Blood on the Dance Floor?

December 21, 2008

I just read a news story that Michael Jackson is in bad health.

“Michael Jackson is reportedly in desperate need of an emergency transplant operation to save his life from a rare lung condition, according to the author of a new biography of the singer.”

First off, this would explain the sightings of Jackson in public wearing a surgical mask or scarf to cover his mouth and nose, etc. We all thought it was because his nose was so ugly.

Remember when Michael was black... and cool?

Remember when Michael was black... and cool?

Secondly, why couldn’t this have struck him in 1989 before he became a parody? Think about it. If Michael Jackson died in 1989, he would be regarded as a musical genius. Spoken of with the likes of Hendrix, Morrison, Lennon, Joplin, Gaye, and countless other musicians who left the earth in their youth.

Instead, he did a mediocre album in 1991 (Dangerous), shot a video with Macauley Culkin (Black and White), and then turned into a freakish goul accussed of molesting children, mocked mercilessly by the media.

I don’t want to think of him as an effeminate freak. Michael was the freaking King of Pop. Thriller! Billie Jean! Smooth Criminal! Not child molesting, alien looking warning against plastic surgery.


Child Abuse and Necrophilia

December 5, 2008

One of our football players was in our office yesterday evening, and he asked if I was going to be around for a while. Since it was a bad day…

“Yes, unless I shoot myself in the head,” I replied

“Well, your body would still be here,” he responded.

“In which case, feel free to go through my pockets for loose change,” I said.

“Dibs!” Colleen called.

“Oh, I’ll be in your pants, but not looking for loose change,” the player chimed in.

This begat a discussion of necrophilia with my dead body, to which I informed him that it would be considered rape, because I’m too hetero to consent, even if I can’t object in death. He didn’t find that the case, and also didn’t think it was gay that he’d rape my corpse.

I’m sorry, but if you go for the butt when you can try using the bullet hole and hump my brain, then you’re gay. At least if you’re in a dude’s brain, you can say “hey, when else am I gonna get to try this? So not gay.”

Later, this twisted individual was talking about how many zombies he could beat up, or if I could kill a puppy. So I asked him how many five year olds he could take in a fight, pointing the website with a quiz to determine exactly how many.

Well, Colleen got all offended and mad at the two of us. And there’s two things wrong with that:

#1 – We’re not monsters. She didn’t grasp the concept. This isn’t my walking into a preschool and kicking ass in a toddler smackdown. This is survival. Like, if the teletubbies – or Evil Bert – brainwashed a bunch of five-year olds and created little blood-sucking ankle-biters and I was protecting myself. These are five-year old killing machines, Colleen.

#2 – Furthermore, I should be way more offended at her, than she should be with me over beating up five-year olds. Because she didn’t get all mad and offended when this big football player was saying he was going to rape my corpse… in her office.

How about sticking up for me, Colleen? Do you think I’d let someone rape you? Dead or Alive? Of course not. Because I’m a good person.

How about a little “I couldn’t let you do that!” retort to his threats of necrophilia, huh? And it would have been nice for some support before I was corpse. Something like “Don’t shoot yourself in the head, I’d miss you.” I mean, at least give me a “I’d have no one to say silly things to me, or make me coffee in the morning.”

Not feeling very appreciated, Colleen. Remember this when you’re yelling out for help as an evil horde of five-year olds comes to go Children of the Corn you.