In the past couple of years, this pristine, platinum-lined publication has gained a lot of notoriety from one particular story. No, it was not a certain ornithological piece of an avian variety. It was the groundbreaking, heartbreaking, trend-setting article that showed beyond twelve shadows of a doubt that Michael Jackson was killed in 1984 and replaced by a Caucasian look-alike named Frank Jespin. This sent shockwaves throughout the world, upsetting many and sexually stimulating some perverted others. Mourning took place throughout the world, and we were there to document it, from large-scale memorials to old grandmothers crying in the aisles of the "This Is It" feature. Well, this was not it. The Journal then uncovered the shocking, secret, and incestuous past of Mr. Jespin. It was a story too hot for any other publication, but just cool enough for us. We interviewed homosexual strippers, variety show performers, circus freaks, and even Vinny Testaverde in uncovering these troubling truths. It is now my humble duty as a journalistic juggernaut to bring you further sad news in this story: Elizabeth Taylor was murdered as part of the on-going cover-up.
You may be asking yourself some questions right now: why would anyone want to commit a grisly murder of a kindly 79-year-old Oscar-winning actress or who stole the cookie from the cookie jar? The answer to the important latter question is "who me?" and the answer to the first is the same dastardly folks at Pepsi who helped perpetrate the first violent crime against Mr. Jackson 27 years ago. In a shameful and remorseful sense, it is our fault in a way. We were the first ones to start breaking this story to you, the illiterate peasant who asks the lone villager who can read to tell you what is in the articles. She may have never spoke up if we had not originally reported what we had. However, this was supposed to be a free country where you can print the truth without having to live in fear of consequences from major corporations, the Hidden Agenda, or the wrath of LeBron James. Unfortunately, we have been controlled by the British Empire for so long that we are too blind to see past our noses, and we just enter each menial, work-a-work day slaving to the grind, digging up that last bit of salt from the mine. We here at the Journal live by a few simple principles that involve not compromising our beliefs, printing the truth, and having sex with as many buxom co-eds as humanly possible.
It is with that sense of pride and the need to have wild, rageful, donkey-like sex that forced me to seek out the truth regarding the sad murder of a Hollywood legend. I knew the truth from the minute I heard that she was having "heart problems", I just needed to find the evidence to prove it. I started by having that wild fornication session, wearing out my trustworthy assistant Melissa like a kid wearing out his AC-Delco brand AAA batteries while listening to Rebecca Black screech out what the days of the week are in an insidious song distracting people from actual world events. Never mind that Obama bin Laden needlessly invaded Libya to support his own raging cocaine habit, we need to worry more about 13-year-old girls amusing themselves on YouTube! I put on my finest fedora, three-piece suit, and penny loafers that I actually stuff with $100 bills because I am rich and hopped into my vintage Mekur Scorpio. I headed off on that street of dreams with the level of confidence a team has when they are playing the downtrodden Buffalo Sabres. However, that is enough about crappy teams in crappy sports. I was out to prove that Elizabeth Taylor was murdered and I had a good idea of who did it!
My stop would be in Temecula, California. Why such a randomly named town? That is because it is the home of Larry Fortensky, Taylor's eighth and decisively most shady husband. To be the most shady is pretty bad too, considering she also married a politician and twice wed the star of "The Exorcist 2: The Heretic." Yeah, he is shadier than Slim Shady, an untalented white guy from a city most call Detoilet. I could have gone to Fortensky's home, but I knew that was too obvious. Thus, I went to a local library to browse through the records and perhaps the panties of the nerdy, yet hot librarian that I wanted to make coitus with. I combed through the records carefully, spending hours upon hours in a small room either reading through books or having my massive man-meat drooled over by the librarian. Every once in a while, I would make her fetch me some more books. I noticed in the records that Fortensky's home had recently been started to be paid for by Ms. Taylor herself, despite Fortensky only being entitled to a $1 million settlement as per the terms of a pre-nuptial agreement with the actress. Why she started suddenly paying for the home was a mystery, one that I decided to investigate further. I also uncovered information that Taylor had stopped making the payments sometime in early-2011, despite pleas from Fortensky otherwise. This information was very interesting, giving me hope for a possible motive. It was time to pack up for the evening, so I joined the librarian at her home, where I studied more documents as she rode me like a pony.
I started off the next day by secretly interviewing neighbors around Fortensky's home. They said that they had seen many Pepsi delivery trucks at the house recently, and they suspected just as I did that no one man can consume that much soda. I knew this well, as my colleague George Schmidt frequently drinks so much soda, that he has to barf it up. There is only so much Pepsi a person can drink, especially since Pepsi tastes like ass. They also saw many men who looked official, wearing dark suits, dark sunglasses, and scowls that would frighten even the most heinous serial killer. These new friends of Fortensky's concerned the neighbors, wondering what kind of shenanigans that he could be up to, considering that he met Ms. Taylor in a rehab facility for crying out loud. One neighbor showed me a photo he took of the men, and I knew I had seen these guys before. These were the same men that were photographed at the famous Pepsi commercial shoot in 1984 that Michael Jackson had been butchered at! It has been 27 years, but great journalism had forced these henchmen to come out of retirement to perpetrate another scheme. The links in this mystery began to chain together like a five-star kielbasa, and I knew I had to suck down this information like Melissa sucks down my enormous fleshy wand.
I waited in a nearby bush until Pepsi showed up at Larry's home. By waiting in a bush, I for once do not mean that I was fornicating with a beautiful lady. I walked toward the house and laid down a boombox on the porch. I hit play and then charged into the house. As Carl Douglas' magisterial classic "Kung Fu Fighting" played in the background, I proceeded to karate chop my way through the various villains as if I was one of those Milton Bradley Karate Fighters toys from the 1990s. I cornered Fortensky in the bathroom, and he began attempting to drown himself in the toilet in order to get away from this journalistic messiah. I yanked him out of the can and told him that my beef was not with him, but with the Pepsi Corporation for forcing a sad, pathetic, drunk, and sexually impotent man like himself to kill a woman he was once married to and hung out with the likes of Michael Jackson and Frank Jespin. Fortensky spilled all of the Bush's baked beans: that Liz figured out sometime in 1994 that someone had taken over the role of MJ. She did not go public at first, and then with all of her health problems, felt as if she would be treated as a crazy person if she said anything. It was only until the Journal reported on these findings that she felt comfortable to be able to release her information. Unfortunately, Pepsi heard about this first, and paid a desperate Fortensky to finish her off, his quote sounding like something I would hear in Mortal Kombat. He had been arguing over money with his ex-wife, but now realized he made a terrible error.
I notified the authorities of this and then proceeded to urinate all over the Pepsi goons, telling them that the yellow stuff likely tasted better than the swill that they marketed with Obama bin Laden 2008 campaign logos on the can. I had not been this proud of myself since the time I discovered that Miami was built on a wetland preserve and was immediately demolished. I was so pleased with myself, that I celebrated with two kegs of cranberry juice instead of the usual one. It was another massive victory for the Journal and another humiliating defeat for the not-so-Hidden Agenda.
For the Journal, I am John Agar.