Black guy pretending to be an Indian playing an “Arabic” song written by a Greek. God bless America.
Black guy pretending to be an Indian playing an “Arabic” song written by a Greek. God bless America.
“Jesus, Weir, you get a couple compliments on your arms and now you’re Jack LaLanne.”
“Sound mind in a sound body. Romans said that. I mean, they said it in Latin, but you get the gist.”
“Only exercise I like is pulling my pud.”
“Don’t pull your pud, Billy.”
“I will. Right here. Three sets of ten.”
“Leave your pud out of it.”
“Nope. Me and him are partners.”
“Just concentrate on the exercise. Hold the shaft upright.”
“Heh-heh.”
“Grasp it firmly.”
“You’re killing me, Weir.”
“Now: big strokes. Strooooooke. Strooooooooke.”
“I played this game when I was a teenager, but there was a cookie involved.”
“No cookie. But after we work out, we get protein shakes. You gotta force as much protein down your throat as you can.”
“Are you even listening to yourself?”
“C’mon, buddy. Hop to it. One more set of this and we do Romanian squats.”
“I had a Romanian squat on me once. That can go wrong real quick.”
Hey, Bobby.
“I, uh, thought you were mooing.”
Moving.
“Ah. Yeah, that makes much more sense.”
It does.
“You’re not a cow.”
No. Bobby?
“Yuh-huh?”
Explain yourself.
“Well, you know Monet.”
Not personally, but I follow her on Instagram.
“She went out to the lot and, well, she made her old man proud.”
She yoinked that shirt for you?
“She did. It’s a parody of a popular heavy mental band. And, uh, the style is what’s know as a tanked top.”
Right.
“And I don’t know if you’ve noticed–”
Literally every single Deadhead on the planet has noticed, Bobby.
“–I’ve been hitting the gym lately.”
Dude, you got a bicep vein like Arnold.
“Rothstein?”
Schwarzenegger.
“That also makes more sense.”
Fine, goddammit. I’ll watch Deadwood: The Movie again and do the real-time bit. It’s either that or sit here with my fucking thoughts, and we both know that’s unacceptable.
See you in an hour and fifty-two minutes.
Posts will be light or non-existent for the next several days. I rise with the sun tomorrow to begin the move (assuming the sun gets up at around 8-ish). The recap of Deadwood: The Movie will not appear immediately, but I will make it up to you by finally finishing up the recap of the third season along with TotD:TM.
Anyone wishing to welcome me into my new home with a housewarming gift is directed to the Donate Button. Anyone wishing me to go fuck myself can do so, also via the Donate Button. Those who are indifferent to me may also give me money.
TotD: Okay, this is somewhere in the late ’80’s. What do we think, girls?
Monet: This was before we were born. I feel like I would have put a stop to it. Tried to, at least.
Chloe: Are those Bobby Shorts?
Monet: I don’t think so. I think Bobby Shorts are strictly jean shorts.
Chloe: So what are those?
Monet: They’re just shorts.
Bobby: Now, uh, what you gals aren’t realizing is the amount of storage space those babies had. I could carry a dozen peoples’ stashes in ’em. A solid short. Obviated the need for a fanny pack.
TotD: Obviated?
Bobby: Yuh-huh.
TotD: Chloe, these are Bobby Shorts:
Chloe: Dad.
Monet: Dad.
Chloe: Dad.
Monet: Dad.
Chloe: Mom!
Monet: Moooooooom!
…
Natascha Monster: Oh, my God. Snake Tee-Shirt! He’s still around here someplace, isn’t he?
Bobby: I think he’s in the room where you wrap presents.
Natascha Monster: We don’t have one of those, hon. You’re thinking about the Spelling Mansion.
Bobby: You got a room just for wrapping presents, you live in some swanky digs. We live in a nice neighborhood, but that’s real high-end.
Monet: Dad, concentrate. This was before you married Mom, and way before we were born. So, like, we didn’t know this guy. Tell us about this guy. And help us understand his choices.
Bobby: So, uh, as you can tell from Uncle Mickey’s wife-beater, it’s pretty hot.
Chloe: Don’t say “wife-beater.” It’s a problematic term.
Bobby: Okee-doke. As you can tell from Uncle Mickey’s spouse-beater, it’s pretty hot. And I just wilt in the heat, man. Much prefer a temperate clime. And, uh, don’t gimme any of that “dry heat” horseshit. Humid heat is worse than dry heat, but any kind of hot is awful. That’s where the shorts came from. Plus, you know: someone had to be the eye candy.
Monet: Daaaaaad.
Chloe: Ew. Did girls in the crowd ever, like, throw their underwear at you?
