not a trick.

“Is this your card?”

SIX OF CLUBS DISPLAYING NOISE

No.

“What about this?”

AMERICAN EXPRESS TITANIUM CARD DISPLAYING NOISE

That’s not how card tricks work.

“I know. I just wanted to show you how rich I was.”

Josh–

“Don’t call me that.”

–if you wanna fuck the kid, fuck the kid. Honestly, a little bisexuality would do wonders for your career.

“Oh, no. I’d shoot straight to pansexuality.”

What’s the difference?

“None that I can tell, but pansexual sounds so much fancier.”

Leave Shawn Mendes alone. He has innocuous music to make.

“He just makes me feel so young. Mostly when I’m feeling him.”

Is this relationship consensual?

“Depends on how you define ‘consensual.’ If you mean ‘with sensuality,’ then it totally is.”

I meant: Are you sexually harassing Shawn Mendes?

“No. Yes. A little. Lemme put it this way: if we were on a sitcom together, I would have been fired weeks ago.”

Stop it.

“It’ll be fine.”

Do we need to have our little pre-Dead & Company tour talk again?

“No.”

If you get the Dead sucked into this #METOO thing, I will hunt you the fuck down, Meyers. We cannot have journalists digging into the Dead’s sexual histories.

“Dude, it’s cool. Everything’s cool.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

Who is that? I did not make that happen.

“I get calls from people who aren’t homicidal dictators, y’know.”

Okay. Who is it?

“Ronan Farrow.”

Goddamn you, Josh Meyers.

Mayer And Son

May 23, 2018 / / 3 Comments

You’re just gonna take that?

“Take what?”

The kid’s dominating you.

“He’s not.”

He’s looming over you like Batman standing over a piss trough.

“Weird analogy.”

You’re the piss trough.

“I got it, but it’s still unpleasant.”

Why are you seated?

“Want to.”

Uh-huh. Trick knee acting up?

“I don’t have a trick knee.”

It gets all achy when it rains. It’s okay, Josh.

“Don’t call me that.”

Sir?

“DON’T CALL ME…I see what you’re doing, and it’s not right. I’m not old.”

41 in a few months. How’s your bird?

“My what?”

Your tool. Your schvantz. Your pecker.

“It’s fine. He’s great.”

Can you still hang a towel off your boner?

“I haven’t tried in a while.”

DON’T YOU LIE TO ME, FUCKER.

“It stays on if I keep my butt clenched up.”

Yeah, see, that’s the first sign. Bird loses its feathers.

“Dude, don’t worry about me. I’m still young, I’m still hot, I’m still banging pop stars.”

Who now?

“Camilla Cabello. Very sexy.”

How old is she?

“She’s very mature.”

Uh-huh. Lemme ask you something.

“Shoot.”

Does she remember Aretha Franklin?

“I’m sure she’s aware of Aretha.”

Can you dance together?

“I see what you’re doing.”

Can you talk at all?

“Stop it.”

Dude, you’re literally a Steely Dan song. I don’t know any surer sign that a white man is getting older than becoming a Steely Dan lyric. Maybe becoming a Paul Simon lyric.

“None of what you’re saying is true. I’m content with my age, and I am as young as ever. I appeal to the youth market.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“What!? What did I say?”

Nothing. I just wanna wrap this up.

“Asshole.”

…

“The very young John Mayer.”

“One month, Hot Dog Dick!”

“Goddammit.”

“Whole world come to Only Korea. Watch Kim Jong-Un dunk balls in Kim Jong Don’s ass-mouth.”

“I don’t think the meeting’s gonna happen. Wait. ‘Kim Jong-Don?'”

“Is new rule. Everyone named Kim Jong now. You should be Kim Jong-Little Potato, but I let you slide because we bros.”

“Thank you.”

“Call you Hot Dog Dick”

“Y’know, maybe I’ll start making up nicknames for you.”

“Huh. Okay. And maybe someone throw radioactive acid in your face next time you in airport.”

“Kim Jong-Un it is.”

“You like hat?”

“Eh.”

“Is no fedora. Is trilby.”

“I know.”

“People get wrong. Look sexy with hat. Chicks dig. You come to summit in June. We do like you and Chapelle.”

“What?”

“During meeting. You bring guitar. Jam while talk. Respond to conversation with musical emphases.”

“No.”

“Father invent Dave Chapelle.”

“He didn’t. I have to go.”

“Hot Dog Dick, why you no tell me you have twink?”

“He’s not my twink. He’s my friend.”

“You should fuck. Kim Jong Un not gay, but Kim Jong Un would destroy.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“He no walk right after me.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

“I officially want out of this website.”

Fuck, no. Summer tour’s coming up. If anything, your part will be expanding.”

“Goddammit.”

John, Gayer

May 21, 2018 / / 1 Comment

What are you doing?

“I now have a ward.”

Oh, come on. Don’t Robin anyone.

“Too late. Threw his parents off a trapeze and now he’s mine. That’s how it works.”

It isn’t. Who is this?

“Shawn Mendes. You should check out some of his music.”

I won’t. Is he, like, your Mini-Me?

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He looks like you, but younger.

“I’m still young.”

For a tree. Or a tortoise. Or a Highlander. You’re practically a baby by Highlander standards. But for a person? Nah. Solidly middle-aged.

“Dude, ripped jeans.”

So?

“That means young! Look at the vitality pouring through the holes! ‘Hey, look at that guy with the ripped jeans. I bet he doesn’t follow rules.’ That’s me.”

Did they tear on their own?

“Shit, no. I have a guy.”

You have a guy just to distress your trousers?

“You don’t?”

Josh, you can tell me: are you having an Age of Twinks?

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Really?

“Absolutely.”

“I can explain.”

Go ahead.

“It’s not gay if the guy is pretty like a girl.”

That’s not how it works.

“It’s not gay if you’re a better bowler than he is.”

That makes no sense.

“It’s not gay if they’re British.”

…

Okay, that’s true.

“Dude, you don’t understand what it’s like to be me. Can I confess something to you?”

Sure.

“I’m tired of the puss.”

You’re tired of the puss?

“The puss is passe.”

Passe puss?

“2018 is all about the sack.”

Not the dong?

“Maybe if you’re in Tulsa. In LA and New York? Those are Sack Cities, brother.”

What the hell can you do with a sack?

“What can’t you do? I like to press sack against the funny pages and read Beetle Bailey off my nuts.”

You’re talking about Silly Putty.

“Da. Talk is silly.”

“Ah, shit.”

“Putin hears you have changed lifestyles.”

“I’m exploring my options and sexuality in this new and free world.”

“Da. Come dance for Putin.”

“What? No.”

“Shake it, Little Potato. Shake for Daddy.”

“Do not call yourself that.”

“You vill be oligarch of my dong.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Putin vill buy his tvink many shiny objects. Tvinks love shiny.”

“I don’t want any…what did you call me?”

“Tvink. You are very young compared to Putin.”

…

“Hey, there.”

Dude! You are so fucking needy.

“He called me young!”

Compared to. He said you were young compared to. Literally the same thing I said.

“You didn’t offer to buy me anything.”

Do what you want.

The Stacks

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