Your sun is in arrears and your moon is in contempt. Ordinarily this would mean that you should be incognito, but these are not ordinary times. The presence of the planet Dipthong in your literary house and the emergence of the Ringo star in your musical constellation point to the need for the bold initiative instead. Remember, the grand gesture is the prelude to grand success. Think large, live large, and-as Lane Bryant is my judge-large will be your shadow on the world's stage.
The book that inspired a website is available from Cedar Tree Books. Written by someone who was actually raised by pugs, Postcards is a welcome addition to any mailbox. Sample chapters:
An Open Letter to the Rolling Stones
Sep 10, 2011, 15:36
Dear Mick, Keith, Charlie, and the New Guy,
I have learned recently that you geezers might 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 shite; you sound like shite. Indeed, I don't think Brian Jones looks any worse than you wankers do these days.
You'll appear a right bunch of twats if you proceed with this sad, ego-driven scheme. To be honest you've looked like a right bunch of twats for the last two decades at least. You haven't really been the same since Mick Taylor left the band. 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 pissed on petrol station walls, got busted for drugs, fucked each other's girlfriends, made a film called Cocksucker Blues, 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 fucking 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 tits used to be and whose tits 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 of sheep shaggers 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 butt boy, Jann Wenner, could get it up for the kazillionth rendition of "Satisfaction."
So do yourselves a favor. Stay the fuck 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 fucking 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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Ten Things You Should Flip the Bird to Before You Die 1. Religion
2. Voting
3. Seat Belts
4. Facebook
5. Paying for Music and Movies
6. The Bucket List
7. Classical Music
8. Pissing Indoors All the Time
9. Hats
10. Going to Bed Early.
Your sun is in arrears and your moon is in contempt. Ordinarily this would mean that you should be incognito, but these are not ordinary times. The presence of the planet Dipthong in your literary house and the emergence of the Ringo star in your musical constellation point to the need for the bold initiative instead. Remember, the grand gesture is the prelude to grand success. Think large, live large, and-as Lane Bryant is my judge-large will be your shadow on the world's stage.
Meaner than a powdery, old-hag English teacher, The Grammar Prick will split your head if you split an infinitive.
The book that inspired a website is available from Cedar Tree Books. Written by someone who was actually raised by pugs, Postcards is a welcome addition to any mailbox. Sample chapters:
Strike a blow for freedom.
