Rebbie is due a comeback
“Happy birthday, Michael!” shouted a million well-wishers on Twitter today. I dunno man – I think he’s had better. It’s been 3 years and change since the 50-year-old paedophile and occasional entertainer died in Los Angeles. Weighing eight stone, ripped to the tits on painkillers, millions in debt, puncture marks on his arms, bald as Gail Porter but not as masculine, he was a sorry-ass sight. Contrary to Internet rumours of the time he did not die because of eating 12-year-old nuts and, no, the autopsy did not reveal a 5 -year-old wiener in his stomach. It was much darker, much more squalid than that.
“Contrary to Internet rumours he did not die because of eating 12-year-old nuts and, no, the autopsy did not reveal a 5 -year-old wiener in his stomach.”
There were two popular reactions to Jackson’s death. The first: “OMG! He woz a leDgend!! Rest in peace!!”; the second: “WTF?? the guy woz a peedo!! hello??!!!” And they were both wrong. Which is to say they are both right, but not fully. Ignoring his music, stagecraft and imagination is petty because at his best he was banging. Ignoring his predilection for wanking off boys, on the other hand, is crass because, you know, that behaviour’s really not cool.
“Every douchebag has an opinion on the death of course and they come no more douchey than Joe Jackson’s.”
Quite a few things about Jackson are really not cool. Spewing anti-Semitic hate, bleaching his skin, mutilating his face into a grotesque hall of mirrors Diana Ross then lying about it to his army of slow reader fans who lapped it up like the gormless blank eyed zealots they are.
Every douchebag has an opinion on the death of course and they come no more douchey than Joe “there’s no such thing as beating a kid” Jackson‘s. The Jackson family patriarch introduced his sons to both music and child abuse, regularly subjecting Michael to beatings that went a long way to delivering the broken manchild who would hole up in his fantasy estate with carefully selected ill children, slipping them Jesus Juice when the opportunity arose. The turd wasted no time in using the opportunity of his son’s death to plug his new record label (“driven by Blu-ray technology” y’ken). What a fucking whore.
“Jackson suspected foul play . Well yeah, there’s an abusive father for starters. A conspiracy of silence about his paedophilia and a twisted desire to keep the fucked up goose laying his golden eggs. That foul enough for you, Joe?”
Jackson told journalists of his son’s death “I’m suspecting foul play somewhere”. Well yeah, there’s an abusive father for starters. A conspiracy of silence about his paedophilia, a repulsive gang of scumbag lawyers, a messiah complex and a twisted desire to keep the fucked up goose laying his golden eggs until the inevitable bitter end. That foul enough for you, Joe?
Then there was Al Sharpton weighing into the melee hogging as much of the limelight as one human being not directly related to Jackson could. Sharpton demanded postage stamp reparations. He was on some “most of my heroes don’t appear on no stamps” shit and Barack Obama found a very polite way to tell him to go fuck himself. The portrayal of Jackson by the likes of Sharpton and Nation of Islam plankton as an uncompromising black man brought down by the white media is one of the more hilarious fictions that have circulated in recent years surrounding him.
But happy birthday, Mike. There’s still a lot of love for you.