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girl you love you some mike....glad to see that you have your own page just for himtake care
in defense of Mike Jacksonhe has been called a weirdowhite guys have done worseand nothing happenedMike Jackson is innocent
But creepy, stupid Michael Jackson fucking breaks my heart. Don't get me wrong: if he did what too many kids say he did, he should be locked up, possibly for good. And I do believe even the most mendacious of Jackson's accusers — the guy has a sick thing for boys. But as I watched that Martin Bashir documentary, the one in which Jackson admitted sharing a bed with a preteen boy, I felt the same horror you feel when you spot a committed jumper on the perch of a high-rise. Oh, no, I thought. Here we go. It wasn't just the way Jackson naïvely aired his ignorant proclivities. He laced the documentary with clues about the fetid childhood that hatched his current self: a man-child monstrosity, so repulsive no grown-up wants to play with him anymore. He never cultivated the omnipresent Hollywood entourage. He doesn't even have one passionate fag hag, unless you count Elizabeth Taylor or LaToya, and I do not. The last time he hung around a bunch of guys, he was a boy himself. And these guys, to whom he was related, saw nothing wrong with having sex with delirious groupies next to a child. But Michael Jackson did find sanctuary in his self-made sanctuary. And he did make friends: boys who cuddled and confided in him, who were allowed to run wild around Neverland in their tighty-whities, drunk on wine and parentlessness. And here's where I depart from the standard accusations of pedophilia. I don't think that's only what he is, necessarily, all laws aside. I mean, I don't see him in Michael Jackson is almost like a perverted Catholic priest. the same vein as the schoolyard pariah who delivers your mail by day and patrols the park for stray kids to snatch and bugger by night. He is not the mild-mannered neighbor who helps you assemble your barbecue and later cruises the internet 'til dawn, collecting sick pictures of tortured babies so he can rub one off before retiring. He doesn't swap tapes with his online paedo-buddies, or troll Cambodian beaches for feral, tragic children, trading pennies for head. There is no duality to Michael Jackson. He doesn't veer between two lives, desperately trying to hide his actions. He is, by turns, deeply ashamed of and terrifyingly delighted with his deeds. Michael Jackson is almost like a perverted Catholic priest, isolated in a mysterious profession that appeals to the aggressively narcissistic and psychologically stunted. Like those guilty priests, he has messianic tendencies, and he revels in leading herds of awestruck followers in his wake. But, most importantly, Michael Jackson does not think he did anything wrong. This is what makes him not just a danger to society, but the tragic product of a very specific one, honed by the brutalities of indescribable fame and a hugely dysfunctional family. His participation in the Bashir documentary was not just sheer stupidity on his part — and don't forget, he is a seriously uneducated, ignorant superstar — but rather a public admission. He told the world what he likes to do, and he told the world that he deeply believed there was nothing wrong with what he liked to do. And that's where he departs from the priests with whom he shares his monstrous bent, because no one is like Michael Jackson. You must have a hole in your soul to end up in a California docket, children pointing their fingers in your mangled face. But if Michael Jackson goes down, I will be sad. Not just because he will likely die in prison, but because everyone who had a hand in making him gets to walk into the sunshine, into their cars (no doubt birthday gifts from Michael Jackson) and drive back to their homes (purchased on the back of Michael Jackson's talent), where they'll get into their beds and sleep like the children Michael Jackson has chronically lamented he never was. His placid, vapid mother, who polished him off with a dose of dumb obedience. LaToya, who just bugs the shit out of me. (Janet, I don't mind, actually; she was the baby, and therefore the recipient of the residual shame and abuse that hangs like pixie dust over the whole damn clan.) His yucky brothers, who were old enough to know that fucking groupies in the bed next to their baby brother was wrong on every level. Every parent who dropped off, or rather pimped out, their kid at Neverland, secretly hoping that their hungover offspring would emerge clutching big fat checks in their tiny little hands. Every employee at Neverland who allegedly witnessed Michael Jackson groping or fellating little kids and kept silent in hopes of cashing in with a tell-all. And both women who acted as breed mares for money, who handed Jackson the beard of fatherhood. They should go too, all of them. I hate all their faces, and yet it's Michael who Dorian Gray-ed the legacy of growing up Jackson all over his freaky, iconic face. Michael Jackson may lie, and maybe he's lied all along, but his face does not. I hate myself a little, too, for my expensive interest in the lives of mostly damaged people I know nothing about, and people with whom I would never want to be friends. But I am full of pity for Michael Jackson. Every time I hear his beautiful music — which was the soundtrack to my own crummy childhood — I can barely remember how much joy it gave me. Now, every song sounds like an elegy, and instead of dancing, I almost feel like crying. n°
taken from here http://www.nerve.com/regulars/rawnerve/024/
I am pleased that you like the rhyme, I have never painted Michael Jackson. The best way to do it is to find a photo you really like one where you can see all the detail. Then just copy you only have to please yourself. As long as you are happy with it that is all that counts.
damn Jimmy is there any room left for others........LMAO!!
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