So, that explains it. joe never let Michael or the other boys play on the little league team (thus they have no balls, get it?), and he "rehearsed them" with a belt in his hands so that he could give 'em a-whippin' whenever they missed a step.
okay, look, joe's a fucked up mother fucker, we get that. Let us take a moment to look at the cycle of abuse.
You know, I have to say, the "confession" of that moment just there seemed somewhat genuine.
Until he says that "us kids were so scared we would sometimes regurgitate."
7 Suites at the Four Seasons in Vegas with mannequins, a razor-scooter stand-up arcade game, and a mini-scooter for the crippled that he likes to ride around in the hallways late at night.
And the older boys were fucking groupies on the bus while Michael "played sleep".
Michael, it's okay.
You can confess your homosexuality.
you have nothing to be afraid of anymore.
Papa Joe can't hurt you any more.
It's time to leave Neverland.
Oh, now he's claiming that tatum O'Neal gave him the booty-call to claim his virginity.
I can almost see how this ends, "And she told me to lie down on the bed, and then she took my hand and put it on her penis."
Motherfucker . . . just put down $600,000 on two ugly blue and gold ornate columns, and had the nerve to quip, "[the seller]'s going to give us a deal. Celebrities like bargains too."
Oh, man, F to the U.C.K. whizzy-you, you pretentious, molesting fuckwad.
He spent over a million dollars in that tacky junk-palace in just one visit.
So, when M.J. hit puberty, he stopped bein' "cute." Some random, anomalous fan came up to the J5 when they were comin' off a plane somewhere. She was all excited, lookin' for the post-pubescent M.J., saw him, and said, "Eeew!" Papa Joe used to make fun of the boys "fat nose."
Fuckin' suck it up, Mike. Papa Joe and the belt I'll give you, but that other stuff is bullshit, and fuck you. Not even I am that self-pitying.
I can't quite catch the name of this "disease" of his, and now he's totally overblowing a denial about his plastic surgery.
Michael, this is a lie.
Oh . . . and Babba Wawwa . . . another one that drives me cwazy. "Next, the astounding revawations abowt Mwichols dawtghtuh, and why has he chosen to raise them by himself?" is my best paraphrasing of her question that, I believe, answers itself: "So he can mowest dem, Babba."
Michael claims he "snatched" his daughter, with the doctor's and mother's permission, and brought her home, placenta and all, to wash her off.
He was so overwhelmed with glee that his rational judgement abandoned him so he could dive into the limo and go home and wash the placenta off his newborn child.
Then, moments later, standing over a sarcophagus, he says, "i want to live forever."
I don't want that. i don't want that at all.
THEN, moments later, he admits that his children are incapable of leading a normal life . . . Michael jackson's soft, white, enmasked progeny . . . .
THEN tells us that he named his most recent child Prince Michael, whatever . . . Prince of what? Prince of Secrets? Prince of the Elephant Man's Bones? Prince of Receiving Bubbles' II Chimptastic Ejaculate in His Rectum and His Mouth?
I have to take a moment to say that this is the first time I've watched ABC since the cancellation of Politically Incorrect (I admit, I watched about 20 minutes one time of the Jimmy Kimmel show just to see if it's as damned by torpedoes as I expect -- it is).
So, I have to give a big, fat Fuck You ABC for trading out a brilliant and challenging show for more tripe designed to stupefy the masses.
Eeew, from creepiest to creepmongous, now he's invited some random fan into the limo for a hug and she's schvitzing.
Now he's holding "the baby," Dangler, i think it's called, on his lap, and his leg was twitching, and he was really freaky when talking about the Dangling of Prince Dangler.
Our humble interviewer just admitted to being nervous around him.
There's footage of them going out into a mob of the press or whatever, and the narration just said something like, "an environment of chaos unsuitable to children as everybody seemed to recognize . . . except jackson himself."
So, surprise surprise, he's more concerned about the perception of him (though he vehemently denies anything like that, though his every statement and behavioral twitch suggest otherwise) then he's concerned about the well-being of his children.
Hmm, i wonder why that could be?
