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.

merican contractors detained in Iraq by U.S. troops have returned the States, and are anxious to deliver a message to concerned parents: Avoid sending your kids to Iraq's Camp Falluja this summer.

The warning follows the release of 16 American and 3 Iraqi contractors who were detained in the "happiest place in Iraq" for 72 hours, without seeing a lawyer, natch, while they were suspected of being terroristic mercenaries or yet another of the many gun-toting nutjobs just wandering around Iraq looking for love in the wrong places. During their detention, as part of the "Camp Falluja Fun-Powerment Program," the detainees claim they were verbally and physically abused by American troops, suffering the most severe damage to their self-esteem.

Says one of the detainees, ex-Marine Matt Raiche and team leader of Fun-Powerment Team Blue: "I was in disbelief the whole time. I couldn't believe what was happening."

No doubt much of the shock came from the way Camp Falluja, "the America away from America," has been presented in the media in recent months, as part of the administration's attempt to off-set negative publicity in Iraq. Designed as a self-esteem building two-month sleep-away vacation for American youths, as well as a detention center for suspected Iraqi terrorists, Camp Falluja has been sold to the public as the most hate-free area in the newly democratic country. True proof that democracy can work in the country, and American children can benefit from new experiences in a foreign land, Camp Falluja allows daring young adventurers, as well as dangerous terror suspects, to inter-mix freely on Iraqi soil and participate in trust-building empowerment exercises and healthy physical activity, as well as offering overweight teens a chance to learn discipline with their eating.

"I went to Camp Falluja!" exclaims a husky 12-year-old, holding up a Polaroid of his formerly corpulent self in the now-famous commercial. "No more 'fatty pants' for Charlie!"

What the commercial may have left out is images of Fatty-Pants Charlie being hurled to the ground violently, bound so tight he loses circulation in his hands, insulted and demeaned by American soldiers, stripped naked, and threatened with bodily harm by the release of a vicious hound dog on his persons. These make up the majority of the accusations by the detained Zapata-employed contractors, and while this thing is expected and even encouraged for Iraqi detainees, doing it to Americans is just playing unfair.

"I sent my son Phil away to Camp Falluja just for a week," said Hazel, Connecticut hausfrau Nina Brown. "He just came back Friday and it's obvious he's been traumatized. He freezes up and goes catatonic whenever I shoot my guns off in the backyard, and he's terrorized whenever he's strip-searched now. He didn't come back more confident and educated about Iraqi culture at all.

"Needless to say," continued Brown, "I expect a full refund."

In the wake of the accusations, some have questioned whether the very idea of Camp Falluja was a good idea—placing a large number of suspected Saddam Hussein loyalists together with underage American boys and the occasional U.S. contractor—let alone the execution. An inside source at the White House, though, whom we call Dickie, doubted any long-term changes would be made in the wake of bad press.

"Are you kidding? They're already working on the exercise equipment for the next big opening, at Camp X-Ray in Guantanamo." Concluded Dickie, "Some here are arguing the U.S. should take this opportunity to re-evaluate how its soldiers are trained to keep detainees, maybe the very cultural differences that exist between our two great societies. But more than likely they'll just redesign the T-shirts and add more fun runs."

Please.

Deidrebane, my dear, I tire of your ceaseless accusations. I swear this is all I've heard about all week since you found that softball-sized rock of crack cocaine in the sofa cushions. For the googleth time, darling, that's clearly not my shit. Do you see my initials monogrammed anywhere on the rock? My elegantly formal CC? Or even one of my famous "Hands Off!" post-it notes? I think not. So let's put this silly controversy to bed before I miss another moment of the Ultimate Fighting Challenge.

No, of course I don't know whose crack rock it might be. Did you ask the children? All of them? You really called Montpellier at reform school? I have to admit I'm impressed by your thoroughness, my dear. What did he have to say? Lonely? Wants to come home? Hit another student with a cue ball? Really? Now that's showing some initiative. I may have misjudged the lad. Was he playing pool or billiards? Snooker? Even better! Remind me to send him a snuff box for Father's Day. I know he's not a father, Deidrebane, but anyone can enjoy a fine mahogany snuff box. Don't be so closed-minded.

Did I see the maid rifling through the couch like she'd just lost several thousands of dollars worth of illegal narcotics? My dear, name me a day when that hasn't happened! You know how Consequa is, with her rifling. That's why we chose her from among the finalists, don't you remember? Consequa was rifling like a pro long after the others had succumbed to fatigue and delirium. It's her calling card, like Carson with that golf stroke. You know, Rich Carson, when he had that stroke on the course? He milked that for years, dear, always japing like he'd burst a blood vessel in his brain whenever the moment called for levity. Whatever happened to him, anyway? Died of a stroke? Really? I bet it was hilarious.

Yes, I suppose it could have been the butler's crack rock, now that you bring up the possibility. He's always creeping around in the shadows, answering the door at all hours of the night. Never trusted that behavior. What was his name again? Lee Butler? That's convenient. Can't believe I couldn't remember that name, how long have we had him? Is that in decades? My word. Remind me to send him a snuff box for Arbor Day.

You know, dear, it could have very well been the dog's. We don't know where he goes at night. Why are you looking at me like that? I wouldn't even know where to find a five-pound rock of pure crack cocaine. Not at this hour, anyway. Let's get back to the dog thing. Have you noticed that guilty look on his face lately? And the other day he was obviously jonesing, twitching on the floor like an electrocuted sea bass. What? I don't believe for a second that all dogs do that while they're sleeping, where did you read that? Dog dreams? Have you been watching that Oprah program again?

Sincerely, Deidrebane, sometimes I wonder about you.

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