Dear Distraught Michael Jackson Fans,
By now you probably already know this: your beloved ‘King of Pop’ is dead. I know that mere prose will likely do little to assuage the considerable anguish burning in your breasts, but I hope that the following words that come deep from my heart of hearts will accomplish at least such semblance of this task.
See, it’s human nature to ignore a person’s flaws and concentrate only on the good after said person has passed on to the Great Beyond. But I cannot help but think that this isn’t such a good thing. Surely the lessons of the past are doomed to repeat themselves if all history isn’t remembered, right? So, in what I can only characterize as a giant favor to mankind, I’ve taken the time to recall Michael Jackson in a light free of pomp and polish, to really sum up the man as any great historian or anthropologist of the future would want. You can start thanking me now, Futuredude.
First off, Michael Jackson was a giant douche-bag… even when he was still black.
This isn’t up for any kind of debate. We are talking about a man who accepted a presidential award while wearing a shimmering, (faux?) bejeweled, colonial-era looking soldier’s coat. And while wearing sunglasses. The freaking guy couldn’t be bothered to remove his eyewear to look the LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD in the eye. Or the LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD’s main squeeze, Nancypants.
And, speaking of LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD-related stuff, why pray tell is the current Prophet and Chief commenting publically about General Jackoff’s far-overdue death from a rigorous diet of Oxycodone, morphine, Xanax, rice cakes, human babies and Tab? (I don’t think he drinks Pepsi after the famous three alarm fire that took place on his head during that cola commercial shoot some years back.) I’m sure it’s not a black thing, because I highly doubt even a man with no eyeballs would ever mistake late-stage MJ as being any blacker than a Las Vegas sunset. Obama must be pandering to the ‘skin bleaching, weirdo former-billionaire whose dream house looks like the creepiest theme park on Earth’ crowd. Probably a group with a powerful lobby.
Second, he loved him some little boys.
Don’t you dare argue anything to the contrary, you deluded sheep. You know it to be true, though you may cover that shame over your hero-worship of a pederast in a blanket of denial. But, just like you know how guilty as sin OJ is, you are well aware that Mikey liked it. And by ‘it’, I mean pube-free male genitalia.
What’s that, you say? The Dearly Departed was found not-guilty in a court of law? You think that means there’s no way he could have done it? You think the various victims of his various alleged sex crimes were all operating in some sort of grand conspiracy against him? Well, let’s break this down by citing some other crazy rich and crazy-crazy celebrities out there who haven’t been the victims of such allegations.
1- Dennis Rodman: no child molestation allegations.
2- Tom Cruise: surprisingly, no child molestation allegations (though who knows what the future holds..?)
3- Brittany Spears: couldn’t even look after a child long enough to coordinate a molestation.
4- Sarah Palin: prefers not to have to think about such nasty things.
Michael Jackson was repeatedly accused of molesting children because HE FREAKING DID IT.
Repeatedly.
If a child can describe what your erect penis looks like, and you admit to ‘sharing your bed’ with this child, we can pretty much close the case on that one. This just in: juries are comprised of people who:
a. regularly open their mail and
b. can summarily follow directions to the courthouse.
That’s pretty much all that is required. In other words, juries are made up of the same group of morons who you and I are forced to share movie theaters, concerts and the DMV with.
Lastly, Michael Jackson made shitty music.
Yup. Put that in your smoke and pipe it, bro. He made crappy, soulless pop for tweens made to sell Pepsi, rhinestone right-handed gloves and red leather jackets with too many zippers.
I’ll go one further with this: you have the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old if you have been rediscovering the Michael Jackson catalog since his death. A twelve-year-old who has been held back several grades and still cannot master the finer aspects of the tether ball.
If I hear one more person singing or even humming aloud ‘Billy Jean is Not My Lover’ I am going to ascend the nearest clock tower with my mini-14 and let the world know that it isn’t okay… via CNN.
At least such a site will knock his frightening plastic mug off the screen for a few minutes. |
