My Interview with Michael Jackson by Chris Elliot In an effort to develop new material for one last run at the top of the charts, Michael Jackson tossed his child out a fourth floor window this morning stating, "Anything Eric Clapton's baby can do, my baby can do." Jackson is said to be devastated, just like a normal human would be, and has announced he will be spending the next six months in surgery, having that emotion attached to his face. "I sense his tears in the sky, or even in heaven... and I'm going to write about it," said a weepy Jackson during an interview in his palatial California mansion. Jackson then opened a can of tuna fish with his nose and spackled it in its entirety into his chin dimple. "This is just in case I get hungry later," Jackson said. He dabbed his eye with a section of the Shroud of Turin that he had just purchased from the Vatican, and small chunks of tuna began falling out of his chin. He quickly donned a surgical mask, and began retrieving the tuna fish with his tongue. "These things are great," Jackson said. "They keep me from breathing all of that germy air that non-geniuses have to breathe, plus they double as a feedbag." I asked Jackson if throwing his child out the window could be considered murder, but his pet spider bit him and he retreated to his hyperbaric chamber before he could answer. After an hour of bombarding his body tissues with pure oxygen, Jackson emerged still woozy from the spider bite. I asked him if he shouldn't get the spider bite looked at. "No, that's all right. It happens all the time. I used to have Bubbles the Chimp suck the venom out, but he would always get terribly sick. So out of consideration for Bubbles, these days I just grin and bear it, and lately it doesn't bother me much. I think I'm immune. Maybe it's because I've been embalmed." "Don't you think you should just get rid of the spider?" "Get rid of Spidey? What kind of person do you think I am?" "Frankly, I think you're a wonderfully talented musician who has had terrible guidance throughout his life, which has resulted in your turning into a paranoid hypochondriac with a penchant for self-mutilation." "That doesn't make me a bad person, does it?" "No, Michael, it's the child molestation that makes you a bad person." "I'm bad, I'm bad, ya know it, hee!" "But back to throwing your child out the window. Why?" Jackson held up one finger, sat down at his piano, played "Chopsticks" and then began to sing over it. "If I threw you out a window...would you end up in heaven? If you ate the pavement...would I recognize your face?" "Michael," I said, "both the music and the lyrics are pretty derivative." "It's not easy being creative when you have a dis-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-se!" Jackson burst into tears and pushed a big red button that had been installed on the side of the piano. Armed security guards dragged me out of the room, giving me rabbit punches to the kidney. I'm still peeing red, but I was ultimately thankful for the rare opportunity to interview the King of Pop. © 2002 by Chris Elliot. All rights reserved. Distribution via hyperlink, e-mail, disk, print, broadcast or any other form is prohibited under U.S. copyright law without express permission of the author. Since graduating from Yale University in 1980 with a B.A. in English, Chris Elliott has supported himself through a fluctuating mix of music and writing. He is a trumpet player, vocalist and entertainer of some acclaim and ability, and has worked as a features and business writer for numerous publications in the San Francisco Bay area and the New Hampshire seacoast. He also writes for an Internet humor magazine called www.thumpcity.com. Elliott has a completed novel for which he is seeking representation, as well as a book-length collection of short stories. |
My Interview with Michael Jackson by Chris Elliot In an effort to develop new material for one last run at the top of the charts, Michael Jackson tossed his child out a fourth floor window this morning stating, "Anything Eric Clapton's baby can do, my baby can do." Jackson is said to be devastated, just like a normal human would be, and has announced he will be spending the next six months in surgery, having that emotion attached to his face. "I sense his tears in the sky, or even in heaven... and I'm going to write about it," said a weepy Jackson during an interview in his palatial California mansion. Jackson then opened a can of tuna fish with his nose and spackled it in its entirety into his chin dimple. "This is just in case I get hungry later," Jackson said. He dabbed his eye with a section of the Shroud of Turin that he had just purchased from the Vatican, and small chunks of tuna began falling out of his chin. He quickly donned a surgical mask, and began retrieving the tuna fish with his tongue. "These things are great," Jackson said. "They keep me from breathing all of that germy air that non-geniuses have to breathe, plus they double as a feedbag." I asked