It would be disingenuous to say there is absolutely nothing in the world I care less about than the death of Michael Jackson. I lump him in with all the other irrelevant celebrities — the Britneys and Parises and Lohans and the parade of generic, interchangable reality TV stars and their “this year’s model” pretty-young-face dramatic television counterparts.

Really I couldn’t care less about any of them. Still, there definitely are things I care less about. People talking about Michael Jackson’s death is near the top of that list.A quick digression…

I listen to NPR a lot. Yesterday, while running errands between Hank Hoffman’s morning and evening shoots, I was listening to KCRW when the King of Pop went face-up.

To my abject, indescribable horror, KCRW cut away from All Things Considered with the “breaking news” that TMZ was reporting Michael Jackson had died.

There is so much wrong with this event, I beginning spitting with dyspeptic rage just trying to get it all out.

1: NOT “breaking news.” Relevant or not, mega-pop star or creepy weirdo whose fame has been fading for 25 years, he’s fucking dead. Is he going to be MORE dead later? Is his condition likely to change? The local news break was coming up in three minutes! Announcing that “Thriller” was about to be played on every radio station around the country couldn’t wait another three fucking minutes?

2: TMZ?!?! T-M-Fucking -Z??? THIS is now “a source,” and for NPR for fuck’s sake? YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME, PYLE!!!

To add insult to sheer, mind-batteringly-bad news desk work, the local anchor kept breaking in to annouce that they would have updates on the story as it developed.

WHAT??? What the fuck part of “dead” was going to “develop?” Were they waiting for him to transmogrify back into a black man post-mortem like a werefolf becoming human again after taking a fucking bullet? What fucking developments? GAH!!!

See? Spitting again.

Here’s my thing: Once upon a time there was a technically proficient pop star who took soul music, boiled it, filleted it, made it completely toothless and non-threatening and bubblegum scented so white people could dance to it. Then the pop star mutated into a frightening circus freak who molested Macaulay Culkin (et. al.)

Essentially, Michael Jackson was the personification of the demented psycho from a slasher movie. And yet, because he was famous, we’re supposed to forget all the unforgivable stuff and mourn.

I say fuck him. Beat it. Thrilled he’s gone.

The best thing about this media event is I’m getting to pull all my old Michael Jackson jokes out of mothballs. I’ll leave you with my favorite.

What’s the difference between Neal Armstrong and Michael Jackson?

Neal Armstrong walked on the moon.
Michael Jackson fucked little boys.

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