he 12 jurors in the Michael Jackson trial surprised some hopeless optimists last week when they returned a verdict of “not guilty� on all 10 counts, allowing the King of Pop his legal freedom and probably inspiring some questionable lyrics from a future album. Among the reasons given by the jury for their decision, more than one, two in fact, said they believed Jackson probably did molest virtually every child who came into his mansion—but not this kid, according to the evidence.

Legal analysts, and by that we mean lawyers without jobs, have pointed to startling revelations during testimony of witnesses to explain the “not guilty� verdict in the Jackson case. Among the more surprising disclosures was that the accused, long thought to be a 13-year-old boy, was in fact a diminutive man with a long police record, known in street parlance as Philadelphia Freddy.

“And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for this money-driven legal system!� screeched the gravel-voiced midget, shortly after the announcement of the verdict.

The defense painted a strong picture of a short, unruly child/crime boss and his money-grubbing mother, who parlayed a brush with cancer into a molestation gold mine and tried to catch Michael Jackson in a kid-touching trap, to no avail. Jackson, who had previously settled out-of-court molestation cases on at least two previous occasions, could not be fingered, pardon the expression, in this particular molesting accusation. Jurors claim that although they really wanted to hang Jackson out to dry for all the other occasions of molestation he’s been guilty of, in this special and rare instance, he wasn’t guilty of that specific crime.

“It’s obvious Michael Jackson is a sick, sick man-child,� said a juror, who asked not to be identified, but looked like a “George� to us. “But in this particular case, as brought by Jackson-hounding D.A. Tom Sneddon, there wasn’t enough evidence to nail his peculiarly shaded ass. It’s too bad, because I think he molested three or four kids of some of the jurors, but we weren’t actually trying those cases, and had to go by what the judge instructed us.�

Some critics of the case have not only charged Sneddon with fumbling an easily unfumbleable ball, but have alleged the way the case was framed by the judge made it hard for a jury to convict Jackson of the crime. Among the strange instructions, Judge Rodney Melville warned jurors could not consider previous allegations of sexual abuse made against Jackson, and Jackson’s celebrity status had to be ignored.

“I ask you again,� said Judge Melville, “to think of Michael Jackson as any ordinary man who can afford the world’s most powerful attorneys at his beck and call. If you like, you may also think of Jackson’s heartfelt song, ‘Man in the Mirror,’ and how it made all of us think of how any one of us has the power to change the world. Me, I personally love to think of his small but pivotal solo in the ‘We Are the World’ song.�

Santa Barbara District Attorney Tom Sneddon, described by some as a bloated law enforcement official out to bring down the King of Pop, no matter the humiliation done to him and his office, said he regretted the jury’s finding, but had no complaints against the case his office had built, the jury itself, the judge’s role in the case, or the case of the defense. He only wished they had been able to call as a witness one of the other “possible million� boys Jackson had likely molested.

At the same time, a nationwide poll performed by people with lots of time on their hands, found that up to 49% of respondents thought the jury had made the wrong decision, and that Jackson was guilty of molesting boys. Though the exact same percentage also hoped similar charges would be brought against Huey Lewis and the News, anything to make sure they didn’t show up on some future VH-1 ‘80s nostalgia special.

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Again we find ourselves in this same spot, George. You, babbling on about your hurt feelings; myself, thankful I do not have a gun, because all it takes to kill a man is a gun and the will to riddle them with bullets, and believe me, all I lack is the gun. What’s that? You would kill yourself if you had a gun? Then we’re at last in agreement on something, George, and it’s long overdue. Actually, no. Suicide is too good for you, George.

Yes, suicide, that haven for cowards and those who lack the will to fight. You are a coward, George, and you lack the will to do anything. But I still would not have the actions of all those courageous self-killers blemished by you adding your lumpy, wrinkle-ridden corpse to their numbers.

Oh, I’m sure you’d do it. Not because you have the shred of self-respect that suicide requires, but because you’re just that thoughtless, to blow your brains out and leave me to find a disreputable cemetery where I could bury you in an unmarked grave. Perhaps I would put a big "X" on the ground to mark your place, only so an unwitting family doesn’t build a house over your bones and find itself haunted by the world’s most sadsack ghost. Better yet, I’ll put a small wooden tombstone at the head of your grave site, with a picture of you tacked to it—the international symbol for pathetic windbag buried here.

