Beat It

Apparently, Michael Jackson's trial ended with the King of Plop being not guilty on all charges. Every news station was carrying coverage of this blessed event, and his fans cheered and whooped it up like he just ran back a kickoff for a touchdown.

Maybe the sports analogy is the sequined shoe that fits this whole idiocy. An hour before the verdict was given, networks were giving bios of the jurors:

"From the University of California Santa-Barbara, playing Alternate Foreman, give it up for Abraham Stoltzfus!"

Commentator: "Yeah, Stoltzfus really brought his "A" game to this trial. He's a two-time Neighborhood Watch block captain, voted Democrat, and goes by the name of "Sugarbear." He uses premium gasoline and cries at Disney movies. Going to have to keep an eye on this one!"

"From 8th and Chestnut in La Jolla, the original "Glory of the Jury"...Gladys Pickles!"

Commentator: "This will be Gladys's third jury trial. God bless her, she's 87 years old and still cans her own peaches. Her strength is home-spun wisdom and "seeing the good" in people. We'd also like to thank Gladys for the wonderful chocolate chip cookies she sent up to the booth"

You get the picture. I am certain Vegas, Atlantic City, and various acre-sized islands in the Caribbean had a lot of action on the trial. I called an off-shore betting company and they answered the phone "Guilty or Not Guilty?" I thought it was a discount law firm.

When Jackson finally pulled up outside the courthouse, his admirers bathed him in plaudits while his detractors showered him in epithets. He was dressed in about as basic a uniform as he probably owns. Sticker price? More than I'll make in a decade. At least I thought it was him. I had a hard time seeing through the waltzing elephants, albino fire-eaters, and Solid Gold dancers leading the entourage.

When the not-guilty verdicts came on the seemingly endless conga-line of charges, I could hear Prince in Minneapolis screaming in agony and flinging gold records against his armada of Bentleys. Internet chat rooms were overtaken by a tsunami of armchair experts pronouncing "Everyone knows he's guilty". People, whose skin had taken on a shimmering minty glow from cementing themselves in front of their televisions during this entire drama, rejoiced in the manna only useless celebrity turmoil can provide. It was a pop culture SIlly String party.

So, Michael Joe Jackson, put on your glove and grab yourself a cold one.

You Beat It.