with DeadSun
You've seen him in Fan Speak all around
the antiMUSIC network, now DeadSun gets his big show as the host of his
very own talk show, The Not Quite-So DeadShow ! Forget Oprah and
Dr. Phil, DeadSun knows how to liven up a talk show.
 .
.
“Phish
Sucks. Jerry Died. It’s Time for Your Bath.”
(Fires up the stage lights, and cues
up the Ramones’ “Commando” )
Host DeadSun : “Phew---man, oh man.
Now there’s one sweet chunk of Rock. Who couldn’t love the Ramones? You
find me the man who doesn’t like “Commando”, and I’ll find you a nice hammer
to correct him with. Well, dear readers, here we are, back in the saddle.
You got two months of “Deaditorials”--- but now it’s time to get right
back to the infinitely noble task of making fun of everyone and everything.
It’s once more time for the Politically Correct Thought Police, and all
of their emotionally turbocharged zealots, to leave the room, lest they
get their panties twisted. To summarize : strap in, and brace yourselves
for a good dose of contemptuous irreverence, because I’m back this month
with a little vignette called “Phish Sucks. Jerry Died. It’s Time for Your
Bath.”--- and in case something has slipped by you, I’m about to get a
few things off my chest.
Hippies piss me off. Especially the hippies
of today. I’m sorry “Starlight”, but have the “groovy” drugs and the pesticide-free
trail mix rendered your mind unable to use a calendar? It is the year TWO
THOUSAND AND FOUR, you utter d*ckhead. Exactly where IS the costume party?
Why do certain persons insist on dressing up as figures from the pages
of history? When was the last point in time any of you passed a man on
the street dressed as a sixteenth century Numidian spearman? How many of
you carry out your daily business wearing a Roman toga? So why, why, WHY
do these mood ring-assed twits skip about playing fantasy dress up, and
expect to be taken seriously?
The flower power jam bands are another
ice pick in my temple. If there were such a thing as a musical nemesis,
Phish and the Grateful Dead win the title bout. To me, hearing the music
of these two bands is like being given a body cavity search by Captain
Hook--- and don’t give me that “they’re like, way too out there for you
to get it, man” nonsense, either.
LOOK--- there’s nothing stimulating about
some jackass playing four-thousand and ninety six measures of the same
f*cking Dm7 chord, because he’s tripping his teeth out and can’t remember
where his LEGS are, much less where the change is coming up in the song
that he’s playing. The thought of being “treated” to a triple extended
live version of Truckin’ “entices” me to the extent that any number of
you might be “enticed” by receiving a scalding hot pudding enema.
I hope I’ve been clear.
*Knock on studio door*
DS : “Come in.”
( The door opens. In walks a small group
of hippies, amidst the display of picket signs and buzzing flies. )
DS : “What is this crap, is Oliver
Stone filming today?”
Hippie : “No one’s filmin’, man.
We’re like, protesting your DeadShow, you fascist.”
DS : “What’s the matter with your
hair?”
Hippie : “Oh, hear that everybody?
The FASCIST has a problem with long hair!”
DS : “Not because it’s long… because
it’s MOVING.”
Hippie : “Oh that. That’s just the
squirrel. It’s right around his feeding time.”
DS : “A squirrel?”
Hippie : “Yep.”
DS : “LIVING in your hair?”
Hippie : “Oh, I see how it is---
the jingoistic baby killer hates ANIMALS, too!”
DS : “What about your friend with
the beard over there? Any WILDLIFE living in his beard that I need to be
made aware of?”
Hippie : “What do you mean “his
beard”? That’s my girlfriend Moon Blossom, you Nazi pig.”
Moon Blossom : ( pumping her fist
in the air ) “WOMAN HATER! WOMAN HATER! What’s the matter DeadSun, can’t
get no lovin’ from a woman?”
DS : “Well, if what you mean by
“a woman”, is a walking termite colony with a rabbi’s beard growing out
of her crotch, then I think I’ll hold out for one those rare, special women.
You know--- the sort that doesn’t smell like a sardine’s genitalia. Look---
what do you people want?”
Hippie : “We’re protesting your
show, man. We’re tired of you getting up here, month after month, and shoving
your capitalist, omnivorous, phallo-centric reality tunnel on the masses,
man. And we don’t dig what you’ve been sayin’ about the Grateful Dead and
Phish, either. You’re too uptight to handle the sheer fun of a Phish concert.
You can’t deal with that, and so you’ve gotta act out your close-minded
ego trip, because the music is too far out there for you to grasp, man.”
Group of Hippies : “Nazi! Nazi!
