I'm not at work today, because I had to call out sick so I could fly to LA so I could briefly take off my Canning Operations Technician hat and put on my Aging Motown Star With a Mild Case of Typhoid Fever hat, which I had to do because they asked me - Smokey Robinson - to open the festivities at the memorial service for Michael Jackson, who is with Tupac now, by reading letters from Diana Ross (friend of the blog) and Nelson Mandela (NOT friend of the blog, or if you prefer, friend of the NOT blog). That's totally worth faking an illness for. I told Rex "the Supervisor" Hymen that I had an aortic dissection. What is that, by the way? Does it clear up in 24 hours?
For the record, Diana's letter was awesome. But that Mandela dude - it's like he's from a different continent or something. Or that he's incontinent maybe.
Of course, the most fitting and moving tributes came courtesy of Magic Johnson and Kobe Bryant, because who better to commemorate Michael's years in the NBA than two of his former Laker teammates? Personally, I'll never forget that time during the '87 Finals when he elbowed Robert Parrish right in the Adam's Apple and got ejected with the Lakers down by 2. Kuh-razy, right? And then he moonwalked off the court yelling "ho!" at the top of his lungs... so typical. I was sitting courtside with Jack Nicholson at the time, while a young prostitute named Hugh Grant was going down on me.
Anyway, so long, Michael. I'm glad America forgave you for being weird and perverted. There's probably a lesson in there for George W. Bush and Dick Cheney, but I don't have any idea what that lesson is.
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