Michael Jackson, Walmart, and Other Iconographic Studies

Sloping along looking at internet news, and ran across this little nugget:

ABC News: Family: Heart Attack Victim Moved for Jackson Feb. 25, 2005 — A woman who had suffered a massive heart attack died after hospital personnel moved her out of a trauma room to accommodate a flu-stricken Michael Jackson, the patient's family said. Jury selection in Jackson's child molestation child had to be temporarily postponed Feb. 15 when the pop star was taken to Marian Medical Center in Santa Maria, Calif., complaining of flu-like symptoms. Manuela Gomez Ruiz, a 74-year-old grandmother, was moved from the primary trauma room and taken off the machine ventilator, with her breathing instead assisted manually by hand pump, until she was relocated to a smaller room nearby, her family told ABC News. Click Here For The Rest Of The Story...

Alrighty then. Seems the dead woman's next of kin is gonna sue the bejeezuz out of Mikey AND the Hospital. They'd better hump it right along. I've seen a ton of these t-shirts out and about lately:



How long can it be before the well runs dry?

(Talk about a freakshow just BEGGING for a cage...Would someone PLEEEZE lock up this modified near-human piece of shit 'till he dies? And send his scumbag "entourage" along with him, yeah? Thenkyou, thenkyouveddymuch.)

Off to WalMart tonight to mix with the Common Folk (also known as the "Great Unwashed" for reasons which become increasingly clear as the evening wears on) and get enough stuff'n'crap to last another couple of weeks. We've got one 'a them "Super WalMarts," the spread of which into every nook and cranny of the nation are one of the prophecied signs of The End Times.

The usual WalMart features were in place, including large volumes of white trash and trailer dwellers roaming the aisles, cripples, lazy bastards and old folks buzzing the crowd in their motorized WalMart handichairs (click for further information on these,) and screaming children running from one end of the place to the other.

[Sidenote: These are the same sprogs who are always there, leading me to speculate that they don't actually belong to anyone, but are in fact stored in Borg-type slots in the auto department and fed nothing but leftover mechanic's coffee, crystallized sugar products, and methamphetamine. This would account for both their 24/7 presence and their behavior.]

It was all very exciting, especially when one of the sprogs came rocketing around a corner and slammed literally head-on into my basket, bouncing him clean out into the middle of the aisle. He lay there stunned as a beached fish, then, after I'd laughed at him for a bit (which seemed to be poorly received) he took off like a shot, screaming at the top of his lungs for his non-existant responsible adult.

I expected them to confront me shortly, at which point I was going to slip into my avuncular old fart mode, and genially recommend that they beat the little turd like a Salvation Army drum, and any event fuck off and stop bothering me. This, however, did not occur, so I can only presume that he went back to his repair slot at the auto shop to be recharged for his next foray out into public.

In short, it was a successful genuflection at the altar of capitalism. We are now restocked with a ton o' crapola which we may or may not have any use for, and I didn't have to kick anyone's ass or anything. Not that there wasn't opportunity or need, mind. I just wasn't in the mood.

And how was your day?

In Our Next Episode: We probably continue pumping up my WalMart stock. Or resume hunting for a good used Fat Boy. Or some other consumer-oriented activity...