The Rolling Stones Should Shrivel Up and Die

Dear Mick, Keith, Charlie, and the Other Guy,
I have learned recently that you stinking geezers will be touring next year. Please don’t. In the name of all that’s wrinkled, wizened, and way past its prime—namely you sorry git—take a minute to stop and think about what you’re doing. You look like crap; you sound like crap. Indeed, I don’t think Brian Jones looks any worse than you blokes do these days.

You’ll appear a right bunch of twits, if you proceed with this sad, ego-driven scheme. To be honest you’ve looked like a right bunch of twits for the last two decades at least. You haven’t really been the same since Mick Taylor left the band in 1975. He was not only the best-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 guys 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 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, boinked each other’s girlfriends, made a film called a name we cannot mention here, and struck fear and terror into the hearts of parents.

Nowadays parents, most of whom clock in at 15 stone or better, take their kids (and even their damn grandkids) to see you guys. 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 you sorry lot would ask. Would you?

After that fine night in Detroit, I saw you guys 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 guys kept getting frumpier; and then the inevitable occurred: you morphed into a Rolling Stones tribute band—and not a very good one at that. Only your most delusional fans, like your fan boy, Jann Wenner, could get chuffed about the kazillionth rendition of “Satisfaction.”

So do yourselves a favor. Stay the hell home. It can’t be any fun lugging those hyperbaric chambers and defibrillators 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?”    

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