Thursday, June 25, 2009

Nobody Loves You When Yer Down And Out

I been gone all day to my grannies 95th birthday and I saw that Farrah Fawcett had died before I left, not unexpected but they gave the lady a scant paragraph on the front page, which I would have thought she deserved a little more ink than that, ya know?

While I am gone, I hear Michael Jackson died, heart attack.

I come home and they have turned the front page of the LA Times into a fucking memorial to the freak.
A full one third of the front page with a big picture and his birth and death dates in giant font.
I ain't linking to it, it will be ancient history soon enough.

But,somebody is fucked up here.

That dude sure as shit was.

He spent a million or more paying some shady plastic surgeons to turn him from a fairly attractive black man into a butt ugly white woman.
Not to mention the persistent rumors and legal charges that he was a fucking pedophile.

Farah Fawcett had her fucking problems too but she was a hottie in the day and shaped an entire generation of girls opinions , fashion and hairstyles.
Not to mention causing every red blooded American male to, ahem, experience tent pants syndrome, if ya catch my drift.

I ain't trying to blow her image up, I am just questioning why the hell she gets one paragraph and freak boy gets over a half a front page.

I must be missing something, he was a year older than I am, she was twelve.
I remember him when he was a little boy singing ABC back in the day and I remember her when she came out with that poster.

Michael Jackson did a lot of wonderful things and he still has a HUGE fan base but I am here to tell ya, he went off the deep end a long fucking time ago.

RIP both of ya.


  1. Freaks are always heralded by the media. Makes 'em feel like they're being "diverse", "inclusive", or some such bullshit. Fuckin' political correctness garbage....

  2. I feel a lot worse about Fawcett. There's some kind of fucked-up universe shit going on when someone as spectacularly gorgeous as Farrah Fawcett dies of something as ugly as anal cancer.

    But hey. I'm in a hotel room in Cologne, Germany after being overly condescended to by a phony solicitous German waiter serving me a piece of over-breaded schnitzel. I have a headache from downing a glass of Riesling when I usually don't drink, Mr. Brilliant is like 3500 miles away, I'm a political ping-pong ball between two warring factions at work, and it's going to rain all weekend.

    I wanna go home.