I take that back, George, there’s no way you could kill yourself, if you dared to, if you had the fraction of self-esteem it would take. No bullet could pass through your head. It would simply bore half-an-inch deep, yawn, and then lose itself in the humdrum of your inane conversation. Yes, George, I’m convinced even inanimate objects find you offensive, and more offensive than offensive, agonizingly dull. Poison in your food would leap off the fork just to get away from your ever-running mouth, just as the dead chicken it coats would, if it hadn’t been mercifully slaughtered already. The blade of a knife? George, no self-respecting piece of steel would be caught dead penetrating you, terrified of what the other blades would think, all the names it would be called or the inevitable accusations of preposterously low standards. Hell, the blade would shrivel like your most reprehensible bits themselves if it came within a millimeter of your ashen bare flesh.

So, George, it appears you’re resigned to live the rest of your hideous natural life, and I’ll be forced to live it with you, unless Death is much kinder than tales have told, and it comes to take me in my sleep tonight. I will count the hours. You, however, George, you may be luckier than anyone else. How do you fancy immortality, George? Kind or not, Death would have nothing to do with you, that’s my prediction. You will trod down the street, searching everywhere, see Death in a bar, either at work or taking a break at the end of its long day, and Death will put its skeletal hand over its face and try to hide from you. Oh, Christ, there’s George, he wants me to at last end his life, but that would require touching him. Fuck that, Death will say, in the vernacular of our times. Heaven will not take you if it did, because it’s Heaven up there and those good occupants should be spared your constant whining, and Hell—well, even those damned to Hell do not deserve some tortures. You geriatric loose sphincter.

Enough, George, I say enough of your tears! Enough of your prattle, enough of your pleas for compassion. I have enough compassion to tell you things the way they are. Stop your sobbing and put on your best numb façade, as the rest of us do while you speak.

And grab your good sport jacket. I won’t have you looking like the world’s most vile hobo when you collect your Lifetime Achievement Award this evening. The good shoes, George, not the Crocs. My word, George. Get dressed by yourself once, that would be a lifetime achievement.

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Hello, invisible commune friends. Long time Boris does not talk to you. Forever long time you do not talk to Boris, always quiet reading Boris letters and not write back. commune is like far-off penpal who is dead.

But Boris happy writing again after to find secret that McDonald bags is also writing papers on back side. So tricky to learn tricks of life.

So much does happen since time of Boris being big air place port hero last time. City have big parade right away to honor Boris, so many policemens in uniform things does march with Boris out of airplane place and into special important car for parade ride, and all persons does point and look at Boris. Hello! they are waving. Such happy day for to appreciate works of Potato Boris at long lasting, whole city is full of cars to see superhero thing.

Then there is ceremony at police building to honoring Boris, and even they give Boris fast bath with hose and police haircut to help hide Potato Boris identity. So smart! Now superenemies will see and think, "Oh, is just Boris. Neverminding." Yay for disguise!

Boris does stay at special police hotel for important heroes long time. Is not like normal hotel with walls for enemy to hide. Special police hero hotel has bar walls, all see through so no creeping. This one more smart police idea.

And there is meeting things with special persons in funny clothes to honor Boris, even to see carpenter king who sit in high chair in dress and does bang on hammer. Boris does not like carpenter from story where him does eat all the Walrus food, but now him does seems okay. Fancy persons does much talking with carpenter king while Boris does watch Game Boy. You know this thing? Is fun small TV with show about blocks that fell in hole. So fun to watch. Yay for blocks!

But then one day fun hero adventures must end because police hotel is on fire and all guests is running out like after bad movie. Boris does follow but doesn't not remember detail because of watching Game Boy at same time. So fun this thing!

Next thing Boris does make friends at V.F.W. place, where Boris does wander while watching block show. Is fun place for dead animal to watch Boris drinking, like Chuck E. Cheap place without millions children telling Boris come out of ball pit. But important part of story is V.F.W. friends tells Boris important secret news. Is two week to Superbowl! Holy oh no, this is so soon.

Boris almost does forget of Superbowl, most fun thing for being alive. And Superbowl reminding Boris of Louis, and can spray cheese, both important part of Superbowl fun! So sad to miss all these thing. So new secret mission for Boris to find Louis and have Superbowl party thing before is too late. Yay for secret Superbowl mission!

Last detail now to figuring out where Louis does live, and where Potato Boris is being now, and if is sidewalk between. Ooh. After this block show.

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