KING OF POP

Would someone please explain to me the need for ongoing, blanket, wall-to-wall, full team coverage of Michael Jackson’s death, will, funeral, and memorial.

Enough already.

The guy was talented, no doubt, but he was also a freak on par with Wolf Boy and the Bearded Lady – only they couldn’t moon walk. (just howl at it I guess)

His death was sudden, especially to those of us who thought he’d died years ago. (I could have sworn they were just trotting out some animatronic from the “Thriller” video.)

What legacy does he leave? Facial transmogrification through an addiction to plastic surgery and a hatred of who he is. Flood pants (with white socks). A failed bid to bring fedoras back in vogue. Stylized military jackets. Anorexia. Balcony baby dangling. Prescription drug addiction. Retarded social development. A bitchin’ ranch. Assumed pedophilia. Umbrellas on sunny days. A swath of legendary hit songs. A fraudulent marriage to Elvis’ daughter. Pet monkeys. A frightening she-male biological mother of his offspring. Flammable hair.

The list could go on.

Yes “Jacko” was an important talent, and yes he deserves a tribute, but the press and attention to this is ridiculous don’t you think.

That said, I do share a sort of kinship with the King – or at least I did for a time.

Back in my playing days scouts used to say I reminded them of Michael Jackson and I was flattered by that, thinking they were referring to our agility, ability to perform and to entertain. Some time later, over a couple of wobbly pops, one of those scouts broke the bad news to me. He said they called me the “Michael Jackson of Goaltending” because we both seemed to have a glove on our left hand for no apparent reason.

Add your own rim-shot…and grab your package – just like Michael did.