Moonwalking off this mortal coil

deadmjphoto

Dunno ’bout you, but I’ve taken more blurry photos than I’ve cared to count. For every gorgeous red rocket glare that I captured exploding over the Hudson this weekend, there are 10 or more fizzles or unsteady streaks of intermittent color. I deleted those rejects faster than you can say Macauley Culkin.

Not so the person who held onto a blurry picture of Michael Jackson with one foot in the grave and the other unable to do that little point-and-twist move anymore (unless a playful coroner on the overnight already has done it when no one was looking).

In this case, the British tabloid “OK!” bought itself priceless publicity by snatching up that blurry pic, while lightening its wallet by $500,000. What did it get? Why, a point-and….shoot, you shouldn’t have exceeded the boundaries of good taste and printed that, you bushwackers!

My side literally hurts as I laugh at the hypocrisy of “the media” telling this little player what it should and shouldn’t do. I LOVE how they question its taste and talk about drawing lines and considering families.

Do you REALLY want me to call each and every one of you out for some of the slimier things you’ve done?

Must I point out instances of reporters posing as students, or even as medical personnel, in order to get close to a subject? Or helicopters flying too close to the ground for the lastest celeb wedding?

Someone — likely an EMT — had the presence of mind to pull out a cellphone and snap away as the King of Pop lost his carbonation.  A tabloid with a pair of stones (and I don’t mean Fred and Wilma) was then willing to push a half-mil to the middle of the table and see what it could collect.

So pay up, suckaz: Buy this mag or they’ll shoot another photo.

Plenty of people bought plenty of tickets for the freak show when Michael was alive. His head blazing like a matchstick during the making of a soda commercial was deemed the Golden Fleece — not only for Enquirer types but the “traditional” media, as well.

Now that he’s 10 toes up they want to suddenly reverse course and treat him differently. Which, of course, creates a dichotomy: If you treat him as human,  you must take into account his transgressions. I remember one day, in particular, when I would have loved to grab those skinny ankles of his and hung him out the window, with nothing but a towel between his Missing Johnson and the rest of the gawkers below. Ain’t no balcony high enough.

We saw pics of Dead Elvis, his royal King of Chicken Wings stuffed into a XXX coffin after his heart — clogged with fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches — literally toppled him from his throne. Truth be told, I was hoping for a shot of MJ in a hospital bed, or on a coroner’s slab, not being dumped into the back of a meat wagon with a mask over his face (ironic, eh?).

Which brings us to the true joke of this entire episode: Let “the family” have some peace.

Come again?  (Not you, Michael.) You mean the family that makes the Osbournes look like the Huxtables? The family that stages dueling press conferences, wardrobe malfunctions and countless other sleazy, slimy, stupid gimmicks to bring attention to itself? The family that leeched onto those Sgt. Pepper’s coattails and never let go? (Ten gets you thirty that the monkey is one of the pallbearers.)

Show the family respect after they essentially pissed on the public? Give them room to grieve? Stay away from the Massive Christian Burial at the Staples Center (which most definitely was NOT named for Mavis, Pops or the rest of that exemplary family) and watch it on TV?

Here’s an idea: Why not cart his dead bony ass around the country for a month, like Nancy Reagan did with Ronnie Ray Guns? Record every second of it and produce a documentary: “Never Can Say Goodbye.” Think of the merch you could sell on that coast-to-coast procession! T-shirts! Bobblehands! Michael’s last words recorded and sold on CD: “Hey, I can’t….. (thump).” Everlasting gloves — two for the price of one…. Dramatic stuff here.

Then you could cryogenically freeze MJ and bring out the glass box — oh, 18 or so months from now — and do it again. Badder and deader than ever.

These tears you see aren’t from sorrow. It’s just that if I laugh any harder, I swear, I’ll split a gut.

Tito, bring me some tissue.

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