Hey, Bobby.
“Howdy, friend.”
Your hair is shiny.
“Well, first off: thanks for noticing.”
Of course, man. You can spot its lustre and sheen from the back of the hall.
“Yes! Yes. Yes. Y’see, these fuckers–those two homunculi back there especially–never appreciate the effort I put into my hair. For example: I’m a righty, but I switch-part just to mix it up.”
Okay.
“And I keep a chart. Like, if Tulsa got tussled and sassy last time, then for this show, they get swept-back and sultry.”
…
Why is there a motorcycle onstage?
“Is that not standard practice for a concert?”
Why is there a dog bowl on stage?
I didn’t want to mention it. I was gonna pretend it wasn’t happening. Thanks, Richard.
Maybe it’s a piss pot.
That dog bowl is quadrophonic. And it cost 15 grand.