I would rather listen to secretly-recorded audio of my father chastising me when I was a child than Dear Mr. Fantasy>Hey Jude. I’d prefer the triple-laryngitis show of ’79 when not only were Garcia, Bobby, and Phil unable to even whisper, but Mrs. Donna Jean was giving birth, leaving the group silent and confused, struggling to follow the changes as Mickey–in full makeup, full evening gown and full of pills–recreated the entirety of Judy Garland’s famed Carnegie Hall performance from 1961.

I liked Fantasy, somewhat at best, when Steve Winwood sang it. Hey Jude, on the other hand, is a musical War Crime. Every time another national tragedy occurs, I die on the inside: not because of the loss of humanity, but because there will be an All-Star Rockin’ Jam! (sponsored by Pepsi, whose thoughts and prayers go out to the victims, and all victims of thirst everywhere.) The song will be Hey Jude and Sir Wiggington will do that “JUDY-JOO-JAJOOJOOJOO” thing that, honestly, I would relinquish the nuclear codes to get to stop, and the black-up singers will be getting astoundingly melismatic with the Na-na-na’s and the living will envy the dead.

WAH YOU GOTTA BE SO DURN NEGATIVE ‘BOUT STUFF, BOY?

Elvis? You’re back?

I DUN NEVER LEFT!

to be continued…