Bob Diesel

by thoughtsonthedead

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“Branford?”

“I’ll ignore that. Hello, old white man. My name is Shaquille O’Neal. Formerly of the Orlando Magic, Los Angeles Lakers, and maybe nine or ten other teams.”

“Hey, there. Bob Weir, Tamalpais Chiefs.”

“They call me the Big Aristotle.”

“Oh, okay. Billy called me a sawed-off little shit one time, but he was real drunk and I forgave him for it.”

“Are you a fan of basketball, Mr. Weir?”

“I’ve seen Walton naked a lot.”

“That’s unavoidable. I don’t know much about the Grateful Dead. What kind of music do you play?”

“Well. Huh. Um, what kind of music do you like?”

“I’m a rap guy. Hip-hop.”

“Okay, so: it’s the opposite of that.”

“I feel you.”

“On the other hand, it’s just rhythmic noise to smoke pot to, so it’s kinda the same.”

“That’s deep. You’re a deep man. Speaking of weed, you wanna go smoke a blunt? I got the stickiest.”

“That sounds like a plan, yeah. Let’s go over there.”

“Where you’re pointing at?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve had your hand there for the whole conversation.”

“I was anticipating this moment. Also, your giant paw is making my arm do this involuntarily.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“I got something for it in a pocket somewhere.”

“Can I wear your necklace?”

“Yes, you can.”

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