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Shit, man, they don't even know who the Grateful Dead are.
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Ah, man.
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The summer of 1979.
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The best summer of my life.
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Followed the Dead around the Midwest.
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Supported myself selling grilled cheese in the parking lot.
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Yeah, they made great music.
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Their music blows.
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But their female fans...
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...were a bunch of patchouli-soaked sluts
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who all wanted to ball their first black guy.
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I never embraced tokenism with more gusto.