Michael Jackson Phone Home
To a nation in mourning over the untimely passing of a Pop Legend:
Re. Fucking. Lax.
Would you cry like this if your Magic Bullet Blender died? Unless you had formed an illicit (and may I say dangerous) relationship based on its riveting vibrations, then no madam, you would not. That’s because the Magic Bullet Blender, although still able to make us feel something, is a machine, and we don’t cry over machines.
Would you cry like this if you found out The Cat in the Hat died? Unless you are 4 years old or enjoy an occasional methamphetamine with your Cheerios, then no sir, you would not. That’s because The Cat in the Hat is a fictional figment of our imaginations, and let’s hammer this home: he is not real. We don’t cry over things that are not real.
Finally, would you cry if your space alien friend — whose race was advanced enough for intergalactic travel yet whom you managed to trap using only Reese’s Pieces — began dying and needed to return home? Well yes Drew Barrymore, you precocious little thing, you probably would. But that’s only because he taught you the value of friendship, or some such shit. We don’t cry when aliens go home.
And let’s face it, that’s really what happened here. Michael Jackson was a fantastic space alien friend who showed us some songs and dances that were soooo last year where he was from, but were totally new to us! And instead of the value of friendship, he taught us another important value: the value of not letting your children sleep over with a shape-shifting man/lady/junglecat.
Now, having imparted that knowledge, he has returned home, leaving us with only a handful of indecipherable mysteries, such as why anyone from any planet would find a baby and think to themselves “We shall call you…um….Blanket. Or Kevin. No, no…Blanket.”
So don’t cry, weary nation (except you, Blanket, you can feel free to continue crying). Just tilt your head toward the summery night sky, gaze into its sparkling glory, and remember the words of a god we created only so we might have a monster to destroy:
“Heal the world, make it a better place.”
“If you want to make the world a better place, then take a look at yourself and make a change.”
“Beat it. Just, beat it.”
Michael Jackson Phoned Home, and it was Awesomely Tragical.
VS.
Roommate of the Corn Gets an iPhone
I’ll just hone in on the one thing you need to know about my roommate, Drewbie-Snax: He is from Iowa, and that makes him a Children of the Corn.
I often ask him culturally insensitive questions, like whether he ever had a coonhound named Baxter, and whether ol’ Bax was ever fixin’ to find himself a lady dog, and when dem pups were born did he get ta keep’un an’ name it Shooter? And did ol’ Shooter hustle down to the swimmin’ hole Pa dug back round the outhouse an’ nab himself a right-good summer hare?! Hoo-weee!!
And other times I ask him if he ever saw a black person before coming to New York.
But even though he’s an amicable Iowa farm boy who politely ignores me when I mis-stereotype him as a Southerner, Drewbie-Snax has a dark side. He is addicted to hi-tech gadgets like MySpace is addicted to ugly and stupid. Seriously, browse that shit and weep for humanity.
To score his latest techie high, Drewbie-Snax got himself a brandy-new iPhone the other week. Since then it’s been like living in the Apple store, if the Apple store was a prison camp. He constantly shows me applications that can tell directions, find restaurants or even convince me that my life isn’t one horrific hamsterwheel of failure and defeat. Then there’s the one that got us forcibly removed from Coyote Ugly.
Drewbie-Snax decided to use the panoramic camera app Friday night to take several covert shots and sow them together for an “all-around” view of the bar, but made the mistake of snapping one just as Dancyboots (up on the bar with Sassyboots and Drunkyboots) flashed us her red-panty-clad underbritches. Large men whose faces seemed lovingly constructed with pebbles and tire scraps grabbed his shoulder and lovingly told us to lovingly put away the fucking camera.
“Holy pineapple sandwiches, let’s go,” I said.
“Wait, I need one more to complete the panorama,” he said.
“Oh for Sweet Baby Ray, will you put the brotherfucking phone away?”
“Just. One. Last.”
“Christ on a hot tin roof!!! WILL YOU FUCKING LISTEN TO–”
“Motherfuckers GET OUT!”
And then we were on the street. He got the shot though, the crafty bastard.
When Roommate of the Corn Gets an iPhone, things get Awesomely Tragical, awesomely fast.
WINNER:
Roommate of the Corn Gets an iPhone and I almost get my face broken. But Michael Jackson Phones Home and a nation’s brain gets broken. Don’t worry, with enough plastic surgery we’ll look great, because that has never backfired for anyone.
Michael Jackson Phones Home is Awesomely Tragical.
