Wow.. a stoner was here, smelling of weed and wearing a Grateful Dead tie-dyed t-shirt. He asked Dad if he could put his head on the body of the drummer of the band in one of their concert photos, because he dreamt he would get to play with the band in the afterlife. So he wanted to see what they would look like together.
I've heard it all.
Dad spent 20 minutes on the phone arguing with a telemarketer. When he hung up he said, "Sherrie, I've become a slayer of telemarketers." I said (the influence of the dead head still clinging to me ...or maybe it's the second hand weed smoke) "Dude, you invest too much energy into arguing with them. Just say 'No thanks... Peace out' and hang up the phone."
He didn't say anything for a moment. Stared at me and then said, "It's Bush's fault." Then walked off.
I'm figuring the second hand weed smoke got to Dad's brain, too.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Bush turned me into a deadhead.
Come hear Uncle John's Band
By the riverside....
Set out runnin' but I'll take my time
A friend of the devil is a friend of mine...
Oh, see there, he got me started. Damn you, George.
down by the river,
river so low,
hang your head down, Bush,
hear the wind blow...
hear the wind blow, Bush,
hear the wind blow...
it's just my poor father,
who thinks you so blow...
(I slaughtered that song)
Post a Comment