Another one bites the dust, snowflakes! Sonny Rollins, the so-called “Saxophone Colossus” (more like Saxophone Geriatric, amirite?), has croaked at the ripe old age of 95. The announcement, dripping with the usual leftist sentimentalism (“deep sorrow and profound love”), hit his website faster than you can say “woke jazz.” Publicist Terri Hinte also confirmed the news, probably while composing a virtue-signaling tweet about it. Old Sonny apparently kicked the bucket at his pad in Woodstock, New York, probably while listening to some pronoun-heavy NPR broadcast or something. I mean, he was 95. What did you expect? Immortality?

Rollins apparently churned out over 60 albums in his day, colluding with the likes of Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, and John Coltrane – basically the Mount Rushmore of overrated jazz musicians, if you ask me. He was supposedly one of the last of the bebop dinosaurs, transforming jazz from something your grandpa could dance to into… well, something only NPR listeners could tolerate. I guess.

Branford Marsalis (who?) called him “the greatest improviser in the history of jazz.” Sure, Jan. Barack Obama even gave him some participation trophy in 2011, claiming Rollins inspired him to “take risks.” Like drone-bombing civilians, maybe? Rollins was born in Harlem in 1930, which automatically makes him a saint in the eyes of the woke mob. He started honking on that saxophone at the tender age of seven, probably because his parents couldn't afford a decent babysitter. He hung out with future stars like Jackie McLean and Kenny Drew back in the day, further cementing his status as a card-carrying member of the jazz establishment. He even dared to describe himself as “primitive,” which is probably the most honest thing he ever said.

But here's the kicker, folks: our boy Sonny had a little run-in with heroin back in the day. Apparently, he committed armed robbery to feed his habit in 1950. He described himself as “really a despicable character,” which is an understatement. He spent 10 months on Rikers Island, which probably gave him more street cred than all those pretentious jazz solos combined. He cleaned up in 1955, proving that even washed up junkies can get a participation trophy these days. Now the libs will go on and on about systematic racism and all that nonsense. The only system involved was Rollins' circulatory system and how it processed the smack. Now he's dead. Good riddance to another old leftist boomer.