Nazi! Nazi!”
DS : “Are you a stroke victim? There’s
nothing “fun” about listening to some fruity, hallucinating nimrod crooning
“the tires are the things on your car, that make contact with the road”.
There’s nothing “fun” about dancing in a daisy chain with some spacey,
ass-brained flake called “Falling Rain”, who wears “earth shoes”, and who
smells like a f*cking salami and dung sandwich. ( turns to a dumbfounded
hippie standing in the group ) Are you writing this down? OH YEAH---
nothing quite says “a first rate good time”, as beholding some sh*tty-bummed
morons, who just want to “do their own thing, man”, and hump each other
in a puddle of Port-O-Potty overspill. Jerry’s dead. Deal with it.”
Moon Blossom : “Why of all the oppressive,
linear, fascistic…”
DS : “Oh SHUT UP, you stubbly-legged
cretin. Isn’t there a crystal-healing workshop nearby that you could piss
off to? Tell you what--- I’m a sport--- I’ll give you a half pound of organic
soy-nut granola tofu, and my shaving kit, if you just go away, and let
me do my show.”
( Another hippie steps out from the
group--- one who is evidently “taking a trip” )
2nd Hippie : “Jerry ain’t
dead, man. Like, I seen him two hours ago. He was ridin’ on an orange Harley,
man! He pulled over and smoked a joint with me, then the Son of God appeared,
and he GAVE ME THIS GOLDFISH NET, MAN!”
DS : ( dryly ) “That isn’t
a goldfish net, you baboon. That’s your right hand.”
Group of Hippies : “Down with the
capitalist swine! Down with the pig! PIG! PIG! PIG!”
2nd Hippie : ( widens his eyes,
and extends his hand out ) “Noooo way, man. Here, play this cd. It
will like, blow your mind. It’s a 217 minute long bootleg of ‘Sugar Magnolia’
LIVE, man. ( starts singing ) ‘Sugar magnolia, blossoms blooming,
heads all empty and I don’t care.’--- it’s beautiful, man.”
DS : “OOOH--- the music is so “mind
blowing”. Let me tell you something, “Earthchild”, there isn’t anything
“mind blowing” about some vacant-eyed oaf, who looks like a middle-aged,
homeless Santa Claus that’s been worked over in a back alley, babbling
‘Sunshine, daydream. Sunshine, daydream. Sunshine, daydream’ for forty-five
f*cking minutes. Not unless you’re a sh*it encrusted hippie, who has dropped
12 hits of White Blotter acid, and thinks that his arms are small goldfish
nets that were given to him by the Son of God. Besides, this cd is broken.
It won’t play.”
2nd Hippie : “--- but that cd ISN’T
broken.”
DS : ( smirks ) “You really
do walk into these things, don’t you?”
( snaps cd in half and hands it back
)
Moon Blossom : “Now you’re gonna
GET IT, baby killer!”
DS : “But I’ve always been led to
believe that you’re all pacifists. What exactly are you going to do---
rub your armpits on me?”
2nd Hippie : “No way, man. We’re
gonna skip in a circle, and chant out our love mantra at you. When we do
that, the great cosmic wheel is going send down happy rays of moon love-energy,
and overpower you with magical, flowery thoughts.”
DS : “If you don’t shut up, the
great cosmic wheel at the end of my leg is going to slam into your backside
with a magical, happy, striking motion of irate, DeadSun-energy.”
Group of Hippies : “Oppression!
Oppression! Power to the people! Power to the people!”
DS : ( mumbling ) “Oh, God.
Look--- the only thing oppressive around here is the stench that
smells like a mélange of patchouli and dirty anus. Tell me--- what
do you people do for a living?”
Moon Blossom : “We’re…”
DS : “DON’T tell me… you’re full
time students?”
Moon Blossom : ( steps back,
amazed ) “But how did you know…”
DS : “Well it’s not really the riddle
of the f*cking Sphinx, is it? It’s always the same story with you malodorous
little bastards--- being suckled by Das Kapital, bitching about the evils
of capitalism, and all the while sponging off your parents, driving the
God damned family SUV around campus, and living in a ring of hash smoke.
I can’t believe you haven’t gotten it yet. The “down with the system” crap
in sixties was a display--- a façade. Piss of with your hippie love
sh*t garbage. You know what all the original hippies are up to these days?
DO YOU?”
