Well it's that time of the week when Sydney Brillo Duodenum gratuitously insults and sodomizes the life of a deceased celebrity. But, what else can Sydney Brillo Duodenum say about Michael Jackson that has not already been said, other than that SBD is part of the silent majority that despises Michael Jackson and feels not one whit of pain or loss or raised eyebrows at his unsurprising self-annihilation, or even wistful recollection of youthful teenaged hours lost listening to his blathering overwrought craptacular music.
Michael Jackson was a pariah; a Pied Piper whose self-created insanity served as an excuse and will continue to serve as an excuse for people to engage in narcissistic, abusive behavior; a man who has inspired too many people to believe they can be self-absorbed, disgusting divas; a man who laid a deep, thick foundation for the celebrity culture that blights and debases our society.
Mr. Jackson's rise coincided with SBDs term in high school, which now evokes only embarrassment and shame. Particularly noisome in SBD's besieged mind is an eleventh grade party in the home of a rich private school girl in Washington, D.C., completely outfitted with cable and MTV, at which all the girls had gathered on a couch to wait for the promised playing of Mr. Jackson's opus Thriller video, the video that allegedly changed all videos. The video that inspired and launched a thousand other idiots onto the airwaves and which to this day afflicts us as seen in the morons and losers standing thousands strong in long lines for American Idol tryouts. The video that a supreme prep school boy loser such as SBD had to fully immerse himself in so as to impress the rich private school girls. It did not work. The video that only now we understand Mr. Jackson crafted to show us the Dorian Gray persona he planned to unleash upon the country in the 80s and 90s. A freakish ghoul is right. He made us all freakish idiots acting outside of reason.
But his crime against humanity and SBD began much earlier. Circa 1972 or so. A very young SBD was forced to watch various variety shows featuring a very young, afroed Mr. Jackson, clad usually in white sequined spandex and white boots, maybe some fringe, a child prodigy singing and dancing with his similarly clad and obviously less talented older brothers. He was all the rage with Mother Duodenum, who never let his appearance go by without some disproving sidelong glance at her chubby, white, grubby Catholic kumbaya singing toad of a son. SBD was Cousin Oliver to Jackson's Ben. A scar deeper than anything you would find if you pulled Mr. Jackson's sutured, chiseled and implanted head out of the cryogenic chamber his crazy family has no doubt consigned to some salt mine in Indiana for future resurrection when King of Pops royalties peter out in 100 years.
Sydney Brillo Duodenum will not engage in a long discourse about Mr. Jackson's music. Suffice to say he believes it simply sucks. Over-produced, superficial, formulistic, shrieking, guttural, soul-killing, self-reverential, self-pitying crap. The Thesaurus beckons but time is limited and SBD must drop a duece before departing for the homestead.
Nevertheless, another reason why SBD hates Michael Jackson is because over time he did his damnedest to transform himself into a creature that haunted SBD’s childhood – the Child Catcher from the 1968 film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Compare the photo below to the one above. How can anyone think that the Child Catcher was not a Bob that possessed Mr. Jackson? Mr. Jackson's reconstructions and associated difficulties with minors could certainly be explained by it.
Yes, yes, Jackson had a medical condition - vitiligo - certainly no fault of his own, but his efforts to mitigate it, and his obsession with repairing a broken nose and singed hair and scalp from shooting a Pepsi commercial that went awry, can charitably be described as a complete disaster. Was he damaged early as a child by his abusive father? Certainly and he admitted as much to other celebrity freaks, such as Oprah Winfrey. But Mr. Jackson never grew up and surrounded himself with children and grifters who aided and abetted the narcissicm and selfishness. Mr. Jackson willingly embraced his problems, aggravated them, compounded them and built them into an industry. His stories, his drama, his entourages, his fucked up brothers and sisters, his poor business sense, his rage at being successful (boo, hoo), his sexual pecadillios, his absurd military style outfits and gloves and silly boots and face masks, and that insipid whispering voice in the rare interview. It went on and on. Insufferable, juvenile nonsense. Years of it! And for all of that he is too many peoples' hero. Imagine that? This monster a hero! Adults weeping in the streets. We're to believe he was on a comeback. He had a new tour and new music ( tired and derivative no doubt of his other shit tunes) and, well, . . .Bullshit! A life of unceasing bullshit and absurdity. And people are shocked, shocked that he died at the hands of one of his quack doctors, pumping the ghoul with narcotics to keep the dancing money machine going.
Jackson was a man who could have anything and did have everything he wanted. Like many absurdly wealthy people, no one ever said no to Michael Jackson. And apparently, Mr. Jackson never said no to anyone else and they spent his money as perversely as he did, despite the shrewed purchases of libraries of Beattles music and such.
And what other eccentricities has he entertained us with?
Accusations of pederasty and blackmail and hush-up payments.
A chimp as best friend.
A sprawling ranch with carnival rides to lure children not his own (see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang)
"His" children named Paris Michael Katherine Jackson, Prince Michael Jackson, and Prince Michael Jackson II. (Oh, OK George Foreman).
The King of Pop was the King of Debt.
A possible conversion to Islam in exchange for debt relief.
It goes on and on, and yet multitudes gather to weep for the Monster, lead by shameless race hustlers, hangerson, freaks and others occupying the court of Celebrity Castle.
And the corrupting influence is deep. Not two days ago, while depositing Sydney Brillo Duodenum Jr. at Boy Scout Camp, and following a camp wide gathering of Troops on the parade field, he walked in front of a small group of high school aged Scouts who arranged on the fly a rendition of Billie Jean, complete with backup chorus and dance moves. Boy Scouts, ladies and gentleman, Boy Scouts singing Billie Jean a capella, in class A uniforms, in the deep woods. That is deep societal corruption on full display on the dirt road of a 100+ year old Boy Scout Camp.
All of this is to say that SBD despised Michael Jackson, hated his music, loathed his persona, decries his lasting, deep influence on our culture, and is deeply discouraged that any would call him hero.
He was a monster.