Poor Michael Jackson. Pimped out by his stage-father, drowned like a baby in the bath of celebrity, turned into a monster, Freakus americanus, with that living-death’s-head after all that self-mutilation of his face, not to mention all that creepy Peter Pan/child abuse/pyschosis. In the end, he was living on loans, for hundreds of millions of dollars, backed up by his catalog and the Beatles. An empire of dirt. Fans -- idolatrous rabble even scarier than the focus of their twisted desire, when you get right down to it -- must take some responsible for that grotesque life and early death, don’t you think?
Momma, don’t let your children grow up to be megapop stars. And don’t let them have sleepovers at the nutter's palace, either.
And alas, poor Farrah. Celebrity media rushes in where Charlie’s Angels fear to tread, never shy about cashing in on necrophilia.
Me? I lusted after the brunettes on that show.