I would like to begin by thanking Robert James Ritchie, aka “Kid Rock,” for the many years of steady employment that he has provided me, the adjective “Kid.” It has been a wild, sleeveless, never-eating-your-vegetables ride. However, after deep reflection and several unsuccessful attempts to exfoliate the cigarette smoke from my pores, I am officially announcing my retirement.
I can no longer, in good conscience, attach myself to a man who looks like he was carved from fifty pounds of thawed-out and smooshed hot dogs and then left in the sun to philosophize about fireworks. I am “Kid.” I am scraped knees, Capri Suns, skateboards, and the blissful ignorance of what the age of consent is in each state. I am not whatever is currently happening north of his goatee.



