Surprisingly, Keith’s shirt is not ironic. Despite performing and writing with him, Richards literally had no idea who Mick Jagger was until a 1983 tour when, staying at a hotel in Brussels, Richards awoke to find Jagger, high as a kite, peeing in his mouth.
A major departure for Van Gogh, this latter-day work finds the artist in his “Hot Rocks” phase after he totally wore out his love for “Exile.”
“We’re on a one way trip to Vegas and the concert, baby! Then after that we’re gonna go try to find our youth, and then maybe sweet, sweet death. Wait, I think we already passed that last one.”
Now look what you’ve done, parents. She’s going to turn to drugs and huffing paint by the time she’s 15 just to get over the trauma of being a walking billboard for her parents’ mediocrity.
Of course I’m never going to get as much flesh as Mick Jagger has. But looking like a wrinkled vagina to get into young, unwrinkled vaginas - the man has to be applauded for riding 2 words for all those years: “Fellate me.”
I don’t fucking get rap, man - it’s just all hoes this, bitches that, guns this, gold that. What happened to the days of good morals and decency in music? Now excuse me as I jab a syringe full of lard into my jugular.
