I Take Full Responsibility For His Death

That's right, I killed Michael Jackson. It's all my fault and I fully accept the consequences.

Yesterday afternoon, around 3pm some office folks and I were discussing Farrah Fawcetts' death. Someone said "Who do you think is the next one?" People bandied about Patrick Swayze, Amy Winehouse, and I thought for a moment and said "Michael Jackson." Hours later in my long car ride home, after finishing the fabulous and funny Dead By Dark audiobook I had been listening to all week, I got the call.

"Guess who died!"

"Farrah Fawcett."

"Well, yes, but guess who else!"

"Patrick Swayze?"

"No, Michael Jackson!"

"Holy CRAP! I killed him!"

That's right, at least I came out and admitted it. I would call to apologize but I don't think his family is ready to hear it yet. So instead I will wallow in my self-consuming guilt, knowing that I deprived the next generation of children the fear of thinking the Jackson-man is hiding in their closet at night.


Or, perhaps it is all a farce, like Elvis' death! He'd been having money trouble...perhaps he faked his own death to further his "King of Pop" reputation and give him a solid and irrifutible alibi for his future child molestation charges! "It can't be Michael Jackson, Timmy, he's dead!" Perfect alibi! Damn, he's good.