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Me and my security blanket
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Since I was about 12 years old, I’ve been trying to figure out how to make a grand living without having to get a job.
Oh, I tried the music business for 40 years thinking that some old codger like Col. Tom Parker would come by and say, “You look like someone who could use a few million dollars … Sign here.” Obviously, that hasn’t happened, but I haven’t given up.
I need a new approach, so first thing Monday morning I’m going to the courthouse to talk to the judge.
I don’t know which judge to talk to since Judge Harvey’s passing. Were he still around it would be no problemo because “Big John” was in control of everything and could get anything done. As they say on the street: Big John Harvey was the man.
Nowadays, I’m sure that I’m going to have to beg and plead and maybe even stretch the truth a little bit but my plan is to apply for guardianship of Michael Jackson’s children. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a little long in the tooth to start raising kids again but I’m just as dignified and qualified, bona fide and sanctified as the rest of the people applying for the gig. And I’m confident that I’ll do as good a job raising little Blanket, Paris and Prince Michael as the blond-headed chick who was hired to give birth to the little angels. Let’s not forget that she sold them once.
Unless I’m granted full guardianship, these kids are never going to learn how to do the important things in life, like catch a crab or gut a mullet. I’m bona fide.
“Be careful, little Blanket. Don’t fall off the dock, Prince Michael. Don’t stick your finger in the light socket little … whatever your name is … honey.”
Michael Jackson’s mother is too old to undertake such a task. After all, she’s already tried to raise a wad of kids and most of them turned out, shall we say, bizarre. Janet with her boobyflash at the Super Bowl and Latoya is just, for lack of a better word, nuts.
And this brings us to Papa Joe, who, when asked by a television news reporter to share his feelings on the untimely demise of his son, said:
“Me and my podna have started a new record label and we hope to be up and running very soon.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
These little children need to keep music in their life and I plan to do just that if I’m appointed guardian. I’m thinking a bluegrass meets hip-hop kind of approach. It’ll be sensational and I’m sure the name alone will sell it: “Lord Victor and the 500 Million Dollar Babies.”
I hate to fire my biological sons from my band but let’s face it: bidness is bidness. The first album to be released is going to be a three-disc set. The working title, as of now, is “Billie Jean meets Cooter Brown,” or “Put the Bag on Your Head, Little Blanket. The Camera Crew is Coming.”
Disc one is going to be Michael Jackson cover songs. Disc two is going to be Vic Waters cover songs and disc three is going to be the analogies made by FOX News and MSNBC on how the sequins on Michael’s glove represents the stars in the sky and the times he had his face re-glued.
Now please don’t write the editor about my plan. I’m just saying these kids need me and I need them.
So, which ever one of you judges out there is in charge of getting this done for me, please call me at once. I don’t have much time. Oh, and by the way, if there’s a way to grandfather in Lisa Marie, that would be just skippy.
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