Written for Rolling Stone During the Twentieth Anniversary of the Summer of Love
Oh, God. The Sixties are coming back. Well I've got a 12-gauge double-barreled duck gun chambered for three-inch Magnum shells. And -- speaking strictly for this retired hippie and former pinko beatnik -- if the Sixties head my way, they won't get past the porch steps. They will be history. Which, for chrissakes, is what they're supposed to be....
I've thought about this. I'm pretty sure, during the entire 1960s, I never once linked a subject to a predicate with a verb to create a sentence that meant anything. No wonder we were so interested in talking to dolphins. We sure couldn't talk to each other...
Because you remember what the terrible Sixties led to. That's right. They led to the loathsome, disgusting, repellent Seventies, which led to the unbelievably horrid, vicious, brutal swinish now.
1 comment:
Can I spit on the grave?
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