Editor’s note: Satire is a genre of literature, and sometimes graphic and performing arts, in which vices, follies, abuses, and shortcomings are held up to ridicule, ideally with the intent of shaming individuals, corporations, government or society itself, into improvement.

Although satire is usually meant to be humorous, its greater purpose is often constructive social criticism, using wit as a weapon and as a tool to draw attention to both particular and wider issues in society. So now that we have that out of the way, let’s have a little fun.

Full disclosure. I am 68 and I like it. I like everything about it. I especially like the fact that I won’t live forever and that a nice comfy dirt nap is waiting for me and that Jesus, Santa and the Easter bunny were all part of the same joke. I’m looking forward to a little peace and quiet, and as that pussy, John Kerry, would say, “bring it on!” I have even arranged to be buried upside down with my ass sticking out of the ground so all my fans can park their bicycles when they come to pay their respects. I’ve had a good run and I am proud of my generation.

As many of you might not know, Flip Wilson was a comedian in the 60s and he had a running joke about stand ups who stayed on too long. The ones who didn’t leave their audience begging for more, most likely weren’t asked to return. Which brings me to the title of this rant.

To all the bands and vocal groups from the 50s, to let’s say, the 90s, I would like to say, IT’S OVER! Didn’t you get the goddam memo? Why do we have to drag this shit out until we have to look away in abject horror at the wasted fragile remnants of our symbolic youth. Stay home. I have the record. Let me die thinking I wasn’t some decrepit douche bag who still fantasized about dry humping his girl friend at the drive in. Nooo! Thank you! Those days are over and good riddance!

Gregg Allman is toast. His Whippin’ Post now has a bed pan hanging off of it. Lynyrd Skynyrd is dead. I can’t bear to watch the Rolling Stones prance around the stage with that hanging thing under their chin still moving 20 minutes after they stop playing. Who’s booking these people? I don’t need to be reminded how close to the nursing home I am. They used to be the symbol of rebellion. Who are they rebelling against now? The night nurse? Please, just go away.

I met B.B. King once in a medical clinic in Las Vegas. He told me that if he had to tell the story of how he named his guitar “Lucille,” one more time, he would take his own life on stage. How’s that workin’ for ya B.B.? John Fogerty, who is now my age, has dark brown hair and getting darker every year. Sadly, the last time I saw Aretha Frankliin, some stage manager had to prop her up against a piano so she could finish her number while grabbing her chest.

The show must go on is meant for the circus. James Brown, rest his soul. (Pun intended) The last time I saw him was on a 45 minute special from Las Vegas. True to his old tradition, 40 minutes of that was introduction. He stayed way too long. Had he lived, I’m sure we would have caught him up there with the Doo Wop groups on PBS during pitch season.

Now I come to that special place I hold out as the total object of my derision. The person who makes me want to pour gasoline on my testicles and get a frontal lobotomy to wipe out any past memory of my youth. The Boss. The boss of what you might ask? I don’t know and I’m sure he doesn’t either. I might object to his lyrics but I have no idea what he’s saying. Toss in a massive under bite and a tempo that would clock 350 beats a minute on any legal metronome and you have to even wonder why he’s big in China?

I hadn’t a clue until I saw him perform live at some arena on the east coast. When the camera panned the audience, who was absolutely rabid, I realized the attraction. The males looked like pudgy, unemployed, car wash attendants, who still lived with their mother.They wore cut off sleeveless t-shirts with bandanas and punched their flabby arms into the air with reckless abandon, while the girls who still had those 80s Venus Flytrap hairdos and “The Boss” tattooed across their butt cracks shimmied frantically to keep the beat.

Meanwhile, back on stage, there was the boss himself, along with his incoherent counterpart, Stevie, who were up close and personal on the same mic totally rendering incomprehensible the lyrics to “Rock The Casbah” from a teleprompter. Whatever video producer called in that shot angle must be surely looking for work today. Stevie, you might remember, made millions playing himself on the Sopranos. I saw him on a morning show once talking about healthy eating. Screeeech! What? Yeah, I know. Let’s move on.

I know “Live fast, die young and leave a good lookin’ corpse” is a lot to ask, but really? Really? You have earned the right to a cup of tea, to put your feet up, and maybe have a nap. Have you thought of politics? How about a TV show? Dinosaur Nation! Worked for Al Sharpton.

As for me, I’m thinking of heading up to the attic to find some of my father’s Nat King Cole records and if I’m lucky I’ll pass away in my sleep.