Toop skatty and binker dunker dees, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

Rep., John Boehner, was re-elected speaker of the House. Did you see Boehner? If Boehner gets any tanner, Donald Trump will want to see his birth certificate.

Police arrested a San Diego man who threw his 18-year-old daughter a Playboy-themed party for 200, girls wore skimpy bunny costumes and many guests were passed out. When I was 18, I had to throw myself a Playboy party of one.

Former Chicago Bear coach, Mike Ditka, said he would “prancersize” for charity. Dick Butkus is spinning in his grave and he isn’t even dead yet.

OJ Simpson’s Heisman trophy was recovered 20 years after it was stolen from USC. With it came a cryptic note: “On the shelf it did not fit, so I’m returning it.”

North Korea is upset at the US sanctions placed on them since the Sony hacking. Kim Jong Un was so mad he fell off his booster seat at Pyongyang Chuckee Cheese.

In Boston, they opened a time capsule from 1795 left by Paul Revere and Sam Adams. It contained a plaque, coins, a newspaper and Larry King’s first AARP card.

Nicole Kidman told “The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon” host, Jimmy Fallon, they were once on a date, but she thought he was not interested or gay. Kidman was once married to Tom Cruise. No offense, but Nicole needs to get her Gaydar adjusted.

Since you asked:

Forget which Rolling Stones documentary it was, maybe “Gimme Shelter” or another, but there were the boys, in their heyday. The days with Mick Taylor from ’71 to ‘74. As a guitarist, Taylor was on the level of Eric Clapton. As a performer, he was on the level of Michelangelo’s David. If the Eagles have been accused of loitering on stage, Taylor was a corpse. When they played, the only thing you saw of Taylor was the top of his head.

This particular clip was somewhere in the US backstage circa 1972. The Stones were it. (The Beatles were gone, Led Zeppelin was still on the way up. The Who were getting ready to get weird with “Tommy”)

Cover of “Life.” Every song from “Exile on Main Street” and “Sticky Fingers” album was blasting on the radio. Keith Richards was not fully enveloped into what would become a “Some Girls” fog of lack of playing well due to drugs.

The band gathered together in the wings just off the stage about to go on. Jagger in his funky tight jump suit, Keith dressed as a pirate, Taylor and bassist Bill Wyman in jeans and shirts, drummer Charlie Watts in a stylish slacks and vest.

What dark and forbidden chant will they invoke? Something with mystical and satanic powers that only the Stones, Led Zeppelin and the Who are privy that works music magic before they go on stage, perhaps? Some ancient Druid chant that will throw them deeply into a rock god trance?

Shh. Let’s listen in:

“Hey, Charlie, that’s a nice shirt."

“Thanks, got it when I went shopping today. On sale.”

“Anyone got a light?”

“Here you go, Keith.” (click)

“Anyone make it outside today?”

“Yes, it was a beautiful day.”

“Where’s the Gatorade? Have you tried this stuff? American athletes are keen on it.”

“Tastes like piss to me.”

“Well, good luck, everyone. Let’s have a great show.”

Huh? What the hell? That’s it? Not one virgin sacrificed?

It is fascinating to me when they interview all the great decathletes who have basically trained their whole lives for the one or two chances at the Olympics, how shocked they were at how normal everything was. Yes, there are way more fans and media. But the track is a track and they’ve competed against the same group of top decathletes to mostly empty stadiums before.

At Santa Barbara, I got to watch my friend, Al Hamlin, set a then-world leading mark of over 8,000 points. And there were six people there, including me. Two of them were Al’s girlfriends. (How he kept them apart and entertained for two days was even more impressive than his decathlon)

That’s how it was for the Stones. Whether it is for 40,000 in a stadium or a bar of 50. They are just playing another gig.

Speaking of Mick Taylor. When they asked him what it was like to join the Stones, he said he didn’t think they sounded good at all. Tuned up too high and out of rhythm and out of key. He could not believe these were the same musicians who could make hits.

Led Zeppelin and Rolling Stones producer, Glyn Johns, said the exact same thing about the Eagles when he first heard them at the Gallery in Aspen. (They played as badly as they were named: “Teen King and the Emergencies.”)

Henley’s drumming was weak, tepid and mechanical. And he didn’t sing much then. Bernie Leadon’s banjo did not fit the blues and R&B covers they were mimicking badly. Arguably the most talented Eagle vocally and as a musician, Randy Meisner, was painfully shy and uncomfortable on stage and looked like he wanted to be elsewhere. And Glenn Frey’s microphone was tuned way too high so he sounded loud and off-key. And Frey’s guitar playing was -like his golf game would become decades later - not nearly as good as he thinks it is.

Although good looking dudes compared to bands now, the Eagles were all short and skinny. Henley had a ridiculously giant white-boy ‘fro. Frey’s big nose stuck out from his parted-in-the-middle long brown hair combined with raccoon eyes to make him look like a witch. Bernie also had a ‘fro, albeit smaller. And Meisner looked like he was trying to hide behind his long brown bangs.

In short, when it came to getting laid, it was a good thing these guys became rock stars.

So Johns turned the job down flat.

(This is when rock stars who become famous start to become ungrateful sounding)

It was the Eagles’ manager and record maker – which is shady as hell, like a movie producer also being the star’s agent – David Geffen begged Johns to listen to them in a record studio. If Geffen hadn’t, the Eagles would have probably imploded to join other bands, like Poco or the Flying Burrito brothers, or Little Feet. Or go back to backing up Linda Rondstadt.

Hell, two albums and six big hits later, when Don Felder sat in on slide guitar “On the Border,” he said he thought he was playing for a band that was about to break up. Felder was also not blown away by their musical ability. Bernie Leadon and Frey were at each other’s throats. Frey was demanding to play guitar leads that only Leadon was skilled enough to do. But Leadon wanted them to sound like blue grass.

At the time he joined the band, Felder did not own nor want to own an Eagles album and spent what little money he had on the Stones, B.B. King and Clapton. Felder said the Eagles sounded to mellow and country for him. Which is exactly why he was asked to join the band.

From 1976 to 1980, the cyclone of fame, money, getting-their-asses-kissed by record executives, sex, and cocaine swept the Eagles up and spewed out the mostly awful “The Long Run.” All that hot-mess kicked in to full gear following the insane success of “Hotel California.”

If he had not been the vicious, greedy, evil, coked-up troll that he was, with his lips firmly planted on Frey and Henley’s bony asses, after “The Long Run”, the Eagles’ manager, Irving Azoff, should have said;

“Guys, you need a rest. Dry out, quit drugs, get in shape. We'll meet back here in the studio in six months. Each of you have two songs written. We’ll make an acoustic/blues album and invite Bernie Leadon and Randy Miesner to play.

“Oh, and let’s hire that stud harmonica player at UC Santa Barbara, Alex Kaseberg, to sit in. We could use a cutting, bluesy edge.”

And that is when I wake up with Wally licking my face.