Valium Vickie

Thursday, February 16, 2006

I didn't want to talk about it, but I can't stop thinking about it. Now, I just have to vent. The Rolling Stones left such an indelible mark on me (much like the botched brand attempt that has rendered my left shoulder permanently scarred) with their halftime theatrics at this year's Superbowl that I can't let this subject go. I realize this topic is no longer current or relevent or interesting; however, it has taken me a few weeks to gather my thoughts and speak articulately on the subject, so here I go.
I have always like the Stones. I always keep their songs on when they pop up on the radio. But thanks to their unflattering performance at this year's Superbowl, they are no longer a rock band, they are now a spectacle. I would've rather watched Richard Marx play "heart and soul" with his dick on a used, battered Casio keyboard than those guitar-toting skeletons called The Rolling Stones. I'll grant you this: The Rolling Stones are still funny, but it's in a sad, pathetic way. The Stones are like that old guy at the club with the tight black tee-shirt and the slicked back hair. You watch him dancing to songs performed by singers his daughter's age. You nod back when he gives you a clandestine head nod indicating the understood exchange of some primal, carnal secret. You laugh, and you laugh and then you laugh some more, but a part of you shakes your head and thinks, "somebody should tell that poor son of a bitch". I watched in the same hypnotic way that the rest of America watched as all the hits were served on a silver plater by rock n' roll's golden girls-Mick and the boys. There's something so amazing about seeing an old fag prancing around in tight, skimpy clothing and singing, "I can't get no satisfaction". Mick, you're a hundred f$cking years old; you don't need satisfaction. You need rest and regularity, you need vitamins, and fiber and calcium for your brittle bones. Satisfaction, no my friend, that's not what you need. What you need, Mick, is time to reflect on the fact that you're as old as at least a third of the people in the average retirement community, and you're wearing belly shirts that are marketed toward thirteen-year-old girls.