You see, back in 1996, Michael Jackson was still pretty cool. Well, he wasn't, but at least I was too young to realise that the world considered him a complete and utter fucking disgrace. I was hit in the face with cold, harsh reality, when the infamous Martin Bashir documentary was made available to the public.
People were outraged at Michael's lifestyle. They proclaimed that this documentary was a chilling insight into a man's descent into madness. Intrigued, and still somehwat aroused by the thought of a potential scene depicting Michael Jackson sensuously bathing in private, I tuned in. My reaction? Michael Jackson still rules, lame haunted house specials and all.
Michael does pretty much what I'd do if I had access to a billion dollars and unlimited songwriting genius. I, too, would lead underpriveliged ghetto youths on a magical tour around my homestead. I, to, would install a wacky funfair in my home, complete with James Bond-villain-style monorail. Not only could I entertain AIDS-packed street kids, but I could lure meddling secret agents into inescapable death traps from the comfort of my own monorail!
I, too, would have a little ice cream stand in the middle of my garden. And trust me, as anyone who's spent longer than twenty-four hours around a baby would know, it's awful tempting to hurl it out a window at 180 m.ph. and send it splattering to its death. As far as I could see, Michael was behaving normally.
Bashir attempted to make something out of nothing. At a German music show, Michael forgiveably misunderstood a cue in the German language, and ventured onstage to receive an award. However, due to the fact that the fucking idiots were speaking German, the cue turned out to be for someone else, and Michael, thinking quickly and unable to speak German, ducked down to avoid public humiliation. The film then cuts instantly to Bashir staring, open-mouthed in horror, as if Michael had just chowed down on a succulent dish of fried kittens, jellied orphans and hard-boiled babies. The narration went something to the effect of, "It was the most embarrassing thing I had ever seen in my life". What, THAT was embarrassing, shocking and chilling? Michael misunderstood the admittedly wacky German language and then ducked down? Christ almighty, someone phone the President and have him assign a crack paramilitary unit of Rap Agents to eliminate Michael in a heart-punding Rap-Off Contest!
Michael also climbed a tree at one stage. He asked Bashir if he wanted to climb as well. Bashir declined. And the tree had fucking steps installed to it. In case you haven't picked up by now, I believe Martin Bashir is a total dickeater. Michael came off relatively harmless. After all, anyone who brought up his kids to hate Star Wars Episode II can't be all bad.
People were outraged. Sure, he sleeps with kids. ho doesn't? If you think it's so outrageous, you go and earn billions creating early-90s gay nightclub hits such as "Bad" and make your own documentary. Then eat my shit.
The truth is, Michael has given us so much, he deserves to have sex with the bodies of whatever soft, supple youths he can obtain. He gave us "Ben", his ballad about a rat or something. He gave us "Thriller", in which he:
1) wears this fucking awesome red lather jacket thing.
2) dances ALONGSIDE ZOMBIES!!
Fact: anyone who wears a red leather jacket whilst simultaneously dancing alongside zombies is automatically granted permission to act like a maniac whenever he wants.
In his video for "Black and White", he thoughtfully included a brief segment in which Macauly Culkin raps on an inner-city, graffiti-sprayed street, alongside even more ragtag youths. This segment slaked the thirst of those who, like me, desired footage of Macauly Culkin rapping.
He also gave us the film "Moonwalker", which consists of 40 minutes of unrelated music videos, followed by a long and confusing film. This film focuses on Joe Pesci, who plays "Mister Big", who attempts to hook all of the world's kids on drugs. Michael foils Pesci's plans by turning into a robot Transformers-style rocket car or some shit. Honestly, I can't remember, but it was totally fucking awesome.
In conclusion, Jackson has earned the right more than any other rad 80s pop star to do weird shit in the privacy of his own mansion. Except for perhaps the Prince of Pop himself, Prince. And the one surviving memeber of Milli Vanilli, the aptly named "Fab".
The End.
If you seek more information on Michael Jackson, please dial 1800-INHISBLAZER. The winner will receive my balls in his face.
