A Deadhead is a child of the sky and America, and a tiger burning bright, and a cousin of the least threatening Aztec god. And the Mother of Shadows. Every Deadhead is, in times of great personal peril, able to assume the mantle of Mother of Shadows.
A Deadhead is capable of both eating and being eaten; this is the duality of lunch.
A Deadhead is never going to that place by the airport for a squeegeejob again, not after what happened last time.
A Deadhead is never grody or schmuck-like; he eschews blumpkins, dirty Sanchezes, and other novelty sex acts; she takes care as to not strangle ducks. A Deadhead does not scoot across your carpet while holding his ass cheeks akimbo. A Deadhead will never rename your drapes.
A Deadhead is always processing food into energy. Don’t even try to stop the process, man. It’s involuntary, that process.
A Deadhead is flanked on all sides, every vantage thick with enemies and impurity and disease and the end. The end surrounds Deadheads; do you understand this? There is harm about, and it is faster than we are, and it is devious and patient and its mind does not wander like our’s does. We have no moat at all. Just shoulders waiting for the taptaptap. Harm will cut in, but the Deadhead continues dancing.
A Deadhead is not a zebra. The species is incapable of having a favorite band, as evidenced by the total lack of Van Halen posters in teenage zebras’ bedrooms. Also, zebra are dumb and mean, and you think they’re gonna look like striped horses, but they don’t; they’re scrawny and misproportioned and clearly a first draft. Fuck zebras.
A Deadhead is ancillary.
A Deadhead is a bubbly muffin, a whoopdee-doo, the stuffing in life’s couch, mellifluous to the deaf, horribly barbarian, and never going back to the place by the airport again.
beautiful