The Jackson dive
Here’s what I know: gravy is the best condiment in the world (it goes on anything), southern California has the best climate in the continental United States and you should never, under any circumstances, hold a baby out of a hotel window. With those thoughts in mind, an open letter to the king of pop:
Michael, babe:
What’s the deal? We all realize that you look like an alien. We know the nose has been landscaped more frequently than the grounds of SMU, your cheekbones are higher than Woody Harrelson at a Dave Matthews concert, and your skin is whiter than a ghost with dysentery. But these have developed over the years.
The beard, though? Mikey, come on now. “Bad” got the whole country feeling cool and everyone knows about “Billie Jean,” but that happened almost 20 years ago. Please don’t try to set any more trends. With your intrusive stubble, you look like some sort of Amazonian animal, a tree sloth maybe.
My dog whimpered when he saw you on the television. (Here is where I refrain from making a color blind joke). Little children cry now when they see you, and it has nothing to do with the you-know-what from a few years ago.
And speaking of little children, I have a question for you. Why did you hold your kid out a window of your hotel room? Give the little guy a break. I mean, he already has to go through life as Michael Jackson’s kid, but now he’s the kid who Michael Jackson dangled out of a hotel window.
And the towel over his head? I know you’re a little Howard Hughes about germs and all, but I hope you don’t surround the guy in mosquito netting and disinfect his socks. It’s normal to get the occasional cold while growing up. Having a washcloth draped over you face, however, breaks the norm.
The worst part about the dangle was your face after you did it. You smiled like you’d just won a game of Sorry. You giggled, Michael, after endangering the life of your kid.
And now you’re suing your plastic surgeon. It’s like telling the barber the left side is lower than the right, then that the rights side is lower than the left, and so on. Eventually, something has to give.
You gave your nose. You didn’t really have one before, but now it looks more emaciated than a super model with food poisoning. How can you sue the guy? After however many hundreds of shnoz slices you’ve endured, what do you expect?
As if that weren’t enough, your last album flopped harder than a sumo wrestler in a belly flop contest. Considering your earlier career, you were once the finest performer in the country. You could dance, you could sing and you helped define the music of a decade. However, your music has evolved less than the second amendment.
You can say that the record company neglected to promote the album, but in all honesty, the country’s interest in your music has withered away like your nose. Your appeal now lies in your freak show nature.
Speaking of freaks, your ex-wife, Lisa Marie, divorced Nicolas “I’m totally confused” Cage. Any plans to rekindle the old flame? Which reminds me, why did you force the country to watch the two of you kiss like 16-year-olds at the MTV music awards? I’m not sure which was worse – you and Elvis’ daughter, or Al and Tipper Gore. Afterwards, in both cases, I felt a bit queasy for 72 hours.
In summation, Mike, I just want you to know that although I joke, although I insult and although you disgust me, I don’t want you to stop doing what you’re doing. I wrote this entire column without doing a lick of research. It all just came to the top of my mind. You’re fuel for humor, Michael, and don’t you forget it.
Most Sincerely and Respectfully,
Chris Tolles
Wasn’t that fun? Maybe next Thanksgiving, Michael will invite me to his southern California home for Thanksgiving. Then I’ll get to find out if he makes his monkey wear a surgical mask, too.
