Like most people, I felt a low groan emerge from my lips (a disappointed ”aw fuck!” in my particular case) when I had first heard the shocking news that Michael Jackson had passed away unexpectedly at age 50. Again, like most folks, I hadn’t given too much thought in the past several years or so about the fact that he was the greatest entertainer that this world had ever seen and that I had taken him (and his talent) for granted for far too long without giving the man his proper due.
Much like a person who had let a love one pass away without once telling them how much the deceased had meant to him or her, I became depressed and went to some random local watering hole to drown out my woes with cheap whiskey. So there I was, sat there in a dark corner of some cheap smokey bar nursing my second or third drink when a very attractive woman walks up and sits next to me.
She asked me what was the matter and I then related my Michael Jackson related sorrows to her. Apparently not listening to and/or caring about the source of my woes, she then said that she thought my hung dog expression made me “look cute” and she then continued a conversation with me to which all I could muster in response were deep sighs and wounded groans.
Without me realizing, the woman had led me by the hand out of the bar, into her car and then her bedroom where she was trying her best to seduce me and all I could think about while I was laying on her bed, totally flacid despite all her best efforts, was how fucking awful it was that Michael Jackson had died earlier that day.
