BREAKING: WWBD?

Tough day to be Farrah Fawcett. First, she dies. You would think that alone would make for a pretty shitty day. But, it gets worse. Michael Jackson up and dies 7 hours later.

And with one foul swoop, that famewhore-til-the-bitter-end steals Farrah's death thunder.

Let the media circus begin! Seriously, Michael Jackson is dead, his funeral is surely to be an actual circus. Elephants, Liz Taylors, capybaras, Rip Torns...plus, you'll be able to view the Elephant Man's bones right after you view the Peter Pan-dressed casket. Gee, it is a small world after all.

Don't get me wrong, I do genuinely feel bad that Michael Jackson's kids lost their dad. That would suck for anyone. But on the bright side, they probably don't have to wear those freaky masks in public anymore. And maybe now Blanket can change his name to something a little less creepy. So, good for them.

But I don't worry about his kids so much. Kids are amazingly resilient; they'll pull through. I am, however, extremely worried about one little guy. With the death of Michael, I ask you:

What will Bubbles do?

Bubbles has already had a tough life. A constant companion to Michael Jackson in the 80s and 90s, Bubbles grew jealous and angry once Michael had kids. And in 2003, poor little Bubbles had had enough; he attempted suicide. (I'm not making this up.) After his cry for help, Bubbles was transferred to an animal sanctuary to live out the rest of his days.

Who knew that Bubbles would win that contest. (Uh, everyone.)

Newscasters everywhere are saying that Michael Jackson's death is "shocking", "distressing", "stunning". Really? Where has everyone been the last 15 years? To be fair, we don't really know what he was like behind the scenes, but if Michael Jackson was anything like the person being interviewed by Martin Bashir in 2003, then I think we can all safely conclude that he was freaky-deaky. In the worst kind of freaky-deaky way.

You know what I'm talking about, right? I mean, I'm not saying he was a kid-fucker...

No, I am. I am saying that. He was a kid-fucker.

He was a weird kid-fucker who collected tchotchkes, and he also wrote some amazing songs. In that order. Kid-fucker, tchotchkes collector, song writer.

Am I shocked that he died? No. Am I distressed? I'm more distressed about paying bills. Am I stunned? Yes.

Oh, sorry. I meant no.

But I'm not totally heartless. For instance, I just typed this entire post while wearing one rubber yellow dish washing glove on my right hand.

HEH-HEE! Woo!