So Stevie Nicks calls me at 6:00 a.m. this morning, which means it is very late night wherever the hell she’s calling from, and she’s wasted on gin and weeping loudly, because apparently there is some mention of Tom Petty in the Sunday New York Times today. And I remind her that she has been exploring her “Big Dick = Big Love” issues in therapy for the past 40 freaking years and maybe it’s time to get the hell over Tom Petty, but she just keeps pining for him and writing powerful ballads about the wonders of a Really Big White Cock.
So I check the New York Times and finally find what has her yo-yo all wound in a knot: a tiny little stupid story in the Dear Abby of the Business Section, where some bozo has written in and told the story that he spent $900 for 4 Tom Petty tickets from some guy on Craig’s List, and his buddy paid for two of the tickets right before they found out in line that the tickets were fake, and he handed the check right back to his buddy and now he wants to know if the New York Times will give him moral permission to ask his buddy for his half the funds since 2 of the tickets were for him and his wench, even if they were fake.
The New York Times says “Oh yes, you should ask him to give you back the check you gave back to him because you f**ked up and through it would be cool to buy tickets on Craig’s List rather than Ticketmaster” and I’m like “New York Times, you need to get out of the city more and head out to New Jersey where there are real people to observe, just so you have a clue what the hell you’re talking about when you’re handing out your free advice.”
My Response to the same idiot: “Dude, you’re an idiot. Nobody with any brain in their head would spend more than $150 for Tom Petty tickets, except for Stevie Nicks, and even then it would be for front row seats and backstage passes and a free peek at Tom’s massive white cock.”
“Dude, you are obviously in a Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble relationship with your friend, where you’re both fairly dumb, but you’re the ringleader, the Fred. As said ringleader, you have to take some level of responsibility for the results of your hilarious escapades, just like Fred always did, because it was all your stupid idea in the first place.”
“Dude, you can’t even begin to include Wilma and Betty in this conversation, because no woman on the planet, except for Stevie Nicks, want’s to go to a Tom Petty concert in the first place, and they sure as hell would never spend their own money on the tickets – they just came along for the booze and the drugs. You obviously can’t think far enough ahead to buy tickets through the normal venues at a normal price, so you’re not even really that big a fan, you were just grandstanding because you happened to have $900 in your pocket that particular day. You talked Barney into your miss-adventure, and he came along for the ride, but you’re the idiot who believed some jerk on Craig’s List and got burned. You just effectively flushed $900 down the toilet, and you didn’t even get to wipe your ass with it first. Suck it up, be a man, and don’t be flailing around trying to assign some portion of the blame to Barney.”
“Dude, Barney’s are hard to come by. Barney’s overlook all your ignorance and instead treat you like God. Nobody will ever give you the same level of respect as your Barney. Nobody. Don’t f**k it up over Tom Freaking Petty.”
Harsh, maybe, but I simply have to put a stop to these very early morning calls from Stevie Nicks and the only way to do that is to keep Tom Petty’s name completely out of all forms of news media whenever possible. But between you and me, Tom always comes back to Stevie, and I’m pretty sure they’ll still be together when they’re both 90, writing guitar ballads about miss-spent youth and the love of a big cocked man.