Michael Jackson moved me, all right—all the way to page 10D!
Ten fucking D!
You know what? Someone up there—I mean, someone up here—must really hate my fucking guts. Ever since Charlie's Angels, I have struggled to be paid the goddamn respect I deserve. Do you think it's easy propping up the lust of an entire generation with only a one-piece swimsuit and professionally feathered hair? IT IS NOT.
Three years ago, I come down with anal cancer. (ANAL CANCER. I told you someone up here hates my guts.) Anyway, I fight against this fucking disease for three fucking years and hold on as long as I can and seek alternate treatments and go on TV to buck up other cancer victims and amaze my friends with my bravery and tenacity and then my body finally gives out and I die. And while it sucks to be dead, at least I know I'll be memorialized up what's left of my wazoo—AP stories, prominent obituaries, the full Larry King treatment.
BUT NO. Michael Jackson—that freaky little attention whore—has to drop dead on the SAME FUCKING DAY, taking my dreams of posthumous respect with him. He gets the giant, full-color picture on the front page of USA Today. His obit starts on the cover. What do I get? A box on the upper right-hand corner directing people to my obit—which begins on page fucking 10 of section fucking D! And guess what else? There's a box on the upper left-hand corner of USA Today. Who got that box? MICHAEL FUCKING JACKSON.
I can't fucking win. Honestly, I would go up and slap the white off that bitch's faces if I could. But I can't. BECAUSE HE'S NOT UP HERE. Someone go tell that to all the weeping fatties who seem to think that a string of hits in the '80s excuses a string of sex crimes in the '90s. That's right, I said it: He raped kids. HE DID IT. You know he did it. And we can say it now because you can't libel the dead, fuckers, and that goes double if the person doing the libeling is dead herself!
Oh, shit. Gotta run. Aaron Spelling just saw me. How the fuck did he get in here?