Michael Jackson: One crazy bofo

I haven’t really been following the trial of MJ too closely, which even I find shocking. I mean, this thing has everything an entertainment shock-gossip pathetic-celeb junkie could want: bad plastic surgery, alcoholic minors, striped penis stories, multiple failed fake marriages — one involving Elvis (albeit peripherally), Jesus, bodyguards watching blowjobs in showers, bad bad bad just incredibly bad fashion, sobbing parents, blackmail, charges of racism, homosexual overtones, pornographic stashes, parental in-fighting, “what the maid saw,” Macaulay Culkin and a chimp.
Okay, so maybe I have been following it, but oh my fucking god, how can you not?
But, you know, there’s weird and then there’s too weird. And though we’ve all seen MJ defend his habit of “sleeping with boys” as wholesome and innocent and fuck-all, we’re also learning just how far he’ll go to Peter Pan-handle some Lost Boys. He bribes, he blackmails, he even sobs and drops to his knees (a position it turns out he’s overly familiar with) and begs to be able to cuddle up next to a warm body that’s not his wife’s, his girlfriend’s, Liz Taylor’s or his llama’s.
Is it time to start piling up the CDs and running them over with a bulldozer, yet?

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