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Home: The Toast

Dave Grohl enters an empty classroom, his jacket hanging off a forefinger draped over one shoulder. He places one leg on a chair and leans in real close.

“Hi, I’m Dave Grohl. Here at the Foo Fighters, we like to joke around a lot. But today I’d like to talk about something that isn’t a joke: why I look so much like Tim Curry.”

This is a serious problem. Did you know that if you search “Tim Curry Dave Grohl the same,” there are only two related Google results? We should be talking about this every single day. This is not a passing resemblance. This is not a minor interesting fact about the two of them that merits an “Oh, huh, I guess so” and then nothing.

Screenwriters should be shackled to their desks, churning out script after script where the two of them play father and son in various emotional permutations (I want one where they’re estranged, one where Tim Curry is an untrustworthy con man who asks a straightlaced Grohl to help him pull off one last heist, one where they both come out to each other and embark on a tender, restorative new father-son relationship as their true gay selves, one where they are wizards, one that’s basically just August: Osage County, and one set on a slowly sinking ship). Every last interview with Dave Grohl should begin and end with “Are you finally willing to comment on why you look so goddamn much like Tim Curry?” They should record a fucking album of goddamn standards together. Tim Fucking Curry and Dave Goddamn Grohl Revisit The Fucking Classic American Songbook. It should cost fourteen dollars and they should sell it in Starbucks as part of a double-CD package with Janelle Monáe. They should remake The Wiz and Dave Grohl should play Michael Jackson’s character and Tim Curry should play Tina Turner’s character. They should remake Annie where Tim Curry plays the same character as before and Dave Grohl plays Annie and Quvenzhané Wallis plays Daddy Warbucks.

they even both looked the same when they both played the devil

currydevil which one am i
you cannot tell can you you cannot tell can you

“‘Don’t you remember what your mother told you?’ said Stickly-Prickly,–

‘Can’t curl, but can swim–
Slow-Solid, that’s him!
Curls up, but can’t swim–
Stickly-Prickly, that’s him!’

Then they both curled themselves up and rolled round and round Painted Jaguar till his eyes turned truly cart-wheels in his head.

Then he went to fetch his mother.

‘Mother,’ he said, ‘there are two new animals in the woods to-day, and the one that you said couldn’t swim, swims, and the one that you said couldn’t curl up, curls; and they’ve gone shares in their prickles, I think, because both of them are scaly all over, instead of one being smooth and the other very prickly; and, besides that, they are rolling round and round in circles, and I don’t feel comfy.’

‘Son, son!’ said Mother Jaguar ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, ‘a Hedgehog is a Hedgehog, and can’t be anything but a Hedgehog; and a Tortoise is a Tortoise, and can never be anything else.’

‘But it isn’t a Hedgehog, and it isn’t a Tortoise. It’s a little bit of both, and I don’t know its proper name.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Mother Jaguar. ‘Everything has its proper name. I should call it “Armadillo” till I found out the real one. And I should leave it alone.’

So Painted Jaguar did as he was told, especially about leaving them alone; but the curious thing is that from that day to this, O Best Beloved, no one on the banks of the turbid Amazon has ever called Stickly-Prickly and Slow-Solid anything except Armadillo. There are Hedgehogs and Tortoises in other places, of course (there are some in my garden); but the real old and clever kind, with their scales lying lippety-lappety one over the other, like pine-cone scales, that lived on the banks of the turbid Amazon in the High and Far-Off Days, are always called Armadillos, because they were so clever.”

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