MONDO EXTRAS

Do You Believe in Magic?

by Jacob Clifton August 17, 2004
Man in the Mirror: The Michael Jackson Story

Liz or somebody is all, "It's all about you." Because that's what recovery is all about. How awesome you are. The druggies rally 'round as LaToya continues to talk about how sick Michael is, and all that crap that mostly sounds true and okay but is also obviously motivated by some kind of bullshit. So it's irritating, even if it's true. Shut up, LaToya Jackson. Liz gets his ass out of there. Michael freaks out because LaToya is so "mean." Elizabeth Taylor tells him LaToya is fucking with him for her own reasons, which she is. Something horrible now happens. "You," says Liz in a terrible, clipped, fake accent, "have got to face the music." Michael, of course, giggles. "That's silly. The King of Pop, facing the music." I always wondered if he ever called himself that. Like, "The King Of Pop would like some waffles and maybe a strawberry jam packet, if you please." Michael's all, this is not a joke. He cries and whines about...some shit. I don't know. Liz will be there for him, the flying buttress of his crazy fucking freaky ass, no matter what. Her drawn-on beauty spot migrates around throughout. Michael's like, how can you be with me and support my crazy fucking freaky ass everywhere? And she's like, I will be. And that's not the weird part. Because she will be, and I GUARANTEE you are not prepared for that shit.

Pictures of naked Michael Jackson dick are being taken. Flash! Flash! Dick! Wow. Bad day, y'all. And in the corner? Bobby's holding up this huge oil portrait of...Liz Taylor. That is the weirdest fucking thing I've ever heard. I'm totally taking a two-foot-tall portrait of Tracy Flick everywhere I go, like on my next job interview, to remind me to be plucky and shit. Penis pictures, penis pictures, pan down Flex Armstrong's weird body, pan across the picture of Liz Taylor's portrait...it's dehumanizing or something. Mostly it's unending. I can no longer be dehumanized.

Manny -- remember him? The composite youngster? -- is like, totally concerned that Michael might be mad at him. He's expressing this, of course, to the cops. Dumb. "You had a special relationship at Neverland?" Well, yeah, he says. "We would pet the animals, ride the go-karts...play video games," the kind that you don't need quarters for... They cut to the freaking chase. "Did you ever sleep over at Neverland?" Yeah, of course. "Where did you sleep?" On the floor at first, then in Michael's bed. "Oh yeah? Did Michael ever make physical contact with you?" He'd hug me. Michael...likes hugs. This kid's worldly wisdom just went out the window. God, what a poorly written character. Did he ever do more than hug? Manny falls silent. The cop dudes totally goad him some more and Dad Thomas is all, "Go ahead. Tell them." And Manny's all, "See, I didn't want to? But he started, you know, to cry? And he got kind of sad? I didn't want him to be sad and cry. You know? I wanted him to be happy and have fun but..." He doesn't really say anything, because he's totally 12-year-old Seth Cohen now. Dad's like, "You did great." Meaning, Daddy's screenplay is in somebody's hands now. You can stop being a victim now. Which is icky regardless of whether it's legitimate, because: fuck anybody who lets their kids hang out with Michael Jackson. You hear me? Fuck you. You've got to know better.

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Do You Believe in Magic?

by Jacob Clifton August 17, 2004
Man in the Mirror: The Michael Jackson Story

Liz or somebody is all, "It's all about you." Because that's what recovery is all about. How awesome you are. The druggies rally 'round as LaToya continues to talk about how sick Michael is, and all that crap that mostly sounds true and okay but is also obviously motivated by some kind of bullshit. So it's irritating, even if it's true. Shut up, LaToya Jackson. Liz gets his ass out of there. Michael freaks out because LaToya is so "mean." Elizabeth Taylor tells him LaToya is fucking with him for her own reasons, which she is. Something horrible now happens. "You," says Liz in a terrible, clipped, fake accent, "have got to face the music." Michael, of course, giggles. "That's silly. The King of Pop, facing the music." I always wondered if he ever called himself that. Like, "The King Of Pop would like some waffles and maybe a strawberry jam packet, if you please." Michael's all, this is not a joke. He cries and whines about...some shit. I don't know. Liz will be there for him, the flying buttress of his crazy fucking freaky ass, no matter what. Her drawn-on beauty spot migrates around throughout. Michael's like, how can you be with me and support my crazy fucking freaky ass everywhere? And she's like, I will be. And that's not the weird part. Because she will be, and I GUARANTEE you are not prepared for that shit.

Pictures of naked Michael Jackson dick are being taken. Flash! Flash! Dick! Wow. Bad day, y'all. And in the corner? Bobby's holding up this huge oil portrait of...Liz Taylor. That is the weirdest fucking thing I've ever heard. I'm totally taking a two-foot-tall portrait of Tracy Flick everywhere I go, like on my next job interview, to remind me to be plucky and shit. Penis pictures, penis pictures, pan down Flex Armstrong's weird body, pan across the picture of Liz Taylor's portrait...it's dehumanizing or something. Mostly it's unending. I can no longer be dehumanized.

Manny -- remember him? The composite youngster? -- is like, totally concerned that Michael might be mad at him. He's expressing this, of course, to the cops. Dumb. "You had a special relationship at Neverland?" Well, yeah, he says. "We would pet the animals, ride the go-karts...play video games," the kind that you don't need quarters for... They cut to the freaking chase. "Did you ever sleep over at Neverland?" Yeah, of course. "Where did you sleep?" On the floor at first, then in Michael's bed. "Oh yeah? Did Michael ever make physical contact with you?" He'd hug me. Michael...likes hugs. This kid's worldly wisdom just went out the window. God, what a poorly written character. Did he ever do more than hug? Manny falls silent. The cop dudes totally goad him some more and Dad Thomas is all, "Go ahead. Tell them." And Manny's all, "See, I didn't want to? But he started, you know, to cry? And he got kind of sad? I didn't want him to be sad and cry. You know? I wanted him to be happy and have fun but..." He doesn't really say anything, because he's totally 12-year-old Seth Cohen now. Dad's like, "You did great." Meaning, Daddy's screenplay is in somebody's hands now. You can stop being a victim now. Which is icky regardless of whether it's legitimate, because: fuck anybody who lets their kids hang out with Michael Jackson. You hear me? Fuck you. You've got to know better.

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