Stay the Hell Home, Mick Jagger

Dear Mick,
I see where you dragged your withered buttocks on stage the other day to croak your way through “Satisfaction” with that towering mediocrity Taylor Swift. Well, she towered over you that’s for sure, in more ways than one. What in the name of all that’s wrinkled, wizened, and way past its prime—namely you, you sorry git—were you thinking? Did you take a minute to stop and consider what you looked like? Was there no mirror in your dressing room? You looked like hell; you sounded like hell. Indeed, I don’t think Brian Jones looks any worse than you these days.

What a right pathetic twit you were, swanning about on stage with a stick figure young enough to be your granddaughter. Were you doing it to impress your granddaughters? You already drove one woman to suicide with your Peter Pan shtick. Are you trying to drive members of your own family to the nearest doorknob, too?

To be honest, you and your bandmates have looked like a bunch of twits for longer than Taylor Swift has been alive. You haven’t really been the same since Mick Taylor left the band forty years ago. He was not only the good-looking member of the group but also your best player, and you go and replace him with a worm who has gotten further on less talent than any “musician” save Ringo Starr.

The first time I saw you perform was in the fall of 1969 at the Olympia theater in Detroit. In those days a person could drive by a venue, see a sign proclaiming “Rolling Stones Tonight,” and still get a decent ticket. Those were also the days when you guys were considered dangerous, a quality that no rock band should lack. You were the guys who urinated on petrol station walls, got busted for drugs, loved each other’s girlfriends, made a film called C*cksucker Blues, and struck fear and terror into the hearts of parents.

In those days instead of sucking up to the likes of Ms. Not-Too-Swift, you would have kissed her against a filing station wall, taken her friendship bracelets for souvenirs, and left her to find her own way home to daddy.

Nowadays parents, most of whom clock in at 15 stone or better, take their kids (and even their damn grandkids) to see you. That must be mortifying. Once you prowled the stage, commanding an ocean of ripe young breasts that were yours for the asking. Now you look out over—if you can bear to look—a bunch a Lane Bryant types whose chins are where their breasts used to be and whose breasts reach their navels. I don’t envy you that sight. Oh sure, many of those walking heaps of cellulite might still be yours for the asking, but not even a sorry old sheep shagger like yourself would ask. Or would you?

As far as Taylor is concerned, you ain’t getting into those outfits with a seeing-eye dog. She might give you a soiled pair to take home, but that’s about it.

After that fine night in Detroit, I saw you in 1972, 1975, 1981, 1989, and once or twice in the ’90s. That’s when I snuffed out my one-hitter. The crowds kept getting frumpier; you kept getting frumpier; and then the inevitable occurred: you morphed into the frontman for a Rolling Stones tribute band—and not a very good one at that. Only your most delusional fans, like your boy, Jann Wenner, could get it up for the kazillionth rendition of “Satisfaction.”

So do yourself a favor, old man. Stay the hell home. It can’t be any fun lugging those hyperbaric chambers and defibrillators all around the world. Jesus! Your carbon footprint must be the size of Missouri. The Earth will thank you; I’ll certainly thank you. Besides, as you once sang— when you could still touch your toes without popping a hemorrhoid—”Who wants yesterday’s papers?”

If the unhinged ramblings of our fearless editor in briefs tickle your brainstem, wander over to our Satirical Commentary and snort a line or two.