MIghty Glove Man Gets Off On Child Molestation Charges

Wait. That title doesn't sound right. But you know what I mean.

I wrote this for some other blog I was writing in. Then I remembered I had this place and I decided I would switch it over here. This took place the day Michael Jackson got off...I mean...was acquitted of all those charges.

You know what I mean, right?

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So Michael Jackson is innocent, huh? Wait, no. Michael Jackson is “not guilty.” I don’t think that any man who is that effeminate, wears frilly clothes, and can sing soprano without a kick to the balls can really be called “innocent” by any stretch of the imagination.

Those kids he molested. They are innocent. Or, rather, they were.

I got home from work today and I screamed at my roommate. “DUDE!” I said. “Turn on the television. They’re about to convict the mighty glove man right fucking now!”

You’ll have to forgive me for my excited state at the prospect of the conviction of Michael Jackson. You see, my job is incredibly boring. I sat at my desk, staring at a blank computer screen this afternoon just to see how long I could do it before somebody said something to me. I waited one hour thirteen minutes and fifteen seconds. That’s a long damn time to sit around doing nothing productive. Even in Columbus, Ohio!

The sad thing is that I would love to do more work, but management has determined that I already do far too much and the only ideas I have for process improvement would increase efficiency; thereby enabling my co-workers and I to get even more work done. This would result in more complaints from management.Strange. I thought this sort of backward thinking only took place in the hallowed halls of academia. I must have been wrong.

Since you can only stare at a blank computer screen for so long, I check CNN regularly, along with my e-mail, sports scores, and the various and sundry blogs and journals I like to read from time to time. The big news today was, of course, the Jackson trial and the impending verdict, and I had been following it since at least two o'clock.

I found it odd that at around 4:00, when the newspeeople learned of the pending verdict, they began nonstop coverage of the courthouse. All the major websites ran splash covers of Michael Jackson looking pissed off and deranged with big, bold letters that read, “Wacko Jacko about to get Jacked up!” and “This Decade's Crime of the Century comes to a close” and “Click here for a year's supply of Viagra!” How is it that all these popup ads seem to know my personal problems.

Did I just say that out loud?

I left work at 4:00pm and I honestly believed I would know the result by the time I got home. But I didn’t. I thought the jury was already seated with his majesty, the clown prince of insanity, awaiting a conviction that would surely send him to a federal “pound me in the ass” prison for a long time. I'm an avid fan of Law and Order. I know how these things work. It turned out, however, that he hadn’t even left his home yet, so I had to sit on the couch while my roommate and I watched the former child prodigy make his way from the loony bin he calls a home to the other loony bin known as the Santa Barbara courthouse (the entire California judicial system has gone full tilt boogie, in my opinion).

I fell asleep. And while I slept, I dreamt of a world where justice prevailed in all instances, and where celebrity and social status were incongruous with such high-minded moral principles. I dreamt of the a place where the quality of one’s work – for better or for worse – did not determine his or her value as a person in society; where the evil were incarcerated, the innocent kept safe in their homes, and the bringers of peace and law were always wise and good. Then I realized that where my mind had taken me was somewhere very close to the Socialist utopias described in the works of Marx and Hegel, and yearned for by Upton Sinclair and the more recent (and equally as brilliant) E.L. Doctorrow and Kurt Vonnegut. I realized this and woke myself up quickly.

We can’t have those foul thoughts running around in my brain, now can we?

So I awoke to see Janet Jackson, whom, I had forgotten, was related to the king of all freaks, standing in front of a Santa Barbara police man who was in the process of using a metal detector to check for what I can only assume was some type of terrorist bomb or vial of Bocculinum. However the hell you spell it. Judging from the angle of the policeman’s gaze and the snicker that rose upon Miss Jackon’s face (hers actually moves!), I could tell that the policeman was hoping against hope for one of those wardrobe malfunctions that took place two Super Bowls ago. his wish was not granted.

Shepherd Smith and the Assistant of the Week(TM) blabbed on in the background like bad color commentators in a pointless baseball game.

“Michael is afraid,” Shepherd said. He was on a first name basis with the Sultan of Strange, apparently, even though I imagine that the two have never met. And if they have, God help Shephers Smith’s children. “Michael is feeling scared and alone at the moment,” he said. “If the jury brings a guilty verdict, it means that Michael will never again return to his beloved Neverland Ranch.”

“Yeah, Shep," the nameless assistant said. "We got it. Life in prison. That tends to happen when people are convicted of playing naked leap frog with kids. “

“Michael has a stern look on his face. You can see the fear from a mile away.”

“Actually, Shep, I think he spilled some water on his face and it hardened. Plaster can do that if you get it too wet. It looks like he’ll have to break out the hammer and chisel in order to get out of this one."

The collection of pathetic fans that stood outside (Jacko’s wackos, as I like to call them) held signs professing their love for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, decrying the Santa Barbara courts as corrupt and racist. Normally, I would agree with their assessments, but this time I didn’t. This is partially because I believe the erstwhile King of Pop to be as guilty as Charles Manson or Scott Peterson or even Orenthal James Simpson. But mostly I just didn’t want to be lumped into a group of people who welcome several individuals who have surgically altered themselves to look exactly like Jackson as he now appears in his current form.

And they say us Star Wars fans are weird. Hey, at least we can take off the Wookie costume at the end of the day.

They read the verdict and, one by one, Jackson was cleared on all charges. The freaks outside rejoiced while the freaks inside sighed in relief. I watched as the entire Jackson klan filed out of the courthouse with the wide eyes and sallow faces of speed freaks in search of the next great binge. Their faces told a story I have seen all too often on the sad streets of the poor and downtrodden.

They said, “Another bullet dodged. There is still freedom in the air! But for how long? My past deeds hang o’er my head like the sword of Damocles, swinging closer; ever closer. The sharp blade has missed on this stroke, but even now it reaches its apex and has begun a fast arc back towards what will eventually be its final resting place. My past come back to haunt my future through each of my waking steps!”

We all know that, as soon as the family was safely entombed in their SUV’s for the long ride back to Neverland, Michael turned to the sad faces of his father and said, “You know, Dad. I learned it by watching you? You know that right?”

Joe Jackson tells his youngest son to shut up, that he doesn’t know what he is talking about. He thinks that his family is sane, and that they will soon return to normalcy once the media attention dies down.

Meanwhile, Michael stares out over the rolling hills of southern California, dreaming his secret dreams no person in their right mind would ever want to see. He knows he will be caught and punished one day.

"But not today," he thinks with a shudder that turns into a sly smile. "Not today."