Scrumptiousenemypeach - #1 Music Stan

A pound of smoked salmon for the lady. STAT

what's the point of life if you're not weird about your rockstars

“PEANUTS” (Sept. 4, 1953) By Charles M. Schulz

HAPPY FRIDAY! ENJOY THE TUNES.

I love when my mutuals are reading a monkees biography and they post the most evil unhinged quotes. You’ll be scrolling and randomly see shit like “Mike saw Peter crying and decided the torture was still not complete…. He then told his bandmate that no one would ever love him and began firing blanks at his feet…..” or “Davy Jones and Peter got into a knife fight after Davy discovered that Peter was cheating on him with his longtime secret lover, Stephen Stills of The Buffalo Springfield” or “The producers locked the band in a meat locker with a bag of cocaine, four naked women, some black light posters, and instructed them not to leave for the next seventy two hours.”

These posts are cousins to me.

as a phrase, “she [x] on my [x] til’ i [x]” only is funny if on either side of a spectrum. either the phrase ends so specific to a sexual action it’s a smart joke (for example, “she strogan me off til i beef” uses the word “beef stroganoff’ but also makes a “stroking off” joke, making it clever wordplay.) or it makes so little sense that it ends up funny from the absurdity of deciphering what type of sexual action could even be taking place. (example: when my roomate the other night asked to hand them a sanpelligrino and then said “she san on my pelli til’ i grino” which begs the question of what ‘sanning’ is, what a ‘pelli’ repersents in terms of human genitalia and what ‘grinoing’ could possibly be.)

bob said it’s MY turn to be the gay monkee

Go Girls Go! | First Dyke March in Washington DC, 1993

Reposting this photo I shared yesterday because I think I finally put together what Micky and Peter were actually doing. Micky “shot” Peter and Peter had to “die” so Micky could photograph his dramatic demise.

In They Made a Monkee Out of Me, Davy Jones explains a Monkee game called Killer.

We defused a lot of the tension with humour, naturally. On the set, and on the road, we had a game we used to play called Killer. Jim Frawley invented it. The idea was each person was allowed three shots per day. You could shoot whoever you liked—you just mimed your hand as a gun, like kids do, y’know—tssshhh! And whoever was shot had to die. But you couldn’t just fall down, nice and simple—it had to be a spectacular death. You had to moan and kick and fall over furniture and people and take about three-quarters of an hour to do it—like they used to in all of the best Westerns. And if you didn’t die loud enough, or long enough, or imaginatively enough, or if say you just didn’t die at all, because you were being introduced to the Queen Mother at the time, then you lost a life. And if you lost three lives—you were out of the game. Forever. No second chances. That was as good as being really dead. So, of course, we’d look for the best moments to shoot each other—when it would cause the most commotion. Not everyone was included. It was a clique of about eight. Sometimes we’d have a different director—we used to have a guest director to do one or two shows. They’d be in the middle of a scene and somebody would get shot and the whole scene would be ruined because this was very serious business—you couldn’t lose a life. The game produced no end of possibilities for going right over the top. In the middle of a love scene once—I had the stars coming out of my eyes, the whole bit—I’m walking over to the girl with my arms outstretched and she says, “Oh, Davy!” We’re just about to kiss when … Tssshhh!—Peter shoots me. I have to go into an epileptic seizure routine for about five minutes—knocking lamps over, fall over a drum kit, out the door, roll around the parking lot, up the stairs, across the president’s desk—“Oh my God, are you all right, David?”—“Aaargh! Shot, sir!” Back out the door, down the stairs, onto the set, collapse in a heap at her feet. Wild applause. One time in Australia, in front of about five million fans at the airport, Micky got shot and he fell all the way down this gigantic escalator. People were stunned. They thought he’d been assassinated. It was very rarely someone wouldn’t die—not even a token head slump. One time was the Emmy Awards. I think it was Bert Schneider stepped up to receive the award for “Best New Comedy Show.” We shot him, but the moment was too special for him to spoil it. He won an Emmy and lost a life. Towards the end of the second year—to show you how badly things were going—even Frawley couldn’t be persuaded to die anymore. Everyone had been up all night, as usual. We were on the set—first diet pill of the day—started fooling around, messing up takes as always. But somehow it wasn’t the same. Nobody was laughing. Frawley was so mad. The only thing we could do was shoot him. Dolenz shot him—he didn’t die. Mike shot him—still standing. I shot him—nothing. What a bummer. All the feeling was gone. The beginning of the end.

The Monkees and the Gorillaz walk into a bar

Someone finish this joke for me I'm gonna go take a nap