I Wanna Rock With You . . .

Here's another of the oldies-but-goodies from my old site. This was the first in a series of "Celebrity Interviews" I conducted. Suffice it to say - they never got quite as good as this one . . .


There comes a time in every man’s life where he needs to make a big decision. He needs to take a situation, weigh the positives and the negatives and eventually decide whether or not the reward outweighs the risk. It’s making the right call in these sorts of situations that separates the men from the boys, can make or break a career (or potential career) and can lead to either fame and fortune . . . or gloom and poverty.

It was with that in mind that I weighed out the scenario that was laid out in front of me the other night.

I had received a phone call from an old friend. After making some small talk and catching up on old times, I was given a proposal, along with an opening – albeit a miniscule one. At the end of it was the chance to make time with a legend.

It would take some work – and a bit of creativity on my part – but I knew what I needed to do to get the job done.

Therefore, thanks – in part – to my old newspaper connections, the promise of a few, slightly unorthodox sexual favors and a couple Lincolns given to the right people – I was able to secure a one-on-one interview with none other than The King of Pop himself . . . Michael Jackson*.

The interview took place in the span of one evening – at his home base (yes, the Ranch) in southern California. I was flown out there in a private jet, blindfolded and taken, via limousine to the ranch. I was led inside, where the blindfold was removed and sure enough, there he was – sitting across from me on a lavish couch that probably cost more than my house, my wedding and my extensive bestiality video collection – all in one.

Several times during the nearly four-hour session, Jackson made mention of wanting to show off “the real MJ.” Despite what many people have said about him, I – like many others that have come out recently – didn’t notice anything overly unusual about Jackson – though, there was the overpowering scent of marijuana smoke lingering around the room. Plus, at one point as I’m being led in, he did remark about how I “have a mighty fine looking ass.”

The bottom line is that I walked into this interview not knowing what to expect – and I walked out not believing what I had seen and heard. During this interview, I felt many things: fear, remorse, his hand on my legs – but mostly pity. Pity for what once was – and pity for what could have been.

I really don’t know what that means . . . so let’s just get on with the interview:

NEW EMPIRE LOUNGE: First of all, I’d like to personally thank you for taking the time to sit down with us today, Michael. I know this has been a very trying time for you.

MICHAEL JACKSON: It’s all good, G. I just hope I can set the motherf***ing record straight once and for all.

NEL: Okay, then – let’s get right to the point then, did you molest that little boy?

MJ: Shit, no! Let me ask you something - is my motherf***ing name R. Kelly? Hell no – it’s Michael-F***ing-Jackson! I’m the goddamned King of Pop – you think I need to be molesting little boys? I’m in here working three bitches at a time every damn night, why the hell am I gonna be messing with some little boys?

NEL: So, you deny everything, then?

MJ: What the f*** did I just say, motherf***er? Look – I’ve been inside the pen and I’ve seen what they do to motherf***ers that rape little kids. I don’t want no part of that shit, you dig? Besides, like I said – I’m in this shit working three, four bitches at a time. Every motherf***ing night. Even if I wanted to rape me some little kids, I ain’t got the time or energy for it.

NEL: Fair enough. However, a lot of people would wonder, then – why settle out of court, as you did with the family of the small boy that made similar accusations against you in 1993?

MJ: Shit, man – sometimes it’s just a hell of a lot easier to pay the motherf***ers and get them off your case, then to go to court with ‘em. That court shit takes forever, and to be honest, I ain’t got that kind of time. Besides, MJ ain’t all that crazy about the inside of a courtroom; you know what I’m sayin’?

NEL: Belie’ dat, playa. One thing that seemed to convince a lot of people of your guilt in that first instance was the claim that the boy could describe your penis. How do you respond to that?

MJ (laughing): Shit, heh, heh . . . well, it ain’t too hard to describe that monster. 13 inches of limp dick don’t come around every day. You know how they call me the King of Pop? Well, this here is the motherf***ing Prince.

NEL: So, you don’t deny that the boy could have described it accurately?

MJ: Like I told your cracker ass, the shit’s 13 inches long - ain’t too hard to describe it. Kid probably saw me unraveling it so I could take a leak. What the hell you want from me?

NEL: All right, then. So – onto other things: over the years, you have morphed from a relatively normal looking, fairly attractive African-American man, into some sort of plasticized, half-man/half-alien humanoid. Your comments about that?

MJ: Man, what can I tell you other than I got some bad advice? Back in the day, I didn’t know no better and my agent told me that it would make me more marketable if we tried a little plastic surgery. Next thing you know, I’m in every couple months, damn nose job gets botched and this dumb ass skin bleaching got me looking whiter than your cracker ass. Been trying to fix it ever since, but my damn nasal passages are about to cave in, so I’m stuck with this motherf***ing outer-space alien looking shit for a nose. Tell you what, though – that stupid motherf***er of an agent won’t be pulling that shit again.

