Bedtime Stories

Yes, I know I promised you the titillating details of my night with the King of Pop, but alas, discussion of the Gloved One has become tedious. Even Michaud, who prattles on endlessly with Madonna minutia agrees that Bubble's daddy's time has passed. But there must be some conclusion, yes, so here's what happened.

I had a nasty head cold and my frigid "mother", (I was raised by a series of ethnic nannies my entire adolescence), Beatrice called Michael Jackson with the hope of arranging a "pay for play" session with the bonkers billionaire.

I showed up, neatly pressed in a little boy's white suit and a homemade card saying "I Wuv You, Michael!" Gah. I used gouache to paint his iconic, red, zipper jacket. Gouache! I was only eleven and hadn't mastered oils yet. Don't blame me! I was in line with four other sickly young boys. (I can't believe I remember all these details!) We were to meet him in the grand foyer of Neverland Ranch.

The first young, sickly boy was Jo-Jo. Poor Jo-Jo. Jo-Jo had no legs or arms. He had endured a terrible truck-mauling at one of those redneck, coliseum, tractor-pulls. I think it was in Kentucky. The truck jumped a mud pit and landed squarely in the audience, right on top of Jo-Jo! (I freaked out last week because my organic grocer had no properly squishy avocado. I simply can't imagine a four ton truck pouncing on me.) Tragedy, indeed. Nonetheless Jo-Jo worked through his disability by cutely matching his baseball caps with colorful flags adorning his automated wheelchair. Being the most disabled, he was at the front of the choosing line for Michael.

Next was Hector. Hector was from Tijuana. After crossing the border with his family in a truck bed of synthetic, housing insulation, he developed a rare and deadly form of cancerous asthma, or something. Hector wore an elaborate breathing apparatus and carried a cannister of oxygen with him. He spoke no English except "I Wuv You, Michael!" Gah! How dare that flat-tire steal my material! I considered hiding his O-two as means of recompense, but as I was smoking and didn't care to risk an explosion, I thought against it.

Next was Gregory, a blind, albino, piano prodigy who could play any Michael Jackson, Jackson 5, Janet Jackson, Jackson Family song EVER produced. He impressed the other boys by grabbing his Casio keyboard and effortlessly pounding out Rebbie Jackson's "Centipede". Ah, Rebbie Jackson, the lost Jackson daughter. Hmm, if need be I could easily hide his keyboard.

And the fourth child in line was Macaulay Culkin. Fuck! He had no illness, but kept doing that insipid face much to the delight of the other kids. He had Hector laughing so hard the poor child passed out and was rushed to Neverland General Hospital. Good riddance. Jo-Jo tried imitating Macaulay, but grisly stumps reaching towards a scared child's face is actually quite chilling, not funny. Not funny in the least.

Aaaand speaking of chilling, a ghostly mist settled across the foyer and a team of valets swooped into the room. And there he was, Michael Jackson. He's so tiny in person! He was a bleached skeleton resplendent in faux-military regalia. All the children snapped to attention, in awe to be in his presence, except Gregory. He was facing the wrong direction.

And like Gregory, I never saw Michael's face either. He wore huge Chanel sunglasses, and a cascade of black wig covered his visage. He casually looked us over and quietly whispered to a valet and then left the room. The chilling mist strangely followed him.

And then Macauley Culkin was whisked from the room and the runner-ups were whisked to the airport. The other children wept. Gregory slowly played "Accept Me" by Janet Jackson. I sat there and fumed. Next thing I knew, the plane lurched and a loud booming noise--

"Ridiculous! You told us you slept in Michael Jackson's bed." Etienne rolled his eyes and pointed out my teensy plot flaw.

I called Etienne a "pervert" and proceeded to regale the assembled dandies of how I single handedly fought off a cabal of Al-Qaeda hijackers.