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.

2 comments:

  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....

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  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.

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