Wednesday, January 05, 2011

Latoya Goes to Court

     I woke up this morning and had to see Michael Jackson and his fucking looped up, retarded family on my TV screen, and boy, that just wrecked my fucking morning.
     I can not even begin to adequately describe how sick I am of that man and his family, okay?  There aren't any appropriate words for it in the English language.  Maybe if we spoke a language that was like an Eskimo language with its 46 different words for snow or whatever - like one word is for icy snow, one for fluffy snow and so on and so forth - that had a plethora of words for hate and disgust I could find it, but as is there really isn't a word that I know of in our language that quite describes the feeling.  It is a mixture of hatred and disgust and physical illness combined with like a half teaspoon of envy and a couple of cups of weariness.
     So why were the Jackson's on my television this morning?  I can tell you all about that too.  See, Michael died in a pool of drugs a while ago, and now for some reason the authorities are going after his doctor for a laundry list of transgressions relating to his death.  Fine, whatever.  I don't feel the need to discuss the details of his life and/or death today, so I am not going to.  But what I can tell you is that his family was there - certain members of his family.  His mother was there, and she talked to the media for just a moment or two, and I suppose I give her a pass.  Ms. Jackson (I'm sorry Ms. Jackson -whoo!- I am for real!) has never been one to throw herself into the media spotlight, and to be honest I don't think I had ever seen what she looked like before today.  And if I am remembering correctly there was a son names Jessie there with her, although I don't seem to remember that member of the Jackson family, who did not speak to the media.  I am going to assume that he was there with his mother, since I saw him holding her arm all the damn time.  But the one I think that really got me going was Latoya.
Latoya.  And her boobies.
     Oh Latoya.  First of all, you have a name that looks like something I would see on the back of a pickup truck in some sub-Saharan African country.  You know, one of those trucks that is filled with like twenty-four young men in the bed and is clearly straining with all its might to stay upright and propel itself down the dusty road.  Second, nobody cares about you, and I can't help but shake the feeling that the only reason you went to the trial was because you needed that 15-minutes-in-the-spotlight fix again.  And that just isn't right, yo.
      That is why I hope it isn't so.  That is why I so desperately hope that the dried up never-has-been wasn't at the trial of a man accused with aiding in the death of her brother, just so that her pickup truck name would be mutter on Good Morning America just one more time.  I hope that isn't true, but I just can't seem to believe it.  I mean, I will be the first person to admit that I don't know the first thing about Latoya Jackson, but I just have that feeling.  Maybe I am cynic.  Maybe this is just like when I stuck my foot in my mouth about the whole Mutual of Omaha thing.  I don't know.  I hope so.   But I just can't shake the feeling.  I guess we will have to see if she is on there again tomorrow.

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