Michael Jackson, one of the world’s most prominent producers of weird and freaky shit, died this morning of a heart attack in Los Angeles. He was fifty years old.
Although he first rose to fame for his musical talent – first as a child, as one of the Jackson 5, and then writing and performing timeless hits like Billie Jean, Thriller, and Stop Pressuring Me About The Creepy Stuff I Keep Doing – it was his bizarre and inexplicable antics in later years that really struck a chord with the public and made him a star.
You don’t have an enormous painting of you crowning and knighting yourself in your house?
“You could always rely on Michael to come up with something unexpected and disturbing,” friend and producer Quincy Jones told the LA Times.
“Whether it was sleepovers with other people’s children, tearing his face apart with horrendous plastic surgery, clearly fake marriages, naming his two sons “Prince”, dangling one of them out of a window, commissioning unbelievably kitsch works of “art” – Michael Jackson was undoubtedly the King Of Batshit Insane. I will miss him terribly, as will everyone else who made a great deal of money off him.”
The world’s tabloid editors are today in mourning.
Moved On 
his body probably isn’t even cold yet…. wait, how long does it take plastic to cool?
Come on, it’s what I do.
I am an appalling human being.
(When I pass on, I expect derisive comments before my last breath has even dissipated.)
Wonder what his estate’s worth. Slim pickings for the vultures I hope.
c’mon, black Michael was way cool.
Unfortunately, he went a long time ago.
Jeremy:
Why wait.
You are a fucking Victorian and a fucking leftist!
Your blog is a cesspit of cynicism, a disease-ridden dungeon of despond. Your fecal outpourings are wantonly gobbled by the stunted fungi that grow in the half-light of this putrid sewer. All you have cultivated here is an army of zombie clowns slavering and snapping at society, bitching and belching and contributing absolutely nothing of value – not joy, nor happiness nor beauty, only the demented laughter of malignant madmen feasting on the flesh of civilisation. Soon they will come for you.
Shorter SB: I like alliteration and poos.
SB – If Jeremy had cultivated a hoard of Zombie Clowns, wouldn’t we collectively have MORE brains?
I do like the idea of being a Zombie Queen though. Do I get a crown made out of mutilated human parts?
Keri, zombies are matter of great contention in our household. My wife loves zombie movies, whereas I can’t stand them, much preferring the vampire genre.
I think you should raise your sights a bit. A Vampire Queen is an altogether greater ambition than being some mindless zombie. Female vampires are intelligent, powerful and seductive.
I can just see you now as a vampire queen: desire flashing through you, not having feasted for days. Your piercing eyes scanning the dance floor for sweet flesh. Unsated blood lust driving you mad, leaving you strung-out with desire. And then suddenly the scent of fresh blood hits you like a truck! You spin around. Eyes zoom across the room, then lock and focus. Your magnetic arousal transfixes him. He doesn’t know why, just feels the power, as this fabulous creature devours him with her eyes.
In an instant you are there, intoxicated by his scent, nuzzling his neck. Gently grazing it with your teeth, you taste his sweat and feel his carotid artery throbbing. He is in your power and you will be satisfied.
Why be a rotting zombie when you can have a role you can really sink your teeth into?
All I’m concerned about is what’s going to happen to Bubbles!!!
I don’t find any of this funny really. I enjoyed his music as a youngster and just felt sad for him in his later years.
He missed his childhood and faced severe exploitation in a cut throat and often ruthless industry. He was no saint but he was the product of our time.
He brought joy into many people’s lives through his music. At least give him some credit. He did do some good too.
He did indeed. He was indisputably a genius musician.
People may bag him, but everyone likes at least one of his songs.
the world is less real, when those with real passion leave us
It wasn’t a heart attack, it was food poisoning. 8 year old meat and 12 year old buns did him in.
Gotta check those use-by dates before tucking in, you know.
Oh well weez, someone had to go there.
TVoR:
This is blatantly off topic, having absolutely nothing to do with Jacko.
Pingback: Another bad week for the Iranian opposition « An Onymous Lefty