Michael Jackson died today. It's shocking and all, but I refuse to be too sad. After all, he was an elderly white woman and he had a full, interesting life.
I grew up with Michael Jackson's Thriller goodness. I loved Michael Jackson when I was a kid. I opened his album to the kick-ass picture of him in a sexy white suit, all jerri-curled and hawt, holding the tiger by a chain, and I would dance and dance and pretend I was a tiger. Ahem.
So it's moderately sad that he died. I say that from the very outer-most surface of my heart...ok maybe not really from my heart at all, but maybe somewhere near my duodenum.
Before you say I've got ice cold blood running through my duodenum, consider this: the whole Michael Jackson thing has been sad for a very long time. I've mourned the loss of MY Michael Jackson since around 1993.
And now, you just KNOW he won't rest in peace. It's gonna be some Elvis-conspiracy-aluminum foil hat-freakshow from here on out. Guaranteed. Go ahead, doubt me. Come back in a few days and I'll even let you apologize.