Like a punk.
Let’s face it, people: He did not die like Tupac or Biggie. He didn’t die like Sam Cooke. Michael Jackson’s death is not a “tragedy,” as the idiots on TV insist on calling it.
He died like a plastic-surgery addled pedophile freak. He orchestrated a sham wedding with a foul-mouthed slattern whom he paid to bear test-tube children biologically unrelated to either of them. He built a bizarro fantasyland home and used it to attract the little boys he molested. He wasted gazillions of dollars on shopping sprees that would make Liberace blush, and died bankrupt.
He is unworthy of remembrance, and anyone sucked into this televised vortex of fake mourning is a fool.
Also, my traffic has been down ever since this mawkish memorial service began, and I can’t forgive that.
UPDATE 2:40 p.m.: Brooke Shield is now getting goopy on live TV. What a waste.
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