Please Befriend Me, Michael Jackson
- I am not a Backstreet Boy. I do not have a big afro. I am not a blind piano player. I was never a child actor, or a New Age guru, or a psychic, an illusionist, a CNN Broadcaster, a Late Night comic, or a basketball player accused of rape. And despite doing countless—countless—kegels, I do not have a 12 year old’s butthole.
But c'mon, Michael. I can be your friend. There’s gotta be room for me somewhere on that witness stand. Please.
I'm only pleading with you because I want to hang out at Neverland during the off-season.
Regardless, I am here for you Michael Jackson. Subpoena me. I'm in your corner. When the Prosecution asks, “Does Michael Jackson fuck children?” I will cross my arms and vociferously declare, “Probably not!” When the nation's toughest attorneys stare me down and say, “Has Michael Jackson ever plied you with alcohol in an attempt to get you to whip out your pooper?” I will furrow my brow in disbelief and voice out, “Heck no. I doubt he'd ever do that!” Even if the lawyers were beating me senseless with snap-kicks and calling me names, I'd say, “My guess is that Michael isn’t capable of such acts because I read once that he's had his penis removed and replaced with a permanently flaccid prepubescent prosthesis.”
Surely I must have done something with my life to warrant your friendship. I just want to hang out, testify a little bit, then get some no-wait snow cones at The Ranch before you go to prison and your place is bulldozed. I’ve tried to approach other inexplicably non-human celebrities about hanging out at their bizarre homesteads, but Sigfried and Roy won’t return my calls.