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Michael Jackson: A Remembrance
- On a Half Century of Unparalleled American Genius and Freakery
- Growing Up with Michael Jackson (Who Never Grew Up)
- The Kiddie-Pleasing Linguistic Inventions of the King of Pop
- You Never Forget Your First Time
- How Achieving the American Dream Broke Michael Jackson’s Brain
- Michael Jackson’s Gold-Plated Crazybrains
- Farewell to the Best Friend a Boy Could Ever Have
- The Posthumous Ruminations of One Pissed Angel
- On the Tragic Loss of Charlie’s Angel Kate Jackson
Kate Michael Farrah Jackson, beloved philanthropist, terrorizer of wee butt-holes, and surely the most sinewy and blond and shampoo-commercially of all Charlie’s alleged “Angels,” died today—the tragic victim of a combination of ass cancer and a revenge killing perpetrated by what was left of her own mangled nose. (She was already desperately weakened by years of daily plastic surgery, piles of alleged prescription drugs, and inappropriate pillow fights. What was left of the abused nose—which broke off, skittered into the woods, and went quite mad years ago—used her weakened state to its advantage to sneak into her house and set the bed on fire, TMZ reports. The nose has been formerly charged.)
Kate began her career, as do so many talented, young blond black boys, taking orders from John Forsythe via a little paneled speaker box. She appeared on Soul Train and American Bandstand (at the exact same time!) before the tender age of 7 and spent her teenage years in disguise as a door-to-door Jehovah’s Witness. When she was too old and sinewy (like beef jerky! With amazing hair!) to be an Angel (or a Jehovah’s Witness) anymore, Kate started moonwalking professionally and dating a chimpanzee and Madonna at the same time. (At the Grammys!)
Stranger Personals
But of course, Kate made an equally large splash in the business world, by inventing very successful things like the popular children’s beverage “Jesus Juice” and by never paying her bills. After her tragic breakups with her first husband, Lisa Marie Presley, and her second husband, a 12-year-old cancer boy from Nebraska or something, she married Ryan O’Neal, her nose fell off, and, well, ass cancer. Ouch. Ironic, really.
She is survived by that one tall, skinny Angel that no one ever thinks about and Ryan O’Neal. She was old. RIP, her! 
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Seattle has grown a bit tired of Ardrian and his confused child-man thing. It was funny 15 years ago - not much now.
And Death is really not to be mocked ... unless that is all you have in your pen ... and as we see ... that is all.
Get a job Adrian, give up the drugs at your age. Mid life is a time to try a new direction, a new perspective. And old wounds can be left behind.
Your writing skills have become trite and stagnated.
Signed, On the Hill Boy
7
And Fnarf, just a friendly reminder that you could probably use another cup of coffee about now.
Stranger, where are you finding your talent these days? The welfare office?
Would Adrian Ryan O'Neal Majors be dying of cancer, constantly throwing up and losing all those (sighhhh!) youthfully exuberant looks (GASP!!!) that contributed to millions in hair care products, toothpaste, and had people worldwide drooling over a swimsuit poster?
I guess the Stranger IS suddenly getting desperate for writers.
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