When I saw the headline, “Jackson went through agonies to reach top,” my heart leapt. “Finally,” I said to my llama Rumpshaker, “a journalist has taken notice of the agonies I went through to reach the top. I was born in humble circumstances in Gary, Indiana, blessed with a voice. My early years were blissful. Then came bell bottoms. Then I was afflicted with this accursed vitiligo, which robbed me of my blackness and made me the butt of endless plastic-surgery jokes. I sang. I sweated. I bled. I moonwalked. Finally, I reached the top.”
Rumpshaker shook his head. He’s accustomed to these kinds of outbursts. Then I noticed that he was not shaking his head at all but putting his nose into the newspaper. I looked more closely at the news article. To my chagrin, it was not about me at all, but rather about another Michael Jackson a footballer in the Blackpool-Preston derby with a back problem. Oh, boo hoo, footballer! Were you ever scratched in the face by Diana Ross? Rumpshaker and I didn’t think so.