Earlier today, Keith Richards was flown to the hospital after falling out of a palm tree and sustaining a brain injury. They knew his brain wasn’t normal because when they asked him if he knew what his name was, he did, and he said it in a clear, intelligible voice.
I don’t like to make fun of Keith Richards, because he’s the only person on the planet who gives me hope that no matter what I do to myself, I can still live past forty. The man is a sixty-two year old chain-smoker who’s experimented with more drugs than the FDA, and he hurt himself falling out of a tree. I’m thirty-four, and I couldn’t climb stairs unless some prick threw my cigarettes to the top of them. Hell, I call climbing out of bed a cardio workout.
With that said, what the fuck was Keith doing climbing a tree? I recognize that if it was a palm tree, he was probably on the beach, and sunlight can break down fat cells, and his fat cells still contain molecules of whatever made Altamont, the Dirty Work album and eating a Mars Bar topped with Marianne Faithful seem like a good idea, but still…
Honestly, I don’t think Keith actually fell out of the tree. I think he was lying under it, in the shade, until the sun moved. And when it shone on him, he bumped his head while he convulsed and erupted with smoke and unholy screeching. The good news is, they brought him to a hospital to recover. That’s where the virgin blood of newborn infants is.
[tags]Keith Richards concussion, Rolling Stones, dark humor[/tags]
