You’d have to be seriously messed up in the head if you ever volunteer yourself to become a suicide bomber; you’d have to be even dumber if you believe celebrities mean it when they say they love their fans above all; but you need to be suffering from mental retardation of a cataclysmic intensity if you aren’t even considering buying anything from the ultimate Michael Jackson memorabilia auction. After all he’s someone who has been entertaining you for years, and, if given the chance, I’m sure he would love to entertain your children, and their children¾and their friends¾as well.                       

                At the auction are some of the most priceless belongings of the “King of Plastic surgery”, which he’s willing to give you if you have about twenty dollars and the documents to all the property that you own¾and yeah, also exclusive babysitting rights to any young boy under thirteen that you might be around for the rest of your lives.                         

               I decide to attend the function in order to get a firsthand experience of what the auction will be like.  The first item up for auction is a wrinkly dark cloth-like material, for which the bidding starts at $5000.  

Me (picking up the dark wrinkly material with my right hand): Hey, Michael, how come this crumpled gummy thing costs so much? What is it? 

MJ (smiling creepily): That’s my precious foreskin that was circumcised way back when I was black.                           

               After I amputate my right hand, I proceed to the rest of the stuff that Jackson is auctioning off.  The second item is a wrinkly white cloth-like material, which has a starting bid of $ 10, 000.  

Me: Let me guess, that is your foreskin after you became white? 

MJ: No, you silly squirrel. Foreskin can only be removed once. That’s a sliver of my ass after I became white.                              

                I walk around further trying to find something that hasn’t either been sliced off his ass or chopped off his dong. I stop when I see a collection of men’s innerwear. Since they appear really small, I naturally assume that I’m looking at them from a great distance, and I try to walk closer towards it. After two steps, I go crashing into the wall on which they are hung. Then I realize why they look so small, they are all children’s underwear.  

Me: As sick as it might sound, please tell me those are yours from when you were a kid. 

MJ: No, you silly parrot, those belong to my favorite young friends who constantly visit me at my home  

Me: That’s what I was afraid of. 

MJ (pointing): That blue one’s Macaulay Culkin’s from when he was ten; that tight red one’s Haley Joel Osment’s from when he was eight; the polka dotted pink one belonged to Fred Savage when he was eleven; and that cute little golden thong belongs to Chris Tucker. 

Me: You mean Chris Tucker’s from when he was a kid. 

MJ: No, he left it here yesterday night                                             

                 Two used soap collections, three pube packets, a couple of stained teddy bears, and five life size Peter Pan figures with torn out behinds later I begin to get the feeling that there’s a certain theme to this entire auction. Desperately seeking to find something that doesn’t stay with the theme I scan the area until my eyes fall on a bottle of hand cream.  

Me: I’m guessing the hand cream is also part of the past you shared with your young friends.                                    

MJ: Actually, no. That’s something that connects me with my son in a deep and profound way. 

Me (guilty that I misunderstood him): Really, what do you mean? 

MJ: That’s the hand cream that I had on when I was dangling my son from the window of my hotel room on the 15th floor.                                              

                  Hours later, I end my time at the auction and head back home. As I’m walking down the street, I ruminate on the unusual experience that I had at the auction. The things I saw, the stories I heard, and the African-American foreskin I touched. Suddenly I realize the futility of my journey back home; I no longer have a home. My twenty dollars and the deed, along with the key, to my home is with Michael Jackson; I gave it all to him after the purchase he persuaded me to make at the auction. But I’m not worried because I’m a survivor; I can make it out in the mean streets as long as nobody thinks I’m some lily assed pansy. Even though I miss my right hand, at least I won’t feel alone since I have Peter Pan in a golden thong for company.                                     

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