Upon Watching Keith Richards At The Super Bowl

I'm watching the Rolling Stones at the Super Bowl halftime show. As a Packer and closet Bears fan, its the only part of this evening that held any interest for me (well, OK, it's always good to hear from Aretha, too.) And so that's all I care to write about. Face it,they're in their 60s and they look and sound great. No lip synching, and apart from a shaped stage, no real frills. No orchestra, no dancing girls, no wardrobe malfunction. Just the Stones. They were great. Boomer hit. New stuff that rocked, then classic hit, with snotty intro from Mick, as he mused that they could've played Satisfaction at the first Super Bowl. Even Keith looked good. Keith is, in an odd way, a hero of mine. He's just so indestructible. Ya gotta love him for it. Statistically, he should be dead. I'll probably never see it. Neither will many of us.

Face it. Keith Richards will outlive us all. He can drink a whole bottle of vodka with nary a hangover. He is immune to cholera, smallpox and anthrax. He can eat fish from Lake Erie, and can eat beef from Britain, Oregon and anyplace else Mad Cow disease has been found. He could survive even a roundhouse kick from Chuck Norris. He will survive nuclear holocaust. No, really, hear me out. Flash forward, if you will to the Day After Nuclear Holocaust: London is just a pile of rubble, just like that scene from The Blues Brothers where Carrie Fisher blows up the skid row flophouse that Jake and Elwood stay at. But suddenly, there's movement under a stack of bricks -- a humanoid form emerges. It's Keith Richards! He rummages around his jacket and produces a pack of cigarettes. He pulls one out and puts it to his lips. He then taps all over his body where pockets would be and only then does he realize the gravity of this situation, crying out in desperation and dismay, "Where the fuck's me lighter?"


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