NEL: Obviously, you’ve fired him?

MJ (takes drink from a 40oz. bottle of Colt 45): Fired? Yeah, I guess you could say that – I fired a couple caps in that motherf***er’s dome is what I did. God damn tell me to bleach my motherf***ing skin – I’ll motherf***ing punk your ass out.

NEL: What about the voice? Obviously, this voice that you’re speaking to us with is a lot different than the public is accustomed to from you.

MJ: Again, that was the agent’s idea. My natural voice is a little harsh and too deep for what we were trying to accomplish. Imagine someone that sounds like this trying to hit some of those high notes. At first, I was able to do some of that shit on my own and they were just changing what they needed to in the studio. But once the shit got really hot, my natural voice couldn’t take it. I can do the voice fine for interviews and shit, but the singing . . . that shit takes a toll after a while; you know what I’m saying? So, now I just lip-synch the shit. Saves my voice in the long run and none of them f***ers know the difference.

NEL: Then, of course, there was the much-publicized incident with your infant son, whom you hung out of the window of your German hotel room as throngs of fans looked on below.

MJ (lights up and takes long hit from a Phillies Blunt): Yeah, that was some f***ed up shit. The thing about that is, I was really trying to drop the little f***er out the window. I mean, these kids are fine for my public image and all that, but it’s really f***ing hard when I’m trying to get my freak on with my bitches and one of them little bastards starts to cry. Talk about a f***ing mood killer.

So, I was gonna toss him out and pretend it was an accident – like what happened with that Eric Clapton’s kid. But, then I opened up that window and all them people was down there. So, I just pretended I was showing his ass off, to make it look good.

NEL: My God . . .

MJ: Yeah, I know. I feel bad about it, now. I got used to having the little f***ers around and shit. My Baby’s Mama – I kicked her ass to the curb, ‘cause her dumb ass just used to piss me off. But, I got a full-time nanny looking after them when I’m performing, or when I got my bitches with me. You know, I got to have me my time with my bitches, ‘cause MJ got to get his freak on. However, I have the kids the rest of the time.

NEL: Remarkable. And, how has your family supported you through these trying times?

MJ: Man, those greedy motherf***ers will do anything as long as I keep them paid. Motherf***ing Tito – that bitch WILL do anything. Hell, I pay his ass just to walk around singing “I’m A Little Tea Pot” wearing a diaper and some high heels; just for a goddamned laugh. LaToya, she just a crazy bitch. You motherf***ers think I got some problems? Heh . . . you just wait until some of the shit she’s done gets out. You’ll all think I’m the motherf***ing Pope himself, once you hear some of the crazy, f***ed up shit that little ho has done.

NEL: Well, we’ll all be waiting for that.

MJ: Goddamned right you will be. You motherf***ers in the media just can’t stand to see MJ living large, can you? Every damn time MJ gets himself a little something-something, you goddamned media f***ers have to go out and find something to f*** with me about. Why you have to f*** with MJ? What the hell did I ever do to you motherf***ers? [Getting angrier] If you goddamned sons of bitches would just let MJ live his life, everything would be cool. But no, you can’t do that, can you? You got to f*** with MJ, don’t you? [Gets up and pull out 9mm Glock from his waistband and points it at interviewer’s head] Well, why don’t you f*** with MJ now? F*** with me, motherf***er! F*** with me and I’ll blow your goddamned head to Kingdom-motherf***ing-Come!!!

NEL (shitting his pants): Um . . . oh my God . . . um . . . look, I’d rather just continue the interview, if that’s all right with you.

MJ (laughing): Yeah, that’s right – you MJ’s bitch too – ain’t you, cracker? [Puts gun away] All right, then – what the hell else you want to know?

NEL: Okay then, Michael . . .

MJ: No more of that “Michael” shit, it’s “MJ” now, got me, motherf***er?

NEL (nervously): Um . . . uh . . . sure . . . no problem. Anyhow, MJ – what’s next for you?

MJ: Well, first of all I need to get rid of this little motherf***er that’s been causing me all these problems. Prolly gonna need to write me another check, but whatever – it ain’t like I don’t got me plenty of Benjamins to throw out there – you know what I’m saying?

NEL: Yes, sir.

