Dead child molester and incredible melting man Michael Jackson was buried yesterday, in a private ceremony, attended by 250 or so of his closest friends. Who all happen to be celebrities, and who for the most part appear to be out of work and in need of the camera time. How touching. If, of course, by ‘touching’ I mean ‘fucking disgusting’. It’s over already, let it go. He was somewhat talented nearly 40 years ago when he was black, and male, and, well, alive.
Quick question: who passed away on June 25 and brought joy to millions and made an indelible mark on his home country and the culture of the world?
No, not MJ.
Jacques-Yves Cousteau, who passed away June 25, 1997.
Au revoir, you magnificent wet French bastard.
I mean, come on: you invent the fucking aqualung, allowing mankind to freely explore the most mysterious and fascinating areas of our planet (I was going to say ‘breathtaking’, but even I have limits), and launch a tradition of French-accented comedic narrations, and you get no love?
You learn to walk backwards while looking like you’re walking forwards, call it a dance step, and you’re an icon? Fuck.
At least now I have an excuse for wanting to shoot him in the head
Credit, and admiration, where it’s due, people. At least there promises to be more entertaining times ahead for MJ, when they steal his body and hold it for ransom. Seriously, I think it’s gonna happen. Good enough for Charlie Chaplin, who at least limited his habit to underage girls, let it work on the self-proclaimed King of Pop.