Pucker up.

The game Lips. Holy Jumpin's Jesus has that piece of digital entertainment given me pain the past couple of days. It's a rather girly karaoke game containing tracks of a popish nature. Which I have nothing against. Too each his own, and so forth.

What annoys the hell out of me is the little snippet of music (and I use the term so loosely here that I dare say it has lost all of its damn meaning) that plays between the bouts of singsong. It's monotonous. Not just monotonous, but short. Shorter than the average sneeze. Without the joy of neurologically resembling an orgasm, or so the urban legend goes. Anyhoo. A couple of thumps of bass and then the thing starts over. Ad infinitum.

Was it too expensive to extend the length of this turd to a whopping 10 seconds? Let's say, the duration of a protracted yawn. Breath in, shape your mouth and exhale a little ditty. Whatever comes to mind, no longer than 3 seconds. Record it and play it back to yourself on a loop for about 2 minutes, with 3 minute intervals, for the next 10 of your waking hours. At the end you'll be jamming your housekeys into both ears. A pierced eardrum or two being a small price to pay in order to escape such an auditory hell.

Sidenote: A little bit edgy today. No coffee in the mornings here,  badly missing my sweet cup of Swedish java. And my sunny vacation time is drawing to a close. How are you?

Michael Jackson, and the bullshit that followed.

So Michael Jackson died. My reaction to this is one that swings like a damn pendulum between utter apathy and surprise. I'm not surprised by the actual death, mind you, but by other people's reaction to it. Yes, he did write some snappy pop tune in his day. No doubt about that. But he also molested children. That's right. He was a fucking pedo. I think there's little doubt about that anymore. Him being acquitted equates to very little for me in this case.

Just like the OJ Simpson trial, Michael Jackson's two highly publicized trials only proved that a rich person can get away with anything in Los Angeles. It also helps your case if you are insanely famous. And that you would be raped, murdered and then raped again within 10 minutes of your incarceration. Who could pass up the chance to rape the King of Pop? I know I couldn't. My tone is harsh and brutal. The memories the kids have of the King of Pop placing their genitals in his mouth is probably a whole hell of alot more harsh and brutal, on top of being disturbing beyond all belief. The only way MJ could become any more disgusting and creepy would be if he returned from beyond the grave as some sort of unstoppable child-molesting zombie. Let's hope the kids can find the magical pendant until then.

The social convention to celebrate someone when they've died no matter what they did in life is one I cannot fully understand. Let's just be honest. Which is worse: being remembered as a troubled yet brilliant man with personal issues, or a two-dimensional character dancing on a stage in glittery pants? On a personal note - I'd rather be remembered as the asshole I was than some magical nymph-like creature that spread good will and tidings to all the world's people while maintaining a killer bod which smelled of chamomile and thyme. Bullshit seems to be rampant in this area. Prune it just a little, please.