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A very quiet divorce doesn’t hit the public hard because it's such a no-brainer and by this time nobody cares. On the rebound, you mysteriously fertilize the assistant of your dermatologist. It doesn’t look much like a love-connection but Deborah Rowe is carrying your child. Not publicity shy, she arranges press conferences decked out in leather, straddling a Harley which she probably couldn’t afford before she cut this exclusive baby-deal with you.

But you insist that it’s the real thing. You marry her in Australia before baby Prince Michael Jackson, Jr. is born on February 13, 1997. Your non-friend Elizabeth Taylor (soon to be a celebrity adventure) is the fairy god-mother. On April 6, 1998 your daughter Paris Michael Katherine is born.

All would seem well and normal except that Debbie’s dad claims that Deb told HIM that she was knocked-up by artificial insemination. Stranger still is that fact that the mother of your kids is living 1,000 miles away from you and her young children. In fact, she is living in the same apartment she was living in before she started her test-tube relationship with you. You are now living in France, almost expatriate, like other child-molesters Charlie Chaplin and Roman Polanski. So what? Since when does saying 'I do' mean you have to actually have a relationship? At a press conference, your wife says, "I don’t need to be there." And you agree. You feed, diaper, read to, sing to and nap with your children and what’s the big deal? Mom is only 13 hours away!

Your wife says, "He loves kids." And who could disagree?

In 1999 you break your wrist for real so when you show up in public wearing a cast, it’s not just because you’re a freak.

In the summer of 1999, you collapse at the charity event you are doing with Pavarotti. Dehydration is often the diagnoses for your many collapses. Remember your cable-TV special that never happened….dehydration! That could be the cause of all your problems…you just don’t drink enough Pepsi when you’re thirsty. Before you know it, Pavarotti is making statements to his audiences that you are canceling yet another charity appearance with him because your son may be dying! A press frenzy whips up. Hey Pav! Do you wanna be startin’ something? You got ta be startin something! Prince just has a fever! He’s been having some seizures but Mommy Deb, who is only 13-little hours away, assures the press and the world at large that the little tyke is ok. All seems well in this strange little family until, less than six months later, you file for divorce. You are soon to be legally single again.

Wow! What a life you've had so far. Maybe you molested young boys, maybe not. At least we can all say you didn’t join a band for the chicks.

Regardless, you are still a cult no one wants to join. All this talent you have pissed away. We don’t care why. Your father probably did torture and abuse you which is awful in itself but you had a way out, man! You had the ever elusive "it"… that something special. What about all those abused and tortured children who have nothing, let alone talent, money or luck? You could have given them a light at the end of the tunnel…instead, you became the King of Inevitable Dysfunction and Doom….marching yourself into hopeless self-destruction.

Maybe this lost-boyhood schtick is just a red herring. Maybe no mere mortal can resist the evil of the Thriller.

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