So Many “Sides” to Every Story

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Michael, we hardly knew ye. Well, we wish we hardly knew ye.

So much potential…so much potential. Sadly, that large thing lurking in the background of this picture is not a huge tree. It is insanity.

Is this the seventeen millionth blog posting about the death of the King of Poop Pop? Yes. Has everything that could be said about it already been said? Yes. Do I give a fuck? Hell, no! My three readers have probably avoided reading the other stuff until now anyway, due to their hating Ol’ Wacko Jacko. Unfortunately for them however, they are mostly family and thus feel obligated to read this particular blog posting.

With all of the focus on unpaid debts, shit-flinging life-long monkey companions, and minor annoyances like multimillion dollar hush money payments to loud mouthed children, some of the wonderful lessons Michael taught us have been lost. Since it is hard to put a more positive spin on his passing than, well, his passing, I won’t dwell on that here. I would just like to acknowledge some of the important contributions he has made to our collective general psyche over the years. Some rules-to-live-by, if you will:

• White guys (or guys of any other shade, for that matter) should never put on a white glove, fedora, and jeri curl to go to a high school dance. The chances of getting laid that year will plummet considerably, as will the chances of ever getting laid in any other year in that town, or any other towns within the range of telephones, letters, or rumours. Might as well skip the reunion, too.
• Moonwalking is for people who can actually moonwalk. All others should practice more, or fuck off. Consequences of non-compliance with this rule can include those outlined in item one.
• Dangling infants from hotel balconies, while once a perfectly acceptable practice in some parts of the world I am sure, is not a good idea in Europe. Or anywhere else where people know how to operate cameras, think rationally, or have one single iota of common sense anywhere in their bodies.
• Letting your kids sleep over at a rich guy’s house, with him, in his bed, is not quite the harmless practice leading to fame and fortune that one might think. No matter how many Llamas, roller coasters, and tight-lipped, well-paid security people the rich guy might have, improper conduct may occur. Actually, maybe we should just not let our kids sleep at any guy’s house, in his bed, ever. For any reason. Or should that be “for obvious reasons?” Simple test: Neighbour Dude: “Hey, can Johnny come over to my house tonight for a sleepover with me in my bed?” You: Option 1: “No, you fucking pedophile!”, Option 2: “Sure, just let me pack up his toothbrush and innocence. You boys have fun!” Trust me, the correct answer is Option 1. How could you have let me go, Mom and Dad?
• Surprisingly, being stinking rich does not protect you from the public scorn directed at you for your stupid and psychotic actions, only the consequences of those stupid and psychotic actions. Yup, it’s true. Even after the cheques have been cashed, people might still think you are a douchebag. Sorry Mad Mel and OJ (Round 1 anyway).
• Finally, Michael taught us that change is not always a good thing. If you start out life as a good lookin’, ‘fro-sporting African American dude, it is okay to end it like that, too. At no point in one’s life should one succumb to peer pressure or insurmountable insanity and spend millions morphing into a baby-powder white, tinkerbell-nosed, freakish ghoul. Even if you have the money, and that hair-straightener that got re-gifted back to you from your niece last Christmas.

It’s probably a good thing it happened when it did. Two more shades and he would have been clear. Then we would be able to see the inner workings. I picture a lot of demons with a poor little ‘fro sporting kid tied to a chair and gagged. He’s got to be in there somewhere.

Unfortunately, Michael’s death has put millions of losers worldwide into a state of misguided mourning and holocaust-denier-like vehement ignorance regarding the less savoury aspects of his life. Fortunately for me, however, I have a new potential guest for future editions of From Beyond the Grave. Once he’s done with all of the lake-of-fire stuff and has a spare moment, that is.