(Voice believed to be) JACKSON, MICHAEL: Hey, you guys have enough Jesus Juice? Sure? Just checking, ya’ll. I know tonight’s a school night, but I appreciate your parents dropping you off. I haven’t had a Pillow Party in two months! Feel my pajamas. So soft. Feel them right…here.
Everybody is wondering how I got off. Somebody will play the race card, and I’ll nod silently, but laugh my ass off in private. Man, when was the last time I was black? 1982? Shit. LaToya, now she’s black. Jermaine is black. Me, I’m so white I’m nearly green. Tell you the truth, boys and boys, it ain’t much of a secret.
Man, they let OJ go! OJ! The jurors forgot OJ’s history for smacking his wife around. Disregarded all the physical evidence tying Simpson to the murder. Forgave him for Naked Gun 2 ½. Looked past his insane comments and the famous Bronco chase. You can’t put a guy who ran 2000 yards in one season in jail. Just can’t! Case closed. OJ led the way for us psychotic celebrities. OJ has a son, too. I have a picture of him that I keep in my underwear drawer.
Man, they let Robert Blake loose! Robert Blake! Loved that guy’s work in Hell Town. He played a Woody-driving priest that solved crime. Can’t believe it only lasted one season. Blake was the only guy who could have killed his wife, and the jury let him go. True, the evidence was circumstantial, but it was a substantial kind of circumstantial, if you know what I’m saying. If you forgot, here’s the story. Bob and wife leave restaurant. Bob realizes he left his PISTOL in the restaurant. Bob goes to retrieve said pistol. Comes back to find wife shot dead in cold blood. Witnesses claim that Bob’s effort to appear distraught is less than convincing. Later, two stuntmen tell police that Bob tried to hire them to kill his wife. Verdict: Not Guilty. You can’t put a Little Rascal in jail. Unless he’s Buckwheat.
So why the hell would a jury convict me? I have more cash in my cosmetic case then OJ and Robert Blake will see their entire lives. Remember Thriller? When I was producing Thriller, I wasn’t making an album. I was printing a Get Out Of Jail For Molesting Boys Free Card. Shit, Billy Jean alone gets me out of speeding tickets.
Man, when they release Phil Spectre next year, it will be official. Man, you can’t imprison the dude who brought us The Wall of Sound just for shooting Barbarian Queen’s head off. Hey, it was an accident. And remember, rich people don’t go to jail. Prison is for poor people. Unless it’s Country Club prison, like Martha Stewart. People have no problem tossing rich people in country club prison. Instead of insider trading, Martha should have shot a fireman. Jurors forgive shooting firemen quicker than earning a few quick K on an insider’s trading tip. That’s how our court system works, my friends. When you’re ass poor, the county assigns you an ass public defender with no budget. You don’t get no defense team. Ain’t no “war room” set up for your ass. I guarantee you ain’t drawing no guy named ‘Shapiro’ from the public defense pool. You won’t see no 3-D computer model demonstrating how you could have possibly been in Chicago teeing off with the mayor during the time of the murder. Nope. You get a stuttering dude in a J.C. Penny blazer with three payments left on it.
What? The Menendez Brothers? Yeah, they went to jail. They’re in jail because they’re stupid. Dumb as a sack of Quikrete. I mean, who whacks their parents with shotguns, then buys Rolex watches the very next week? Still, it took two trials to send their pretty butts to jail. Two!
and nearly as smart
Besides, a guilty verdict would suggest that I am not entitled to fondling young boys. People understand that when you are wealthy, you have earned special rights. I gave the world “Beat It.” My reward is an unlimited supply of under-twelves. And if you don’t like it, well, here’s a new wristwatch. Here’s a new car. Ask me how many parents let me feel-up their sons because I bought them a new ski boat? It’s a good trade. I mean, have you guys ever had your paws on ten-year-old boy ass? Nice, right? Right? What? You’re gonna say that’s not normal? You’re just fucking with me. Later, I mean.
Yeah, my million dollar lawyers made the prosecution look like chumps. But it wasn’t like the state had an airtight case to begin with. Man, let’s look at the facts! There’s not video tape of me touching kids. At least, no tape I didn’t destroy. All the prosecution has is a finger-snapping grifter with a history of shaking people down as the ‘victim’s’ mother. You have a DA with a publicized obsession for putting me in prison. You have a kid who can’t remember how many times I was supposed to have enjoyed my weird jollies. Best of all, I got McCauley Culkin saying I ain’t never touched him.
HA! I can’t count how many times I snuggled up to a naked (and drunk) McCauley Culkin! Hee-Hee! That was some sweet ass! Tell me you never grabbed McCauley’s ass when you were here! What? That ain’t normal? Screw you! Later, I mean.
Hey, did anybody notice how dumb my jury was? One of the charges was serving alcoholic drinks to a minor. Man, of all the charges they had on me, you’d think that at least that one would stick. Nope. One juror let me off because she didn’t like the ‘victim’s’ mother shaking her finger. “Don’t snap your fingers at me, lady!” was what she said on Larry King. Teach that mother for snapping, girlfriend! Another juror said he “hopes I don’t sleep with children anymore.” (As if.) Another said she believes I had molested boys…I remember her. She was pretty perceptive.
Thank you, Jury! I invite all your children to spend the evening at Neverland.
Hey, ya’ll. You guys look sleepy. Hee-heee! Take off your pants.
I was never gonna go to jail, and deep down, everybody knew it. I’m the King of Pop. I married a Presley. Pepsi nearly set my head on fire. I paid my dues. Of course, there will be outrage. People will point to me and call me a pedophile. They’ll claim I’ve been set free to rape little boys. Here’s the ironic part: I don’t even have a penis. Nope. Lost it in 1995. Used it to build me a brand new nose. I don’t miss it much.