Given chance, Jumpin’ Doug Flash dances off his rocker

News Item: In deference to the graying vast fan base of geezer rock legends – the Rolling Stones – the National Football League will accept dancers over age 45 to shake it on Detroit’s Ford Field during the band’s Super Bowl halftime show on Feb. 5.

Dear Diary,

Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Sometimes you can get what you want.

When I submitted my application to dance with the Rolling Stones at the Super Bowl, I never thought a bald, overweight old Baby Boomer like me had a Jumpin’ Jack chance.

But sometimes life is all about whom you know. Fortunately, Keith Richards and I shared the same heroin dealer in the late 1970s. Ah, good times. I can’t wait to shake Keith’s hand and gaze again upon those familiar track marks.

I wonder if pushing 90 has slowed the ol’ hellion down?

Dear Diary,

This Super Bowl dance troupe looks like an artificial-hip convention. Time is not on our side and the 20-something choreographers make our torment their mission. These perky punks scream whenever a dancer goes into insulin shock or leaves the field for a Metamucil and Gatorade break.

I’d tell ‘em to screw off if not for Keith. Every day he runs up and hugs me in front of everybody, which is, like, so totally awesome. Well, except for the contact high I get from Keith’s sweat-soaked shirt.

Where’s Mick, I ask.

“Mainlining Viagra,” Keith slurs.

Dear Diary,

Shades of Janet Jackson. Thank God it’s just a rehearsal when Mick suffers the mother of all wardrobe malfunctions.

Three shocked blue-hairs go down like tumbling dice when the front of Mick’s trousers suddenly explodes during a rendition of “Rocks Off.”

Guess Keith wasn’t kidding.

Dear Diary,

After five days of hell we get a breather. My plan is to soak away the soreness in a hot tub, but Keith won’t hear of it. Next thing we’re in his limo going to see “Brokeback Mountain” with Elton and David.

Mick doesn’t show. Keith mumbles something about His Horndogness being indisposed with three cheerleaders, an NFL mascot and John Madden.

It’s great to see Keith and Elton getting along. Especially after that crack Elton made about Keith looking like an arthritic monkey. Then Keith fired back about how Elton’s writing is limited to songs about dead blondes.

Ever the imp, Keith sprinkles my popcorn with angel dust when I’m not looking.

Once the hallucinations kick in, I see Mama Cass playing Uncle Remus in a psychedelic remake of “Song of the South.”

Dear Diary,

Keith’s face sloughs off while riffing on “Let it Bleed.”

Everybody’s aghast, but he just laughs. Keith says it’s just his normal reptilian skin-shedding cycle and that a new face will grow back in time for the show.

I’ll be damned. Keith has a forked tongue.

Dear Diary,

One of our go-go dancers drops dead during a fifth run-through of “Satisfaction.”

Mick isn’t around to see it. Keith mutters something about Sir Lipsalot being in a locker room shagging an ultrasound machine.

NFL execs are claiming natural causes. But in my view, forcing a 300-pound grandmother to do the frug for two hours is asking for trouble.

Seeing how glum I am, Keith puts a paw on my shoulder and lovingly counsels me to “stop being such a bloody wanker.” He gives me a handful of little yellow tabs he calls Summer of Love Beads, which I wash down with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red.

I wake up just around midnight, naked and sprawled on the 50-yard line.

Someone has written “Paint it Black” on my chest.

Sweet Virginia! Have the colors ever tasted so loud? Keith says once all this super silliness is over we’ll have an even bigger bang – at the Betty Ford Clinic.