Is Michael Jackson Still Dead?

I would have loved to, you know, make those teeth even whiter. Sorry... that was creepy even for me.

Oh, this? Yeah... I um... I had a deviated septum.

Joke, as it was just texted to me: "When Farrah Fawcett got to Heaven, God offered to grant her one wish. Fawcett said "I wish for all the world's children to be safe." God said "Let it be so," and then killed Michael Jackson.

So apparently Michael Jackson died. I might have caught a snippet on TV and there may have been a mention or two on VH-1. I was too busy pleasuring myself to the numerous reprints of Farrah Fawcett's red bathing suit poster from the seventies. I think Fawcett's last name is fitting, because that's what she made guys' dicks look like with that poster.

You see, I'm implying that a lot of men masturbated to her poster, and "Fawcett" is a play on "faucet." I suck.

I posted a few things on Twitter/Facebook, as I often do. Facebook is different than this site in that my "friends" are forced to read what I write. I'll put absolute filth on this site, but I reserve myself when it comes to the Twitter/Facebook in an effort not to offend anyone. Here's a snippet of some of those posts:

MJ's fans, or some of them, are committing suicide because of his death.
"And that, Billy, is what Darwinism is."

Drinking wine out of a sippy cup, just like MJ served wine at his house.

I'll pour some Jesus Juice on the curb for MJ tonight. Kids in LA are allowed to play outside again. I'd say RIP, but I doubt that'll happen.

First: If someone is such a fan of Michael Jackson that his leaving this world for his inevitable trip to hell causes them to want to die themselves, well... they are absolutely mentally ill.

The truth of the matter is, Michael Jackson was a pedophile. You can say "he wasn't convicted," and I'll say "fuck you." OJ Simpson wasn't convicted and no one's really willing to let him slide. OJ fans for the most part are like "yeah, he was a great running back. Oh, and he fucking murdered those people." Jackson fans for some reason think that because he wrote "Thriller" or some shit, that he didn't molest any kids. I'll tell you what: no kid came up with "Jesus Juice" on his own. MJ was the King of Pop, and 'pop' is not what he was serving those kids. You know, the kids he slept in the same bed with.

I used to think it was neat that he spent time with children afflicted with terminal diseases, such as AIDS and cancer. Now I think Michael Jackson did so because he figured they wouldn't live through the molestation trial.

Michael Jackson claimed he hung out with a lot of little kids because he "didn't have a childhood." You know what? I did have a childhood. I was a fat kid with pimples at the age of eight. I had a child shrink. Hey, MJ: You want a childhood? Take mine. Childhoods aren't all you think they're cracked up to be. I fucking hate little kids. Using Jackson's logic, I'd have little kids over to my house so that I could call them "fat" and "pizza face" and make fun of them for wetting the bed until they were 12.

And what the fuck was the point of all the health shit that Jackson was in to? Isobaric chambers? Always with the hospital masks (before swine flu made that look okay)... and he died at fucking 50? Is he sitting in hell with Jim Fixx having a conversation about irony?

But in the end, a life was lost. I feel for the family of Michael Jackson. I mean, they're all fucked up and crazy too, but they're human beings (except for Latoya) and are probably very sad right now.

R.I.P. Michael Joseph Jackson. You can give me moonwalking lessons in Hell.

I'll leave you a snippet from an AOL article to remind you of how screwy he was.

"Sharing a bed is a beautiful thing"

To most people, the idea of a grown man having sleepovers with teenage boys is creepy, but Michael "Wacko Jacko" Jackson has never been most people. During Martin Bashir's ABC documentary 'Living With Michael Jackson,' the tarnished pop star uttered these words while holding hands with a 13-year-old cancer survivor. A year later, the same boy accused Jackson of feeding him wine, showing him pornography and fondling his genitals during numerous sleepovers at the Neverland Ranch, marking the second time in a decade that the pop icon had been brought up on child molestation charges.The resulting trial, and media circus that surrounded it, was fittingly bizarre, featuring celebrity witnesses like Jay Leno and Macaulay Culkin, Jacko arriving to court in pajamas and the unfortunate introduction of the term "Jesus Juice." Although Jackson was acquitted of all 10 charges in June 2005, he was dethroned as the King of Pop: In March 2006, he was forced to sell his beloved California hideaway and sought exile in Bahrain.

gooch:out

mama say, mama saw, mama cu saw.

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Run Fatboy Run!

