Friday, June 26, 2009


Oh, fucking vomit. The last damn thing we or anyone need is to hear Donald Trump talking about Michael Jackson, & how he really knew him well, & blah blah blah. Yet we just heard it. Fuck you six ways to Sunday, Trump, you colossal asshole!
This is, essentially, the first sudden, unexpected, under odd circumstances, at a (relatively) young age death of an admittedly International Pop Superstar in the current non-stop media environment. The deaths of Elvis & Lennon, far in the misty past, were nothing like this; Squirt Cobain was not the world-wide weenie Jackson was. We've seen the future, & that glimpse makes us glad that we won't be on this planet of putrid idiocy for more than forty yrs. (At the very upper maximum.)
Note to telebision news people: The story is over. The sick fuck is dead, he will not be returning. All else is foam & idiocy. Shut up & go away. The next talking bobble-head that re-spouts any of the cliched crap filling our living rooms should have his or her lips permanently zipped. And the next head that babbles "Ha ha, we bet South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford is happy about this," should have his or her tongue removed, permanently & painfully.
Was the sad little clown a massive talent, or sadly fucked-up, easily manipulable puppet of actual talents Berry Gordy & Quincy Jones? Think about it, if your mental processes haven't been permanently damaged by this orgy of inane celecrity idolization crapola.
Also. Chopped liver:

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