Moon Blossom : “Well… they… um…”
DS : “I’ll TELL YOU what they’re
up to, and here’s a hint for you : they ain’t groovin’ in the mud, and
dropping out of the system, MAN. They’re marketing executives, and bankers,
and Docker-clad entrepreneurs, and lawyers, and bio-tech researchers. It
was one big SMOKESHOW. Our very own Baby Boomer generation--- the glory
of the wide world--- needed “Peace and Love” long enough to douche their
brains out with LSD, and use their middle-class status to score their way
out of the draft via student deferrals--- which is f*cking PRICELESS if
you consider most of them were utterly fixated on denouncing their middle-classed
upbringings. Now for the happy ending : when you graduate, have to detoxify,
and join the real world, you’re going to do EXACTLY what those sniveling,
touchy-feely, degenerate Baby Boomers did : cut your hair, trade your tie-dyes
in for some Oxford whites, your sandals for penny loafers, your VW busses
for BMW 525s, and your Rock n’ Roll for whatever equivalent to Michael
Bolton is riding high on the charts.”
( studio phone rings )
DS : “DeadShow, this is DeadSun
speaking.”
Senator John Kerry : “Mr. Sun, this
is Senator John Forbes Kerry, from your home state of Massachusetts. I’m
calling because I wanted to offer up my dissent over your harsh treatment
of the wonderful music of the Grateful Dead.”
DS : “Interesting. I thought you
were listening to a lot of Hip Hop these days. Are you a fan of the Grateful
Dead, Mr. Senator?”
Senator John Kerry : “I feel that
we, as Americans who long for a better world, must be as the Grateful Dead
is. We must be grateful today for the dead of yesterday--- though not dead
tomorrow, and grateful yesterday, inasmuch as the dead of today must be
grateful for the dead of next week. We must build a solemn bond between
the gratefully dead of the past, and the slightly less than not particularly
dead of the future, who are grateful for not being dead as things presently
stand.”
DS : “Umm… Senator, with all due
respect, I…”
Senator John Kerry : ( cutting
back in ) “--- and though the grateful have once been dead, they are
now alive. Alive, but grateful. Dead, yet alive. Grateful to the extent
that in being alive, they may be dead at the point in which they gratefully
live-“
DS : “So you DO like the Grateful
Dead?”
Senator John Kerry : ( continuing
on ) “--- so that those who die, may be grateful for the dead who live,
and as surely as the living gratefully die, we must die as we gratefully
live, so that the dead may once more find a not apparent, but somewhat
complete, vision of that which the grateful may come to life over-“
DS : “Senator? Can you hear me?”
Senator John Kerry : “--- a not
insubstantial scenario by which they are dead yesterday, but grateful tomorrow-“
DS : “Senator?”
Senator John Kerry : “--- by way
of a bold, new death, which gratefully brings to life a somewhat better
version of a somewhat smaller life who-“
DS : ( hollering at the top of
his lungs ) “WILL YOU SHUT THE F*CK UP!?!? God DAMN you people. I need
a drink. That’s IT. This show, as of RIGHT NOW, is OVER. I’ve HAD IT.”
2nd Hippie : “But Jerry, man---
he’s alive, man. He was riding this orange Harley, and he-“
DS : ( irritated ) “No dungbrain,
he ISN”T, and his music isn’t mind blowing. If I had enough weed and LSD
to hand out, I could “blow your minds” by breaking wind through a megaphone
with a delay effect on it. You can take your fruity, organic-granola soynut
trail mix, your God damned Birkenstocks, your 657 minute-long jam instrumental
bootlegs, and your cutesy little campus crusader fashion statements, and
f*ck off with the whole bloody lot of it. Phish sucks. Jerry died. It’s
time for your bath. You’re usually good with catchy bumper sticker slogans---
there’s a great one for you to memorize.”
Group of Hippies : “We want revolution!
We want-“
DS : ( pushing them through the
doorway ) “Nope. Sorry--- time to go find some other fascistic, baby-killing,
phallo-centric, omnivorous, Nazi jingoist to torture for a few hours.”
( slams door shut )
Host DeadSun : “Boy, that was a
boatload of wholesome family fun, wasn’t it? Now is about the time when
we close the show with a bit of music--- which we’ll keep significantly
under 657 minutes for you--- and I wanted to thank you for stopping by,
and hope you walk away from this either laughing, or wishing death upon
me. I’m going to close out with a song by a great band out of Wales, who
are still fairly unknown ( and not a metal act ), and make some damn good
music. The band is called “Mclusky”--- and the name of the song is “Without
MSG I am Nothing”--- a thoroughly entertaining listen.
In the meantime, see you next month. This
is the DeadSun signing off.
( Roll credits and cue up Mclusky’s
“Without MSG I am Nothing” )
Your
turn.
Fan
Speak:
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