Since so many disappointed people are hanging on to my little political site, calling me an asshole, a moron, a retard for pointing out that a child molester’s dying isn’t necessarily all bad (makes it hard for them to terrorize any more teens), I realize that they might be waiting for some acknowledgment of the beloved entertainer’s penchant for sweetness and light. Some simpatico in agreeing that Specialness did, indeed, flood pink-perfumed wonderful into this colorless world.
Jackson fans, you got it…
5.) Michael Jackson’s Chimp Bubbles Tried to Commit Suicide in 2003.
The year seems to be ending on a bad note for some of the male pop-stars on the international scene. Several of them are battling law-suits or the ire of fans. Heading the list is Michael Jackson, who was formally charged with child-molestation last week…
Adding distress to the singers plight was the fact that his favourite pet, a chimpanzee named Bubbles tried to commit suicide. The chimp was rushed to the hospital in time.
4.) Mr. Potato Head, Previously Known to Be Inanimate, Pukes.
3.) Louie The Llama’s Baby Kin Torn Apart by Dogs.
2.) Jackson’s Nanny Routinely Pumped His Stomach to Keep Him Alive.
[Grace Rwaramba] paints a grim picture of Jackson, sometimes penniless but deluded about his “riches”, leading a nomadic life, moving from country to country and hotel to hotel, before allegedly falling under the increasing influence of the Nation of Islam, the extremist sect.
Jackson is believed to have been taking up to eight different drugs a day, including three narcotic painkillers. Rwaramba, who is expected to be interviewed by detectives about whether she helped administer the drugs, said: “I had to pump his stomach many times. He always mixed so much of it.”
1.) Jackson’s Youngest Child Is Named
Hex Bolt Blanket.
Selections from My Name is Blanket
© 2046 Blanket Jackson
As told to Paul Ford
My father Michael wanted to protect us, to give us inauspicious, normal lives free of the media spotlight. He accomplished this: by allowing documentary filmmakers to record our childhoods, by dressing us in feathered Mardi Gras masks and gauze when we left the ranch, and by dangling me out of a window with a towel on my head. In retrospect, the logic of his parenting was ambiguous at best. Nonetheless, I had my own giraffe.
My name was a problem. I had no regular playmates, aside from my siblings and the occasional busload of orphans. But on the occasions when the ranch had any visitors my own age or slightly older, they would call me Pillow, or, if they were French children, Duvet.