Memoirs Without Memories


I recently read on-line where Keith Richards was getting a big fat honkin’ check for writing his memoirs. While I believe he probably has gone through some awesome shit, I have serious reservations on just how fucking much he can remember.

Here is an excerpt from the upcoming bio:” There was this killer fucking party over in Soho back in ’69, or it might have been ’73, or what bleeding day is it anyway? Thursday, oh right mate, it might have been Tuesday. Anyway, there’s this butch chick standing bare arsed on the coffee table and she had just had a soap water enema and was blowing bubbles out of her arse. Mick leans over and starts biting the bubbles. I laughed so hard that I pissed my trousers but as I am now the spokesman for Depends undergarments it didn’t slow me down a friggin’ bit.”

4 Responses to “Memoirs Without Memories”

  1. Wow, sounds like a real literary masterpiece. And I can’t even get a fucking agent. Man oh man.

    Yeah, sometimes life is strange other times it’s just an out and out bitch. – Pure Evyl

  2. Oh, so Mic’s the kind of guy to go around busting girls bubbles hugh?

  3. it’ll sell millions of copies…guaranteed…i won’t be one of them though…

  4. haha!! ah good times…

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