Waiting for the caffeine to kick in so that I can go for a run. Our soccer "club" if you will (and if you won't, then fuck yourself) consists of one team that broke off into two groups. The NW team consists of mostly novice players, including myself and three close friends. We have a lot of fun and are certainly not novices when it comes to drinking after the game.

The SW team consists of the club Captain, and some of the best players in the city. Even better, the captain hosts these players from outside the United States to help with soccer camps she coordinates. Sometimes these players will sub in on her team.

Let me explain something: If a person is speaking english, and the accent is so thick that I can't understand what the fuck they're saying; they're probably a damned good soccer player. It's mathematical science. Ozzy Osbourne is likely the greatest soccer player alive and just doesn't know it.

I played once with some of these players from overseas. I think one of them was discussing the pros and cons of the semi-pro contract he was thinking of signing when he got back to the UK. When someone is that good and I'm, you know, me... do I really sub out for him during the game or just let him play the entire duration because he's totally fucking awesome and in the shape to do so?

To my credit, I got a mercy pass during a playoff game from one of these players and I took the ball downfield and scored. I felt like I'd validated my existence during a game that I would otherwise be more of a hindrance than anything else. The goalie I scored on then was and is a fucking douchebag. And I think he called me fat once, too. Fuck him.

Both the NW and SW teams are playing against each other tomorrow night at 9:40p. I don't think anyone from Manchester United is playing on the SW team then, so we might be okay except that the other players are actually really good too. Fuck.

I really want to run three miles today. I hope I can do it. I'm slipping on the diet a bit. Too many opportunities to go out to eat and to do anything besides work out. Also, my switching to beer as a vehicle to inebriation will not help things I'm sure.

I'll try to post more this week. I didn't drink at all last night but I'm trying to offset the financial hemmoraging I did last week. Did fucking everyone have to be born this month? What happened nine months and thirty something years ago that made everyone want to have unprotected sex?

I've gotta go. Adding diet pepsi to my caffeine mix. Should be a good run.

Peace:In

Gooch:Out

Gooch Lives.

Sorry for the lack of updates. I sort of shut down last week. All outward means of communication were shut off. Forgetting Facebook, barely blogging, tacit tweeting, absence of alliteration... these are all ways you could describe my writing last week.


If, you know, you're a fucking douchebag.


I have a friend sleeping on the couch. Last night we celebrated her birthday. It was a grand affair. I got to have a conversation that began with "I'm not a lesbian, I'm just dating a girl" and I almost started to explain my "creative process." An explanation which, if I had completed, would have gotten me indicted by the douche court and thrown into douche prison.


"Wow, Gooch... using 'douche' for all it's worth, eh? Need a thesaurus... or a creative mind?"


I'm still writing this blog as if no one reads it. The numbers state that this is not true, but numbers don't mean a lot to me as I seem to recall failing Math 241 twice in college.

Ah... my best friends. Why is Britta blurry? It's like in Final Destination where the blurry people in pictures end up dead a few hours later.


Or just sick:

[PICTURE OF BRITTA VOMITING REMOVED BY REQUEST]

So, I like Facebook in that everyone that I bumped into in the last 30 years is now my "friend." Instead of people having to go to this site, I simply post an "Update" or use my Twitter account (which ultimately posts an update to Facebook). I like the exercise of trying to come up with something funny in 140 or 160 (depending on my means of posting) characters. Unfortunately, some people can't recognize tone or don't know me well enough to understand my humor. Humor which is drawn from depression, alcoholism, catholicism, and endless hours of watching "To Catch a Predator." Here's something that didn't make it to Twitter, but made it to Facebook:

Officer... unless there's a law stating that i can't have a shovel, zip ties, and a bag of lime in the trunk of my car, I politely ask that you let me go. I'm late meeting up with a girl I found on Craigslist.

Ah... topical and offensive. How do I do it? I have a birth defect (besides my entire face) where I was born without shame. Or rhythm (but that occurs in about 97 out of 100 white babies born, in my defense).

******
And now it's time for...

Shit I've Actually Said in Real Life:

[a girl, immediatly after sex, asking about the writing, wedding officiating, DJing]

Girl: "Is there anything you don't do?"

Me: "Um... apparently last longer than two minutes."

And that concludes this episode of...

Shit I've Actually Said in Real Life.
******

Happy Fathers day. I'm sure you're expecting one of my tired "paternity suit" jokes, but I already used it on Facebook.

Desperately seeking approval since 1983.

Gooch:Out