Headline of the Year, 2020: 'Johnny Rotten Bitten by a Flea on His Penis After Rescuing Squirrels'

Source - Johnny Rotten, real name John Lydon, has been bitten by a flea on his penis.

The Sex Pistols rocker has been attacked by the small parasitic bugs, which have left itchy bites all over his body, including his nether regions.

He said: "I looked down there this morning at my willy and there's a f****** flea bite on it. And there's another one on the inside of my leg."

John, 64, endured his flea bites after he befriended a bunch of squirrels at his Venice Beach home in Los Angeles, and has said he's taken to smothering himself in Vaseline to ease his discomfort, because he doesn't want to "blame the poor squirrels".

He added: "The bites, wow, last night was murder because of it. The itching too. It's such a poxy thing to get caught out on. The only way around it, because I'm not going to blame the poor little squirrels, is to Vaseline my legs.

"I just hope they don't get the wrong idea." ...

"Wow, do they love me for [the food I buy for them]. I'm definitely spending a lot of money on these little f******." 

There are just so many layers to this. So much to consider. So many deep, metaphysical questions to ponder. As there should be any time you get a headline like this, seemingly written by two bored kids in the backseat on a long car trip, playing a game where they take turns making up a story. "You start." "Johnny." "Rotten." "Was." "Bitten." "By." "Flea." Or a sponsored clickbait headline at the end of an article, like "Why Hollywood Won't Cast [random hot actress] Anymore. Or generated by AI and there was a glitch in the Matrix. 

And were this any other year, I'd assume it was any of those things. But now? You could tell me Johnny Rotten was bitten on his penis by the lead guitarist of Red Hot Chili Peppers and I'd believe it's a true story of LA Punk-on-British Punk crime. Nothing, and I can't stress this enough, nothing is off the table. 

But really, to me personally, the deep philosophical underpinnings of this are that it speaks to my own mortality. First the heroes of your youth get old, then you get old. They die, then you die. I'm not saying Johnny Rotten was one of my biggest idols growing up. But he was an icon. And during that phase of your life every male goes through where you're full of piss & vinegar and rebelling against your parents, I got into bands like The Sex Pistols and The Clash and a few similar punk bands on the Boston music scene. It's a part of growing up. A stage every guy goes through. And Johnny Rotten's music was the Gangsta Rap of my misspent youth. That music of the masses that says your generation is going to be different than the one that came before and leave its indelible mark on the world.

And now? Now that Punk icon is a tired old kook. Living in the single nuttiest place I've ever visited in my life, Venice Beach. Communing with little woodland creatures. He was once the guy who shrieked: 

God save the queen
The fascist regime
They made you a moron
A potential H bomb

God save the queen
She's not a human being
and There's no future
And England's dreaming 

... in a song that was No. 1 on the charts in the UK while it was banned by the BBC. And now he looks like Ron Weasley's dad and lives like Hagrid. He once embodied angry, defiant nihilism. And now he's spending his golden years rubbing petroleum on his legs and praying the forest friends he spends all his money on don't think he's coming on them. That's Johnny Rotten Lydon's present. And as night follows day, it's my future. As an earlier sneering, angry British band put it, "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."

Now if you'll excuse me, I need a dose of anarchy, for old times' sake.