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Better Let Me Outta This Damned Casket, or I'm About to Beat Your Ass

Guest Editorial
by Ike Turner

Listen: I know y'all found me this morning in my home near San Diego, and I wasn't exactly what you might call "responsive" when the paramedics showed up.

And the whole defibriliatutiary deal, with the electric paddles and shit? I swear to God, that about knocked me across the room. How the hell's a brother supposed to look normal after taking 50,000 volts? That, and my 76-year-old self takes a few extra minutes to recover after a hard night of Hennessy, hoes, and blow, if you know what I mean. You think Keith Richards looks spiffy at 8-motherfuckin'-AM? I think not.

So you'd better open this motherfuckin' coffin, or I'm about to beat all your sorry asses.

But pronouncing my ass dead and stuffing me in a casket? That is some downright cold shit, if I might engage in the vernacular, people. Hell, I treated my motherfuckin' dog better than that, even when he took a bite out of my Grammy trophy last month.

So hear I sit in this aluminum coffin, colder than an Alaskan shithouse, hoping one of y'all will hear me as I pound on the lid harder than a right-cross upside an Ikette's beehive bouffant.

And I have to say: I expected a little more in the way of post-mortem accoutrements, right? All those gold and platinum records, making millions for the record companies, and y'all think you can stick Ike Wister Turner - The King of Rhythm - in a fucking tin can?

Shit. I get less respect than a truck stop hooker with a cold sore, and y'all better pray my angry ass don't find a way out this box.

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