MJ: Yeah, that’s right you do . . . anyhow, after that, I’m through with all this bullshit. I think I’m finally going to try and get rid of this dumbass “King of Pop” image, stop hanging around with these little f***ing kids – since they and their goddamn parents are nothing but trouble – and get down to my roots. I think I’ll get ahold of my boy, Dr. Dre and see about cutting a rap album, maybe do a little collaborating with Dre, Snoop, 50-Cent and maybe even that little white boy, Eminem . . . I like that boy. I’ll get a few hundred tracks down and save them, release a new album every couple years, like my man Tupac – rest in peace.

After that, I think you’ll see me slowly start to distance myself from the rest of the family – those motherf***ers just get on my last motherf***ing nerve and I need to get away from them before I start busting some more caps. Maybe I’ll see if J.J. (sister Janet) wants to hook up and cut a track or two with me first, since I think my boys in marketing can probably spin that around and at least get me into the top-3 in pre-sales just on word of mouth alone. After all, that’s what I pay them little f***ers for, right?

Finally, I think that you’ll see me eventually fade into oblivion. I don’t need these constant hassles from all you motherf***ers anymore. I’ll sell this dumb ass, motherf***ing ranch, get about 20 of my best bitches, and move my ass to a remote island somewhere in the south Pacific. All y’all motherf***ers will never see my used-to-be black ass again. I’ll keep my ass on the beach, f*** my bitches and smoke the finest motherf***ing chronic my ass can grow. I’ll only come back once in a while so I can get me some fresh bitches and then I’ll be right back to my island before anyone could figure out what the hell happened.

Then, all y’all are gonna sit back and be wondering, “What the hell ever happened to Michael Jackson?” But, you think I’ll ever let you know? F*** no, I won’t! Y’all just have to suffer – just like y’all motherf***ers made me suffer. Now, get the hell out of my motherf***ing house before I get sick of looking at your cracker ass and bust a cap in it!!

*Author's note: Of course, the Michael Jackson I am referring to is actually a cardboard cutout with Jacko's face plastered on it and not the actual man himself. Should you become confused and think for whatever reason this is the actual Michael Jackson - you are a moron and should immediately bludgeon yourself over the head with a brick.

A quick flashback . . .

Note - the following post appeared on my old blog, sometime when I was still trying to update it regularly. Just a taste of the madness that perpetuates my life on a regular basis. Enjoy . . .


You know, sometimes I think that all the chants, dances and occasional ritual sacrifices I perform for the Comedy God, Laughamyassoff, are nothing more than a big waste of time. And chicken parts.

Then I get a softball like this lobbed towards me and realize that my offerings are noted and appreciated, and everything becomes right with the world again.

I've seen instances like this happen on television, or in the movies but I never in a million years thought that it would ever happen to me.

Hmm . . . sounds like I should be writing to Penthouse Forums, but unfortunately, this is not the case.

Thankfully, though it is much more hilarious.

While my job definitely still isn't fulfilling, one thing I can say about it is that it does provide me with plenty of amusement. Between the way some of the people on the floor dress and some of the conversations that I overhear, I could end up with enough material for the site to last me for some time.

However, this one takes the cake.

I was taking care of some business in the men's room this morning, when I noticed someone come out of the handicapped stall in the corner. After I wrapped up Little Rob and put him back home, I went over to the sink to wash my hands. This older foreign guy on our floor - who was the guy in the stall - was there washing his hands. Now, I've seen this guy on the floor several times, but I've never talked to him. Obviously, this was not a deterrent to him in the slightest.

What comes next is one of those things that makes you wish had a video camera with you when it happened. Because something this peculiar really needs to be shared with the world. Instead, you'll just have to settle for my personal account.
This is the actual conversation that followed:

MAN - Hello, my friend.

ME - Hi. How are you?

MAN - Good. [Pauses] So, in case you were wondering why there was no flush
of the toilet, it was because I didn't use it.

ME [Trying to feign interest] - Um, I'm sorry?

MAN - I said if you were wondering why there was no flush of the toilet, it was because I didn't use it.

ME [Hoping he would leave it at that]] - Oh.

MAN - I put my underwear on backwards and I needed to fix them.

ME - Yeah.

MAN - So, that is why there was no flush of the toilet, if you were wondering.

ME [Thinking the dirty pee-pee hands were a million times better than listening to this] - Um . . . ok. Thanks.

Now, I have to say that I'm really not sure what part of this scenario scares me the most. I mean, first of all, I'd be frightened if my best friend shared something like this with me, much less some weird old foreign guy whom I've never spoken to before. In a men's room, no less.

Then there is the obvious issue of the fact that not only did this guy put his underwear on backwards, but he felt that telling that to a complete stranger was less embarrassing then having said stranger think he didn’t flush the toilet in the men’s room. I don’t know what to do with this.

Except let you all read about it, of course.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen – this is the hell that is my life.

Welcome aboard.