Ad Nauseum

by thoughtsonthedead



“Weir here.”

“Bobby! Thaddeus Americanexpress on the line! How are you, how is the family, mine’s great, let’s talk about the show.”


“Big show coming up.”

“Big tour. All the shows are gonna be good, hopefully.”

“Right, Bobby, right you are but let’s focus on the Seventh because–frankly–I’m paying for that one and I will just come right out and say it: we would like to tattoo the American Express logo on your face.”

“No way.”

“Fine: on your chest, but obviously you would need to perform topless.”

“No tattoos.”

“Is ritual scarification also off the table.”

“Oh, yeah. Completely off.”

“All the kids are doing it.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“You’re youthful, Bob.”

“Can we get this over with, please? It’s Segway Saturday.”

“Sure, sure, sure: I know you passed on writing a new song, but the intern who smells like dope told me that there are different ‘jams’ and that these ‘jams’ sometimes have names that don’t really mean anything?”

“That’s right, sure.”

“What if you named one ‘American Express Jam’ or instead of jamming just talk about our small merchant program?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah, here’s the thing: we are not gonna budge on you taking a good ten or twelve minutes to talk about our small merchant program during the second set. That crowd is going to be full of people thinking about opening up a vape shop or a weed shop or a weed and vape shop: basically, it’ll be 20,000 people trying to find a way to go west and get in on pot early-ish. We want to help them and we want you to tell them about it through a small speech and slideshow we’ve prepared.”

“I’m, what, huh?”

“Don’t worry, though: we got our good friend Steve Liesman to write the copy, so it hits all of our publicity deliverables but also maintains that authentic rock and roll edge.”

“That’s not happening. No, uh-uh, no.”

“Bobby, that’s gonna be a bugaboo.”

“Then, you know: bugaboo it be, man.”

“We’ll table it.”

“No. Take it off the table.”

“It’s on the table.”

“I up-end the table.”

“Any table I negotiate at is far too heavy to be up-ended by a guitar player.”

“I’ve been doing CrossFit.”

“Oh, good for you.”

“Down fifteen pounds.”

“That’s just great. We would like the drummers to wear suits of Amex green and gold.”

“Do they get to keep the suits?”

“they have to return the suits.”

“No deal.”

“FINE. They get the suits.”

“We agree in principle on the suits.”

“Back to your speeches. What if you just worked some information about American Express into your stage banter?”

“I really don’t do ‘stage banter.’ I’m not Paul Stanley.”

“No, you’re not: KISS was much easier to work with.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment, actually.”

“Something like ‘Whoo, that truckin’ takes something out of you! And the truck: she needs gas, but luckily I’ve got my American Express card. It’s accepted at more gas stations than any other card!’ And then you play your next song.”

“Oh, no.”

“I have another: the intern who smells like dope came up with this one, but if you like it then I came up with it. You could tell one of your jokes, but we changed it a little: ‘So, this feller walks into a bar, y’see? And he’s got this short, fat, squat, ugly yella dog. And the guy, see, he slaps his American Express card on the bar and instantly begins earning up to 2% cashback on all online purchases.’ How about that?”

“Why do I smell brimstone?”

“A lot of people say that when they’re on the phone with me.”