The toxicity of our celebrity obsession was reflected back at us by Jackson’s spectral and ruined face.
The physical slicing, tucking and restructuring he endured was for what? For us. For our pound of flesh. We must live with that shame.
Like slavering beasts, our appetites insatiable, we gorged at the trough of his fame. Devouring the tainted soul of a lost little boy.
Jackson was our real life Action Man, toyed with yet cast aside for a newer, more desirable model. Truly we are the smooth criminals.
Was not his childlike innocence something to which we should all aspire? It was not him, but us, who were off the wall.
Jackson, like the pied piper of Pan, once led us on a merry dance through Neverland. But then, the dancing turned BAD. Inappropriate.
Michael Jackson is dead. While I, who bring joy to no-one’s life, live. Why, God? WHY?!!!
In case you’re wondering, the words above are compiled from a series of tweets, which began when fustar wondered aloud what the first pseudocerebral ‘What did Jackson’s sad life tell us about celebrity culture?’ piece in a broadsheet newspaper would look like. The headline also comes courtesy of a twitter.