Yesterday,
a man on the street told me he had a blue pill with my name on it.
And I said, huh?
I. Huh?
And he repeated, I have a blue pill with your name on it.
That’s how some of y’all grandpa’s talking to people on the street.
Some of your uncle, some of your husbands.
So that’s what your husband is doing on the street
while you’re home making a pot roast.
I got a blue pill with your name on it.
And, Grandpa,
you’re worried about the wrong pill.
Okay. How’s your blood pressure?
Clearly rising. Clearly rising.
I can name about 10 different pills that you probably should be taking
besides that blue one,
and I’m sure they had adverse effects.
I don’t know if you should be taking the blue one.
You have a blue pill with my name on it?
Excuse me? Why?
I call City Records and change my name.
That’s the last pill you take.
I really do. I truly do.
I get it and I get it.
I get it. I see what I look like.
Thing is, I don’t know how you saw how I look,
because I saw the cataracts in your eyes.
And, you know,
I could have said something crazy back to you.
I could have, and you wouldn’t have been able to catch me
because you. You have a bad knee.
I know you have a bad knee and a bad hip,
but I know. God,
Saw that? I know.
And you punched your ticket.
To hell with that. Actually,
I don’t even think the devil would have you.
And I honestly hope that. Curse your bloodline!
Curse your bloodline! And before you ask,
what was he? Yes,
he was.
Yes, he was.