When Michael Jackson died the world let out a gasp.
Some did so out of a profound sadness, some out of shock, and some just because now their wee sons could go outside unattended.
Not long after, people started worrying about Jackson’s estate. Who would get his Beatles rights? Who’d inherit the dusty set of Captain EO – and what was to happen to his pickled penis?
We heard it’s had kind of a dill/vinegar wrap on since he was twelve.
It ends up the will that made such material designations – according to Randy Jackson – it has a forged signature.
It’s a rough time to be MJ. Not only have all his songs been stolen by Hispanics like 18 years before he recorded them, but at this very moment he’s probably realising that being surrounded by senior citizen women with a Jesus-juice allergy most likely implies that wherever he is – it certainly isn’t his heaven.
A harsh awakening, no doubt.
Well we only wish we could tell him that his name is still wrapped in turmoil down here too. Sure, we finally got the ultimate destination of his children figured out – but what about the rest of his crap? You know, like his pickled penises. And his pants.
It seems some nefarious fellow decided to ensure those pickled penises and pants don’t get to the person whom Michael had intended at all. We know this because it’s recently been made clear that MJ’s 2002 will has a forged signature gracing the long line at the bottom.
That’s what Randy Jackson thinks anyway. TMZ sums things up:
“Randy Jackson claims Michael Jackson could not have signed his 2002 will, because he was 2,475 air miles away from the place the document was supposedly inked. According to the will, it was signed on July 7, 2002 at 5:00 PM in Los Angeles. Randy Jackson tells TMZ he has proof MJ was in New York from July 5 through July 9, on a campaign against Sony honcho Tommy Mottola claiming Mottola had a thing against Black artists.”
Hecklerspray thinks this is most likely a matter of Randy not getting any monkeys out of the deal. Imagine, your brother Michael Jackson dies and you don’t get any monkeys. We’d probably complain too.
We’d complain until we at least got a walrus. Michael probably had dozens of those stashed away. Whoever the proper walrus-inheritor is probably won’t even miss just one.
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