My twin separated at birth and blogging buddy Julie over at 47 and Starting Over took some heat this week for her take on all the hoopla over Michael Jackson’s death. For the record, I’m with her 100 percent, but I’m so friggin’ sick of it all that the last thing I want to do is write about it myself. I added a comment to her post; that’s all I’ll say.
Okay, just let me say one last thing: if I were Farrah, I’d be pissed. She was dead, what, three hours before the news broke about MJ?
I picture her up in heaven, wearing a cute little angel outfit… her gorgeous hair is back and she’s flashing that famous smile… Heath Ledger and Princess Di and JFK, Jr. and my Beautiful Aunt Joyce are there to welcome her with a bottle of champagne and they’re all chatting it up over how great Larry King will be tonight since his whole show will be devoted to the lovely Farrah.
“Larry’s next,” one of them says and they all giggle and clink glasses. Heaven is awesome!
And then who shows up at the pearly gates but Michael friggin’ Jackson. I’m telling you, if I were Farrah, I would have marched my (now cancer-free) ass over to St. Peter and I'd be in. his. face. With teeth clenched, I’d be like, “No f*cking way--you send him back right this instant! Is it too much to ask for one goddamn day to myself of post-mortem glory? Huh? Get me Jesus. I demand to talk to Jesus!”
Yeah, if I were Farrah, I’d be pissed as hell--where, by the way, MJ should be IF those charges against him were, in fact, true. But we really don't know, do we? None of us knows for sure.