Jackson if throwing his child out the window could be considered murder, but his pet spider bit him and he retreated to his hyperbaric chamber before he could answer. After an hour of bombarding his body tissues with pure oxygen, Jackson emerged still woozy from the spider bite. I asked him if he shouldn't get the spider bite looked at. "No, that's all right. It happens all the time. I used to have Bubbles the Chimp suck the venom out, but he would always get terribly sick. So out of consideration for Bubbles, these days I just grin and bear it, and lately it doesn't bother me much. I think I'm immune. Maybe it's because I've been embalmed." "Don't you think you should just get rid of the spider?" "Get rid of Spidey? What kind of person do you think I am?" "Frankly, I think you're a wonderfully talented musician who has had terrible guidance throughout his life, which has resulted in your turning into a paranoid hypochondriac with a penchant for self-mutilation." "That doesn't make me a bad person, does it?" "No, Michael, it's the child molestation that makes you a bad person." "I'm bad, I'm bad, ya know it, hee!" "But back to throwing your child out the window. Why?" Jackson held up one finger, sat down at his piano, played "Chopsticks" and then began to sing over it. "If I threw you out a window...would you end up in heaven? If you ate the pavement...would I recognize your face?" "Michael," I said, "both the music and the lyrics are pretty derivative." "It's not easy being creative when you have a dis-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-se!" Jackson burst into tears and pushed a big red button that had been installed on the side of the piano. Armed security guards dragged me out of the room, giving me rabbit punches to the kidney. I'm still peeing red, but I was ultimately thankful for the rare opportunity to interview the King of Pop. © 2002 by Chris Elliot. All rights reserved. Distribution via hyperlink, e-mail, disk, print, broadcast or any other form is prohibited under U.S. copyright law without express permission of the author. Since graduating from Yale University in 1980 with a B.A. in English, Chris Elliott has supported himself through a fluctuating mix of music and writing. He is a trumpet player, vocalist and entertainer of some acclaim and ability, and has worked as a features and business writer for numerous publications in the San Francisco Bay area and the New Hampshire seacoast. He also writes for an Internet humor magazine called www.thumpcity.com. Elliott has a completed novel for which he is seeking representation, as well as a book-length collection of short stories. |
He dabbed his eye with a section of the Shroud of Turin that he had just purchased from the Vatican, and small chunks of tuna began falling out of his chin. |
Partners in Crime by Marcia Mascolini Hi, I'm Lenore. >>And I'm Lenice. Don't bother remembering who's who. We're identical twins. >>We're identical Siamese twins, joined at the tops of our heads. But we're two distinct individuals, despite our looks and names. >>We have totally separate brains. I'm the smart one; she's the dope. >>I'm the creative one; she's wishy-washy. You're so creative, you almost landed us in jail. >>You're so wishy-washy, you went along with my dumb idea. Yeah, right. 'Let's rob a bank.' >>Could you think of a better way to get $300,000 for the operation to separate us? Right. I can still hear you say 'We'll wear balaclavas, and nobody'll know it's us.' >>It would've worked if you hadn't gotten so fat. All you had to do was extend one leg to block the camera while I grabbed the cash. Instead you toppled us over so I came out on top. Nobody thought we were serious bank robbers. We were lucky the cops didn't charge us with a felony. >>We're still up for malicious mischief: breaking the camera, kicking the teller, and sending the cop to the hospital with shortness of breath. It'll get laughed out of court. >>Hey, I have another idea. Maybe we can earn money for the operation by appearing on Oprah. Sure, then we can become poster children for the Siamese Twin Separation Fund. >>Do you think we'll have to buy two airplane tickets when we go for the operation? Details, details. Let's drink to our impending separation. >>Bottoms up. © 2003 by Marcia Mascolini. All rights reserved. Distribution via hyperlink, e-mail, disk, print, broadcast or any other form is prohibited under U.S. copyright law without express permission of the author. After years of teaching business writing, Marcia Mascolini retired to concentrate on writing fiction. Recent publications include stories in the Coffee Press Journal, Cenotaph PE, Crime 55, The Murder Hole, Stone Thread, Treehouse Scriptum, Green Tricycle, and Newtopia. You can e-mail her at marcia.mascolini@wmich.edu |
But we're two distinct individuals, despite our looks and names. We have totally separate brains. I'm the smart one; she's the dope. |
We're identical Siamese twins, joined at the tops of our heads. |
