
I’d like to think this was based on my short story “An American Weirwolf in London,” but it’s most likely just the result of its owner being plumb crazy.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

I’d like to think this was based on my short story “An American Weirwolf in London,” but it’s most likely just the result of its owner being plumb crazy.

Too much freedom in this country.
Also: the “I” looks like a “J” so you can read it as not a statement, but an admonition to J. J. Abrams.
Also also: you cant spell dont like that.
Also also also: men shouldn’t get tramp stamps. Women shouldn’t either, but men shouldn’t more.

This kid right here? This is a good kid. Not only is he rocking the aviators, which is a baller move for a ten-year-old, but he’s doing the “looking at art” face, and if ever a painting deserved that face it was this one. Is Bobby creating DNA?
Also: who buys paintings at a Dead show? You have to carry it around all day, and that is a fate worse than hell. I don’t usually compare myself to Holocaust survivors, but if I had to lug artwork around a Dead show, then I would absolutely compare myself to a Holocaust survivor. And rightly so.

I keep meaning to make a trip to the Museum of Terrible Dead Art (MomTDA), but it won’t be with this. Nothing terrible about this.
We re-open the Museum of Terrible Dead Art (MoMTDA–pronounced “Mom, ta-daa!”) to take a walk through one of my favorite permanent exhibits, Oh, That’s Actually Good,.
(There was some discussion as to whether this painting might not more properly belong in The Set Break of Doctor Moreau, the collection of art depicting the Dead crossed with animals, but as: A, Garcia is not actually a giant chameleon here; and B) that exhibit draws nothing but perverts jacking their johnsons to the otherkin bullshit and it’s a creepy bad place.)
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