Bobby: Not that I recall. And that seems like something I would recall. And, uh, a lot of the women who came to our shows couldn’t throw their underwear cuz they weren’t wearing any.
Monet: The boots, Dad.
Chloe: Dad, the boots.
Bobby: You see the circumferential bulges? Those boots were an experimental temperature-regulation system called Podiatherm. They wick sweat away from your feet, distill the water from the sweat, then cool and circulate the water. They were based on the stillsuits from Dune. But, uh, just for your feet.
Monet: Did they work?
Bobby: Very well, very briefly. Then they heated up to an alarming degree. Which you’ll recognize as irony. Precarious had to cut me out of ’em right onstage. As you’d imagine, none of your uncles shut up about it for months.
Nixon: Dammit, boy, who taught you to dress yourself?
Nixon: This is how you wear shorts. Genie-style! Never let your enemies see your bellybutton. That’s not an option for men like us.
Chloe: Dad, where did Nixon come from?
Monet: WHAT THE FUCK?
Nixon: Silence your daughters, Bob. Join me in Puerto Rico. You don’t even have to change your money. They take the dollar here. By God, they take the dollar here. Other islands, tropical locales, they’ve gone straight Red. Terrible situation. But the, uh, Puerto Rican is by nature family-oriented. Familia is their word for family, I’m reliably informed.
Bobby: Girls–
Chloe: AHHHHHHHHH!
Monet: Where’s the gun!?
Bobby: –are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?
Enthusiasts, I have decided to withdraw my support for the latest Bobicle, appearing in this month’s GQ magazine. In fact, I denounce it and demand that it be exhumed and put on trial like Pope Formosus. SYNOD! I CALL FOR A FUCKING SYNOD!
Hey. Slappy. What’s going on?
You heard me. We’re having a Cadaver Synod. What do you even wear to a synod?
There will be no ecclesiastical jurisprudence on this site.
Mmm. Such long words. You know what they say about a guy who knows long words, right?
Just like literary society, I’m ignoring you. What particularly aggrieved you about the article.
Bobicle.
I can’t be forced to say that word, as it’s not a word.
It’s a Bobmanteau.
Why are you shrieking?
Okay, first of all: goofing on Bobby’s outfits is my shtick. I invented that.
You did not.
Second of all: this “Brett Martin” fellow linked to me to prove a point, but he linked to the old site and seemingly at random.
Why is his name in quotes?
Pseudonym.
For?
The ghost of Salvador Allende.
That guy hated September 11th before it was cool. But it wasn’t him.
Why not? You can’t be sure. The ghost of Salvador Allende would naturally want revenge on America, and there’s no motherfucker more American than me. I piss freedom and shit murdered abortionists, man.
Uh-huh.
And I’m close with President Nixon. Allende was not a fan of RN.
No. But it wasn’t him. Brett Martin is a real person. He mostly writes about food.
Ew. People who write about food should be forced to write about the food after they’re done with it. For every paragraph about the kohlrabi with Bayonne ham, there’s a corresponding graf about the doody it became 12 hours later.
You a little cranky, fella?
I can’t move anymore. My next move is going to be into a casket. Or a monastery. Somewhere I don’t have to carry 1,000 pounds of books upstairs.
Well, don’t take it out on nice GQ writers.
Fuck him. He doesn’t even follow me on Twitter. How much can he possibly know about the Dead?
…
You have a point.
I know.
“Guys? Hey, guys? Why is my piano set up so my back is to the crowd? Is it cuz I’m ugly?”
…
…
…
“Uh, no. No, definitely not. Nuh-uh.”
“Nah, man.”
“The ol’ Pig don’t think you’re ugly, KG! It’s just that your looks is an acquired taste!”
“Yeah.”
“You’re scaring off the skank, Sloth! Hide your face!”
Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?
“Trying to get free shrimp.”
You can yoink shrimp?
“You can yoink anything if you put your back into it. Or, you know, no one’s looking.”
Mickey, Steve Aoki is a respected deejay.
“Oh, yeah. I respect the shit out of the way he plays other peoples’ records. I don’t give a fuck about deejays. What I do give a fuck about is that the guy’s dad owns Benihana. I want one of those ‘eat-free-for-life’ cards.”
Like Carvel gave to Lindsay Lohan and then had to take back because her mother was abusing the system?
“That didn’t happen.”
“That family’s a mess.”
Oh, yeah.
“I wouldn’t do that. I would be courteous. I’d tip well. But I’ve got a Grammy, I’m in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, I porked Joan Baez…there are no more mountains to conquer except eating my weight in free shrimp. And it’s gotta be flipped into my mouth by a Guatamalan dude pretending to be Japanese.”
You’re a man with a plan.
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