You don't think . . . no, that's too simple. that couldn't be true, could it? Could it? But it's almost impossible to concieve . . . i mean, like was said in Silence of the Lambs, perhaps . . . again, no, it's too spectacular. To think that it was even remotely plausible that a father could look upon the fruit of his own loins and see nothing but an object.
So, M.J.'s talking about the chaotic trip to the zoo earlier, he's in some fucking nightclub sitting on a big, ugly gold throne (probably one of the items he bough in Vegas), and he's talking about how he loves the zoo and is happy as long as he gets to see the gorillas. Then he's talking about how throwing a baby off a balcony is the stupidest thing he's ever been accused of. "I held them tight and strong," and he didn't, and he's having this "rational" discussion while wearing something that looks like something Liz Taylor will (was?) be buried in. He looks like a fucking woman, and he behaves like a fucking woman.
Oh, and that's rich . . . he bum-rushes the stage at an awards ceremony, has to hide out on the stage steps while the presenter for his award steps over him to make M.J.'s introductions.
Michael, you gotta get focused. if you spend all your time thinking about soft, white, flesh, you'll be in a perpetual state of dislocation. Go rub one out a half hour before you have to do anything . . . and, for Christ's sake, please don't wipe off on anything even remotely swaddling.
Oh My Fucking God . . . all aboard the Sugarland Express! He's got about 50 children on a choo-choo that tracks around Neverland, and he's showing off the place.
Cancer-boy just said Michael invited him to stay on the bed, and said, "Then he said, 'If you love me, you'll sleep on the bed.'"
M.J., sitting right next to Cancer-boy, then says, "But I slept on the floor, right?" Then CB says, "Yeah, you kinda piled up on the covers." A moment later, M.J. says, "Sharing your bed is the most loving thing you can do with a person!"
AHHHHHHH
Then our humble interviewer says, "I was very uncomfortable after this conversation, and a confrontation [about M.J.'s apparent obsessive behavior toward children] could no longer be avaoided!"
our humble narrator goes after him again about the knife. Vehement, almost panicky denials. You know what a cop would say about a guy who behaved like that over a nothing question? "He's squirrely, he's hiding something."
So far, last segment, no big revelations. he used a surrogate mother "as long as she was healthy, good vision, and had a good intellect, then i didn't care."
"Blanket's" mother was black.
Another lie.
He also used to walk around with a doll and, aparently, his first two children were the gift of his "wife" because he so badly wanted to be a father.
Oh, and now we're ignorant because a 44 year old man feels okay about sleeping with cancer boy and the MaCaulkin kids.
"It's very loving, that's what the world needs more of."
I fucking hate this guy so fucking much I can taste my bile.
He should be castrated . . . no, fuck that. Get rid of M.J. We don't need this bullshit in the gene pool. Fuck this pedohile asshole and all his backpedaling contrivances and self-justification. Fuck you, Michael Jackson. Who the fuck are you? You're disturbed. And that's okay until you start making it a somebody else's problem, and when you're sleeping in a bed with children that are not your own . . . and most especially if those children are yours, you are fucking up their perspective to accomodate your own personal issues.
Fuck you you selfish piece of shit.
you're not a humanitarian, you're a fucking monster.
"If the world were no longer full of children, I'd jump off a balcony."
Okay, that was exhausting, and disturbing. So, M.J. wigged when he realized that someone got at a bit of his truth because he let his guard down a bit in front of a camera, so says his statement to the press re: this documentary.
Michael, you are a wreck. And you've got some goddamned nerve saying anything even remotely like you did in your statement about feeling "betrayed." How about the MaCaulkin kids, huh? How about your tiny little bleached penis in their dirty parts, huh buddy? How about that? Stupid motherfucker. You had a right to complain right up until you stopped living with Joe. Then it's your problem, not ours, not your children's . . . you're pathetic.
Yea, I do sit here in judgment of you, freak, because nobody close to you is doing it. Where were your people that let this guy come into your life and shoot all your secrets? You opened your world to us, and I am telling you what I saw: Lies. Fear. Isolation. That's you, buddy, ashamed of everything about yourself, most especially your heritage and your inability to get an erection in the presence of an adult . . . any adult.
You know what, asshole, even if you're not putting your hands on your bunk buddies, you are still spreading your issues into their psyche, and you have to take responsibility for that.
