During a trip to Rome, Billy had the honor of meeting the Pope and having the Holy Father himself hear his confession.
After an hour in the booth, Pope Francis declared the mater of Billy’s absolution to be “above my pay grade” which freaked everyone out except Billy who, of course, wore it as a badge of pride and phoned Mickey immediately to rub it in his face and call him a heeb.
How many graves do you have to rob before you’re a “grave robber?” Like, before that becomes your descriptor if there’s more than one person in your social circle with your name?
“Did you see Dave last night?”
“Dave the Bartender?”
“No, Grave Robber Dave.”
Doing some Halloween-themed stuff, buddy?
Did you forget it was Halloween?
Thing that has caused black people to riot this year: a teenager being gunned down in the street. Thing that has caused white people to riot this year: baseball game their team was victorious in.
Only white people would try to burn the joint down after a win. Just proves the old Swahili saying, “When the white man is happy, everyone else cries. Except for soup. White people are just the best at soup. Chowder’ll give your mouth a boner. Now let’s go catch us a zebra.”
How do you manage to say bigoted bullshit about everyone?
Inclusiveness and diversity.
“So is it still mousse? You kids still all about the mousse? I bought a can once, but got confused and put it on my hot chocolate.”
“Oh, no, Bobby: mousse is out. All about the leave-in conditioner product. Put in on in the shower, pat dry with a towel, style as desired.”
“Wow, wow. The future, huh?”
“It’s here, yeah.”
“But, hey, man: I don’t have to tell you that having the best hair in the band is a hassle. But it’s worth it and we owe it to the fans and, really: we owe it to our hair.”
“I hear ya.”
“And it must be tougher for you than for me: if I was having an iffy hair night, I still had my pretty, pretty face to pull me through. You’re not a ‘face’ guy, y’know?”
“I always love our talks, Bob.”
Everyone was very proud of Billy for the book, but he had gotten it into his head that he was a writer now; he would hold court with made-up stories about punching Jennifer Egan in the dick and everyone was tired of it. Also, whoever told Billy about the Iowa Writer’s Workshop is an asshole.
Plus: at least once during the production of this book, the phrase “the Jew writer” came out of Billy’s mouth.
Some Canadian DJ with an implausible name–Johnny Gotchamonkey or somesuch–has been fired. Fired! And the only thing he did wrong was a consistent, well-documented pattern of physically and sexually assaulting women. (Not to mention the reporting seems very one-sided: there are no witnesses to the DJ’s tipping habits, which are said to be very generous. No, there is just page after page of women noting which part of their face they were punched in. Yellow journalism, I say.)
You used to get away with being a monster: Bing Crosby beat his children like he was training for the Olympics.
Billy built his work camp Billschwitz twice, just like the Death Star. (He was giving Garcia a tour of the first version when it mysteriously and predictably burned to the ground.)
At first, everyone was fine with it and accepted Billy’s rationale for the build (“I have a ranch: what else m I gonna do with all those acres?”) but then people started thinking about it a bit deeper and began asking pointed questions about who was going to populate said work camp and there was a meeting in which Billy was squirrelly about specifics and right after the meeting someone grafiiti’d the bathroom “Ethnic Cleanliness is next to Godliness” and Billy had Sharpie all over his hands and no more money went to the project.