Michael Jackson
Dangerous

THE REVIEW

Heyyyyyyy BOY how are you doing? Hopefully VERY UP.
Today I went out with my girlfriend's car, stopped at the discount store to buy two liters of sambuca, and when I got back to the car, I noticed she had put on some music. What kind of crap is this? Michael Jackson – Dangerous, she replied smugly. From here arises a damn crappy debate between the two of us, in the process of having kids in a few years, and when the discussion is about Michael Jackson, you can't help but talk about the education of the little ones. And I thank you, filthy pedophile, for stirring up the discussion with my girlfriend. Thank you for making me know her well, for giving me the time to tell her to screw off before taking the next step. This bitch loves and fiercely defends Jackson; listen to what she told me:
“Bah! I don’t believe it! But have you seen how the bleached guy really is?
He can barely stand, he staggers, he holds on to his mask, and he never leaves the house:
In my opinion, a blowjob could kill him!
Or at least paralyze him for life in a wheelchair, clearly innocent poor thing!”

Should I have kids with someone like that? I'll spare you the main points of the conversation that forced me to end the relationship, and I'll go straight to the review of Dangerous. One line: Dangerous is a colossal pile of crap extending over 12 songs and more, also known as the musical demise of the pedophile.
Now, onto the review of Michael Jackson the man, a psychotic pervert with nothing else on his mind than molesting children, paying 20 million dollars to their parents to keep quiet, not having a nose, and looking just like Liz Taylor. But in the end, who cares? He released a lot of great albums, right? Screw him.
Now I'll pretend to be an interviewer and imagine an interview that I would do with Jacko along with his responses:

Vic: One day you look in the mirror and decide you need some makeup and to get in shape. What do you do?
Jacko: I paint my face white, chop off half my nose, insert two damn steel plates in my cheekbones, get someone to hammer my skull so my eyes pop out more, and, the icing on the cake, a nice polish on the lips of the damn filthy black guy I am.

Vic: A friend asks you to keep an eye on his kids, it's bedtime, how do you handle it?
Jacko: I fill the brats with drugs, when they’re half gone, I toss them on my heart-shaped bed and make them jerk me off, you filthy bastard.

Vic: You've just become a father and your fans want to see your child. What do you do?
Jacko: I put a damn towel on the brat's head and then swing him from the fifth-floor balcony of a damn Berlin hotel, the brat whines and kicks because he’s shitting himself out of fear, but no problem... in a year or two, this will seem like a walk in the park for him.

Vic: Are you white?
Jacko: Errrr... no. Are you, damn it? Black... no... listen, it's a damn rare skin disease. So rare that I’m the only fool in the world to have contracted it. Try to find it in any damn pathology book, screw it.

Vic: You're involved in a trial for serious charges of child molestation. How do you prove your innocence?
Jacko: I get in touch with O.J. Simpson's lawyer and make sure they convince the kid's parents to take a 20 million dollar check to shut them up. Even though I didn’t do a damn thing, okay? OK? I paid all that dough to a little punk I never touched to stay quiet about something I never did anyway! And still, the little son of a bitch knows I have a mark on my dick since I was born, filthy lying son of a bitch.

Vic: You decide it's time to settle down and get married. Who do you marry?
Jacko: A damn nurse I’ve never seen before, so she can crap out kids for me to molest later on. I shelled out a few million dollars to convince her because, to be honest, who the hell else would marry me? Oh yes... Elvis Presley’s daughter. 

Vic: Which famous person do you want to look like?
Jacko: Elizabeth Taylor because, just like me, she's an old damn cart that Beverly Hills surgeons have sawed and polished half to pieces. 

Vic: You have a deep cut on your cheek from an accident, how do you care for it?
Jacko: Damn glue. 
Vic: You have 3 kids, what are their names?
Jacko: Prince Michael Louis XIV, Madrid Barcelona Princess Michael III, Attila the Scourge of God Yasser Arafat Bill Clinton Pope Innocent the Third Carlo Azeglio Ciampi Orietta Berti the Terrible IV, you damn shithead.
Vic: Describe your home.
Jacko: A damn amusement park with a zoo I named "Neverland" where I make out with twelve-year-olds. 
Vic: Describe your family.
Jacko: Superb! I’ve never had parents who beat or sexually abused me when I didn't feel like singing. What the hell did you say? I'll sue you, sack of shit! Even if you’re my sister and your name is La Troya the shit, whore bastard daughter of the whore....
Vic: Despite your obvious eheheh innocence, there are still some who think you're a damn pedophile son of a bitch. How do you prove them wrong?
Jacko: Yes, I have a damn amusement park at my home, I invite the kids over all the time and screw them at night, then I go to Las Vegas to shoot a damn music video while Santa Barbara police search Neverland for 13 hours, I don’t show up at the sheriff's office for over 48 hours, and end up paying 3 million dollars so I don’t spend the night in jail where some black dude from the Black Panthers serving 30 years for terrorism with the Weathermen might screw me like Arizona Mills because he doesn't like me. 
Vic: What’s your religion?
Jacko: I'm a Jehovah's Witness because it’s a religion that protects 40,000 pedophiles and I’m one of them, screw it. Vic: When you die and go up to heaven what’s the first thing you want to see?
Jacko: Baby Jesus 
Vic: What’s brown and in many kids' underwear?
Jacko: My hand 
Vic: Jacko amigo, let’s joke around a bit now, let's lighten the mood, name me 3 ways to screw a woman
Jacko: The French way: you do it by grabbing her hair; the Italian way: you do it by grabbing her boobs; the Michael Jackson way: you do it by grabbing her backpack.
 END OF INTERVIEW  If you, like my ex-girlfriend, aspire to become a Michael Jackson type or his damn fan, practice throwing kids out of some damn hotel window in Germany, lying about your skin color and getting 50 damn facial surgeries, trying stealing others' songs, Albano and Prince first and foremost, but also softened Beastie Boys, believing you're Peter Pan to have a solid philosophical basis (FREUD) for molesting kids. BEST OF LUCK with raped sons.