CURRENT ISSUE 11/25/03 Front Page Weekly Features Advice From Strangers Ain't That America? Frank Haskins Globetrotting With Push Musing with Mitch Moth's Diary Info Previous Issues Crap Shop Who's at Fault? Contact Us! Aye, mateys! Get you some Daily Probe booty!	Saturday 22nd November Poor Michael's arrest biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder, as I believe Cardinal Bernard Law once described the experience of being called "a sodding pimp" by church ladies in front of his own cathedral. I don't know if you've noticed, but this Jacko case encompasses all that's great about America: race, aberrant sex, money, atonal music, nipples, and enough eyeliner to send three Johnny Depps stumbling to the nearest Vision Center. I wish I could disavow my long friendship with the accused at a time like this, but, alas, I cannot. You won't find Cyril Motheringay abandoning his friends in their time of peril, nor will you find him, like so many of Michael's show-business "friends," metal-fatigued from rushing to his mortal aid for the fifteenth time in a hit-free decade. No. This time it will be just me and Jermaine holding back the hordes. Good old Jermaine! It seems like only yesterday we stood by and watched their father whipping young Michael with an electrical cord he'd pulled the Christmas tree over to get at. The tiny little lightbulbs caught the sun as he raised them over his head for the downstrokes. Jermaine howled with protest from his playpen, which I've always felt did him enormous credit. After the rage-fueled Joe stormed off, I dried little Michael's tears with my lace handkerchief and lent him my compact so he could discreetly put his tear-stained face back together. Our friendship blossomed after that. Many's the time, over the years, when he would come to me with a wet nose: "My sister was just on Howard Stern discussing something called 'rimming,'" or "My brothers are unrecognized musical geniuses," or even, as I recall, "That (bleeping) Emmanuel Lewis sleeps on his back, with a king-sized pillow clutched on top of him!" In his teens, he used my home as a kind of sanctuary or even laboratory. Years before he made the big money, he tried to achieve a kind of racial transmogrification by slathering his whole self with Desitin, the diaper rash remedy that, while effective on children's bums, ahem, has been the bane of mothers and fathers everywhere because it's the devil's own business to get it off your hands. He got so he could use just one careful hand as an applicator, hence the need for only a single glove. Since those days, I've heard disturbing (and unconfirmed) rumours from mutual acquaintances and Neverland Ranch staff that Michael has had sexual congress with primates, camels, ostriches, four luckless beetles, a seagull who had his dangerous snapper closed with a powerful elastic, three lobsters who didn't, an ordinary housefly on a windowpane, a tub of margarine substitute, two velour couch cushions from his grandmother's sofa, a brick of frozen shrimp, Marlon Brando's legless dog, Macaulay Culkin's press agent, a cigar store wooden Indian that had cracked during a heat wave, Sophia Loren's superstructure, and a carton of cottage cheese, which must, when you think of it, have born a striking textural similarity to Sophia Loren's superstructure. Taking this all into account, I'm left with the ineluctable conclusion that Michael could never have broken the sexual taboos he stands accused of breaking. It is the only verdict that a reasonable man can reach.
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