Vegas Baby, Vegas


I’ve missed Michael Jackson. He’s a freakshow and he makes me feel better about my own pathetic life. I run through a mental checklist everytime I see him. Strange plastic surgery? Not me. Child luring theme park? Wouldn’t even think to build one. Inventor of the moonwalk? Hell no, I rock the Roger Rabbit! You get the point.

Today is a good day because my boy is back in the news for a couple of stories. The first is that he’s suing his accountants. Yawn. Everyone knows that accountants steal and the government harvests brains for moon colonies. Not a shocker there. But there is one more interesting tidbit:

“Rumor has it the entertainer plans to take a page out of Céline Dion’s book and develop a live show on the Strip.”

Jacko in Vegas? Oh boy! I’d long hoped for this, especially as the prevailing wisdom was he’d keep molestin’ in an “old school” manner overseas. I mean, even his proud poppa thought we’d never get our fill of Michael again:

His father, (shoeless) Joe Jackson, speculated that his son would never live in the U.S. again because of the way he had been treated.

Yep, he was denied life, liberty, and the pursuit of being freaky deaky. With this news we can all count our blessings that we’ll be able to catch a Dion / Jackson double feature right before we hit the strip clubs, and afterwards we’ll plummet to our death from the 85th floor of the Bellagio. Classy!

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