The period of late-June through about mid-July will go down as one of the most disgraceful series of days in the history of American media. Michael Jackson, a noted prescription drug abuser and server of "Jesus Juice" to young boys allegedly perished inside of the home of some lawyer. Why anyone would shed tears over such an incident is anyone's guess, but I guess that fat women need something to do since men no longer want to pick them up at Dave and Busters. News outlets like CNN, Fox News, and Time Warner Cable SportsNet spent an inordinate amount of time dedicated to this rubbish while Prime Minister and evil tyrant Obama bin Laden attempts to push a costly and probably fatal "health care plan" through the smoke-filled chambers of the evil legislative branch. What these outlets are too blind to see is that Michael Jackson was not Michael Jackson. The real Michael Jackson died in 1984! I know this for a fact like I know the caboose of my skanky, yet trustworthy assistant Melissa. The key to this story, however, is to find out exactly who has been impersonating Michael Jackson for all of these years.
I grabbed Melissa by a clump of her hair and dragged her out the door of my modest studio apartment as though she were a Glad bag full of trash. We climbed into my 1965 Rolls Royce Silver Cloud III with a festinate fervor and headed down the roads more travelled. I won the Silver Cloud III from the World Wrestling Federation through their Rolls Royce Give-A-Way at the WWF Wrestling Classic in November, 1985. Our first stop was to Denny's, because I needed a nice, hearty Lumberjack Slam in my belly before I could unleash my journalistic qualities upon this flat, desolate nation. I hungrily gulped down my food as though I were once again at the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Championships. On this Fourth of July, my colleague George Schmidt ate 72 Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs, winning the contest, and crushing the world record. Two hours later, he proceeded to throw up all over a police horse in Times Square. Melissa flashed the waiter, which allowed us to skip on our check as we usually can on the road. Leaving the restaurant, however, was difficult with the deluge of women's panties being thrown at me from every which direction by bored housewives and the Swedish Bikini Team that happened to be in the place.
The Silver Cloud III eventually directed me toward an area near Knoxville, Tennessee, and the compound of my good friend "Macho Warrior" Ric Hogan. Ric knows all, and is the greatest scientist in the history of mankind. I wanted to know some answers to my Michael Jackson dilemma, and I gave him some old Bazooka Joe cartoons in exchange for some clues. He led me on the trail of a Caucasian man named Frank Jespin. Jespin had been obsessed with Wacko Jacko for some time, and even coined the term Wacko Jacko himself on a bathroom wall in South Dakota. Jespin travelled to Los Angeles in 1984 to stalk Michael Jackson, dressing in drag and referring to himself as "Billie Jean." Well we all know that Billie Jean was not Michael Jackson's girl, for he was into boys, and this situation could only tailspin from there.
Jackson was filming a Pepsi commercial, a company more diabolical than all of them out there except for maybe Makita. Jespin arrived on set looking as pleased as punch for an opportunity to catch a glimpse of his boy loving idol. According to a phone interview Ric had with a friend of Jespin's who would only introduce himself as "Claude," Jespin had multiple personalities that often would come out at the worst possible of times. One such moment was during the filming of this commercial. The sickly psychological issue gave Jespin his own trump card of deceit, and he put a dastardly plan in action. Michael Jackson was a strange man as we all know, and he had demanded that Pepsi have a room filled with donkeys playing basketball in order for him to agree to such a commercial. What this has to do with anything is hard to say, but Jespin decided to ride one of these donkeys onto the set. As Michael made his way down some steps during filming, he became distracted by a man wearing nothing but a frilly toga riding a donkey. Jespin fired the basketball at Jackson, but missed, but hit a display of pyro-technics nearby. The sparks flashed a proverbial cornucopia of colors, the kind that Peter Fitchberg sees when he does his time-bending technique. They landed on Jackson's scalp, char-broiling him beyond belief. Paramedics tried to rush to the scene, but had been distracted by the Grand Opening of a Gold Circle department store nearby. By the time they were through purchasing products at nearly 30% off, it was far too late. The real Michael Jackson had died.
Pepsi did not want this sort of disaster on their hands. It was a mere eleven months earlier when singer Karen Carpenter was accidentally drowned by representatives of Makita Tools. Makita successfully blamed her death on long-time anorexia, but the same sort of excuse would not work with Jackson. They overheard Jespin singing in the bathroom, and were amazed by his uncanny ability to sound just like Michael Jackson. They asked Jespin to finish up his business in the bathroom because it was time to talk turkey. As Jespin was known to do, he proceeded to wipe himself and smear his own fecal matter all over the walls in a Zorro-like formation. He then exited the water closet in order to meet with Pepsi executives. Jespin was to become Michael Jackson, and the death of the real MJ would be swept under the rug like that time our esteemed editor Charles J. Willington accidentally killed that prostitute in Guatemala.
Jespin had about one month to get ready for the Grammy Awards, so the folks that caught that Pepsi spirit had to some explaining to do as to how a white guy was now Michael Jackson. Luckily, few in the media questioned the happenings. However, the National Journal of Truth was on top of this story like that sauce glazed all over a Salisbury steak. In an article dated in March, 1984, Journal writer Nicholas Freeman wrote an article about how the body of Michael Jackson had been found next to a body of a Yeti he found in Bangladesh. This discovery was a sidenote in an article about the Yeti, but was still a discovery nonetheless. Buried in this issue was an expose into how local comedian Greg Sterlace was actually a rampant homosexual who would sleep with local business leaders in order to get television time. This clearly kept Sterlace's career back, resigned to giving professional wrestling-like promotional interviews while wearing a ski mask in his mother's basement.
In his years following his replacement of Jackson, Jespin took Michael Jackson's career further, but also ran into a myriad of problems. Although still wildly popular, "Jackson's" later albums never sold at the rate "Thriller" did, which was the real Michael Jackson's final release. Jespin also took MJ's love of children way too far. The real Michael Jackson just liked to look at boys and take some prescription drugs for his glaucoma. This was in the days before it became well known that tobacco cured that. Jespin, however, abused drugs, alcohol, and young boys. He bought the Neverland Ranch, loads of weird animals, and quite possibly had sex with the kid who played TV's "Webster." Frank Jespin was a sick man and should not be celebrated. This is why this story needs to get across the wires of the Journal's press as soon as possible. Stop crying for Michael Jackson Argentina, for he died 25-years ago. Feel sorry for a man who was exploited by Pepsi by boycotting their products for an eternity. It is the best way of paying tribute to the King of Pop. With another victory for the Journal claimed, I took Melissa to a sleazy motel and had wild donkey sex with her for a period of hours. I then proceeded to drink a keg of cranberry juice. Victory was mine!
For the Journal, I am John Agar.