A freak has died.
I think that it should be entered into the official notes that I do not give half a flying flaming fuck about Michael Jackson’s death. In the beginning it was an interestingly trivial event on a Thursday afternoon. Then it became an overly saturated media storm of echoed reports, each stating that they have no information on the matter. Call me old fashioned, but I was under the impression that if a news station doesn’t have anything to report on then they shouldn’t, you know… report on it. So instead of waiting for the story to unravel like one of Michael Jackson’s pink angora sweaters, they started repeating hearsay that they found in the streets. Not only were they trying to pass off a reclusive homosexual’s death as a valid news story, but they stooped to relaying rumors that Mariel’s friend Chico had heard from the cocoa Barbie doll’s dermatologist’s girlfriend. And then L.A. threw him a party for dying. Well done, Michael. We’ve been waiting for you to die for years.
1.4 million dollars. To put that in longhand, it comes to $1,400,000.00. 5.6 million quarters. 28 million nickels. That’s how much tax money went into the city’s acknowledgment that a Diana Ross fan has died. Am… am I missing something? Did Michael Jackson cure cancer? Did he bring peace to war torn nations? Did he single handedly thwart a terrorist plot to take over the Nakatomi business plaza on Christmas Eve? No, he didn’t. He shuffled around and sang popular songs… twenty years ago. For some reason, that entitles him to a 1.4 million dollar hero’s send off in California. No wonder those granola munching soy latte drinking sycophants are drowning in a raging river of their own debt. They cut school budgets and health care, but the queer Thriller guy gets a Viking funeral, by God!
As of the moment I am writing this, his expiration has evolved into a full blown god-damned annoying media exercise of milking every last drop of advertising blood out of a dead plastic stone. The man-thing has been placed in the earth, but the media outlets are still trying to fan the dying embers of public interest by doggedly reporting that he is still dead. A little fact that is a surprise to no one. I’ll be the first to admit that if he RETURNED from the dead, CNN and FOX had better be on that shit like a duck on a beetle! I want to know EVERYTHING about that story, down to what he was wearing because I judge an event of such biblical rarity important enough for the same manner of guerilla news coverage that his death has received. The fact the he died was interesting for a couple of minutes, but it didn’t come as a surprise. The human death rate on planet Earth has held at a steady 100 percent since the dawn of man, and I don’t think that the contribution of the guy that Pepsi blew the fuck up merits extra scrutiny on the matter.
Now what is going to be good newstertainment is the family’s mad rabid battle royal for the dead man’s shit. His mother has already started walking through his estate spitting on the stuff she wants and yelling ‘Dibs’. I am confidant that the media will keep a hyper vigilant eye on that little calf scramble, or giraffe scramble as it were. What is the legal precedent for dividing up a zoo? Who gets the ‘No-No Touch’ themed amusement park in his backyard? Who will receive the oxygen tank and Elephant man’s skeleton? As long as it’s not Latoya. I’m just sayin’ is all. I fucking HATE Latoya… and I don’t know why.
Farah Fawcett died the same day as the gay mocha Hollywood Ken doll, but since she never moon walked (that we know of) and didn’t own a theme park in her back yard, the media gave her a brisk twelve seconds of coverage before throwing themselves on the Michael Jackson grenade. The only thing of note that she accomplished was lead a long and valiant struggle against ass cancer. That’s right. She fought ASS CANCER. Cancer in your ass. That you fight. That’s a hell of a lot more impressive than having a son named Blanket.