When The Shit Hits The Fan

Being a fan is not always easy. You have to spend immense amounts of money on CDs, DVDs, merchandise, videogames, books and so forth (because downloading is illegal. *cough*), visit concerts, go to signing sessions and sleep in a tent in front of big, fancy hotels. In fact, a fan’s life is harsh as hell. If you’re a die-hard fan, that is. You see, I’m a fan. But I’m not a die-hard fan. To make a long story short: my life as a fan is quite easy. Unlike Nadia’s. As you might have guessed, Nadia is a die-hard fan. And not ‘just’ a die-hard fan, but a die-hard Michael Jackson fan. You are probably asking yourself what happened when she first heard about the death of the world’s king of pop. Well, let me tell you about that…

It was a few days after the international Michael Jackson Memorial Day. Nadia was still devastated. She just kept listening to ‘Thriller’, ‘Bad’ and ‘Dangerous’ non-stop. The whining needed to stop. I was desperate. I invited her to a tribute concert while pretending to be moved by Jackson’s passing. Although his music is legendary, I’d never liked the man. Too many crazy stories, too many crazy things.

Anyway, Nadia was thankful for the invitation. Even though the tribute was local (read: poor and miserable artists), she dressed Pewter, our young son, up like the late king of pop. Alright, I can take that. No problem. No sir. She even gave him a tube that, when blown through, resonated the world famous ‘hee-hee’ high note. I sighed and kept sighing throughout the entire 1-hour car trip to the festival field. Of course, there came no end to the amount of ‘hee-hees’ from the back seat. My ears were already bleeding by the time we arrived.

After a few sorry excuses for Jackson impersonators, it was time for the main act. My eyes almost rolled out of their sockets when the main act happily yodeled onto the stage. It was Barry Michaels, my excruciatingly annoying neighbor, all dressed up in the tightest black outfit I had ever seen a man wear throughout my life. It must have been a pain to heave that fat bastard pig into that second skin he was wearing. Even remotely thinking about it already repulsed me beyond measure.

Obviously, the man was a Michael Jackson fan. He knew the lyrics to every song, but sang terribly out-of-tune. Naturally, he got booed by the audience. If he weren’t that rich, he probably wouldn’t have stood there. Figures. Rich, eccentric, an asshole… it added up to his personality. Charming.

Nadia turned to me. “We’re leaving. I can’t stand to listen to that abomination raping amazing music. I just can’t. Sorry honey, I know you bought the tickets just to give me a good time.” Suddenly, a light breached my clouded and thunderous thoughts. “Hold on, I think I can improve his performance.” Nadia was dazzled. “How?”. Without answering back I asked Pewter for his blowing tube, chewed up a couple of paper handkerchiefs, molded them into a sturdy little ball and let it slide into the monstrous plastic apparatus. If you believe in god, this would have been called a god-given moment. Michaels got ready to add a high note to his terrible singing. The well-aimed shot landed directly on his crotch, after which he sang the purest and highest note of the entire evening.

Later, at home, Nadia was still shedding tears of laughter. Pewter jumped around and imitated the fine squeal he’d heard earlier. I grabbed the sound tube and went to the bathroom upstairs. Time to dispose of this wretched thing. I opened the window and prepared to drop the tube onto the ledge of the roof, where we’d hopefully forget about its existence.

Before I could drop it, I heard a furious voice coming from the neighbor’s bathroom window. Michaels was shouting to no-one in particular. Naked. “… catch … bastard! … world of hurt!”

I chewed up another couple of paper handkerchiefs and aimed.


Dedicated to the memory of

Michael Joseph Jackson
August 29, 1958 – June 25, 2009

Rest in peace.