Jeff: I’m pretty sure we’re living that dream, but I’ll bite: What happened?
Jason: I dreamed that there was this song that I came across for Mellowmas. It was, like, this weird voice that sounded like it was in some sort of chamber.
Jeff: There have been like 200 of those, my friend.
Jason: I know, but this one was different. It was some ode to…I think it was birds.
Jeff: You wrote “birds” just now and I Finched. Wait, I mean I flinched.
Jason: Oh my god, that was her name! Finch!
Wait a second. Jeff.
Jeff: But not Dorothy Finch, right? Tell me her name was Rebecca Finch. Or Andrea Finch.
Jason: How did you know that? IT WAS DOROTHY FINCH.
Jeff…was this not a dream? Have we listened to someone named Dorothy Finch?
Jeff: Well…define “dream.” Because I think it was Dorothy Finch’s dream to corner the market on weird, atonal, quasi-holiday-related music, and it came true.
Jason: Oh no. This happened, didn’t it. Dorothy Finch is real. She really wrote a song about birds, didn’t she. We did this already?
Jeff: Well, yes, although it wouldn’t surprise me if Dorothy Finch has written more than one song about birds. And/or holidays. If you ask me, people should only play her music on Halloween, but I don’t get to decide these things.
Jason: Hang on. Let me go back. What was this, like 10 days ago or something?
Jeff: Let me check the level on my big bottle of bourbon. Yeah, I think it was about 10 days ago.
Jason: This holiday is getting to me. I am blocking things out, like, IMMEDIATELY after we play them.
Jeff: Me too! When I go to edit these posts, they always come as a surprise. It’s a coping mechanism.
Jason: Okay, hang on. I’m going back to listen.
Jason: No, this isn’t it. I mean, there were similarities, sure, but this isn’t the track I dreamed about.
Wait, it’s coming back to me. There were birds. And you and I were talking about the song, just like this one we just talked about.
It sounded like…
It sounded like…
Jeff: Pretty…and yet ominous.
Jason: Jeff…where are we? Is that you whistling terribly?
Jason: Are you the worst fucking whistler in the world?
Jeff: No, that’s the fucking Birds of Christmas. I hate you.
Jason: YOU hate me? * I * hate me more. I don’t want to be here, you know!
Jeff: Jason, I know she looks like a sweet old lady and all, but be honest: What do you think the odds are that Dorothy Finch is a serial killer? Because I kind of think this song was the last thing at least one person heard before they died.
Jason: The whistle is probably the last thing she does before she takes out her ice pick.
Jeff: WHY IS THIS FIVE MINUTES LONG
Jason: I swear this song had something in the title about birds. I haven’t heard any yet, though.
Jeff: Oh shit, she started singing!
Jason: Oh hi, Dorothy.
Jeff: Oh my God, she sounds like she’s wearing someone’s skin as a bathrobe.
Jason: How can she sing and whistle at the same time? Wait, I don’t want to know.
Jeff: BECAUSE THAT WHISTLING IS THE SOUND OF DOROTHY SQUEEZING ONE OF HER VICTIMS
This is legitimately horrifying.
Jason: Actually, that might be preferable. I was afraid she was farting.
Jeff: “The Queefs of Christmas”
Seriously, what kind of dementia inspires this? Even if you were writing something like this and thought it sounded good, I mean…it’s an interlude.
Jason: Wait, I think I just heard a dog in the background!
Yup, that’s a dog. That is totally a dog.
Jeff: YOU HOPE IT’S A DOG.
Jason: I imagine Dorothy sings this song every morning as she makes her Sanka.
Jeff: I feel like Dorothy Finch is walking up behind me, and it’s creeping me out, man.
Jason: At this point, I think I’d be okay with Dorothy Finch killing both of us.
Jeff: Hold on, there’s someone at the door.
Jason: NO JEFF
DON’T ANSWER YOUR DOOR