Salvation by Moonwalking: The Jacked-Up Message from Michael Jackson’s Demise

Doug Giles
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Posted: Jul 11, 2009 9:09 PM

Is anybody else out there not buying the Mother Teresa comparison crap the MSM is attempting to pawn off on us regarding Michael Jackson?

This would be the same media that routinely—and righteously, I might add—exposed, ridiculed and condemned Wacko Jacko while he was alive for all of his out-of-this-world, can’t-get-more-jacked-up-than-that asininities he shoved up our culture’s collective tailpipe.

Let me see if I get this straight. If I live by Jacko’s rules:

• I can, as a 50-year-old man, sleep with a stack of little boys in my bedroom—a room, mind you, that is protected with advanced Maxwell Smart style alarm systems to alert me regarding a potential tickle party crasher intruding into my space and ruining my happy time?

• I can repeatedly squeeze my genitals on stage and on TV in front of thousands of adoring little children like a randy male gibbon surrounded by six female gibbons coming into estrus?

• I can show up an hour late to court for my second criminal trial (in one decade) for “allegedly” having sex with little boys, completely stoned out of my noggin’, flanked by Muslim bodyguards, wearing my jammies, a Sgt. Pepper’s jacket and Aviators?

• I can give little children “Jesus Juice,” or what other people who are not frickin’ insane call wine? • I can prodigally blow through millions and millions of dollars on goofy BS while telling others to sacrifice for global problems?

• I can gobble down mammoth amounts of prescription dope, take anesthesia to go nite nite, bleach my skin in an attempt to change races, wear more lipstick, blush and eye liner than Gloria Swanson did on set, publicly lie about everything from my facelifts, to nose jobs, to pedophilia, to fathering white children and hundreds of other things which only a mind gone amok can spew.

• And, upon my expiration from a lethal drug cocktail from hell, I can plan to Billie Jean through the pearly gates, electric slide up to St. Peter and expect Pedro to unlatch heaven’s velvet rope and usher me to God’s right hand just because I sold millions of records?

That’s the message the Jackson oglers are putting out to us cattle. Yep, these theological wizards are telling us to live however we want and never repent, do the most inane, grotesque, immoral junk imaginable, stuff our carne full of psychotropic drugs, and upon death, if we entertained dumb butts, we’ll get to spend eternity in heaven where we can eat ice cream with Jesus. Behold; salvation via moonwalking.

Yes, the goofy goobers will put you into their imaginary heaven, with a make-believe Messiah who winks at impenitent whack jobs and applauds style instead of substance, charisma instead of character and doles out eternal life on the basis of how people made us feel versus the personal exercise of faith in the finished work of Christ’s sacrifice on Calvary.

Isn’t that sweet?