The Tragedie of Michael Jackson, King of Pop

*waits for rim shots*

THE KING OR SOMEONE ELSE: Lord, what fools these mortals be!
Paying me money for what they get for free.

[Prompter under the floorboards, urgent hiss: 'The script! The script!']

LADY JACKSON: Oh fool, what brings you to this chamber?
Prithee tell, what gossip you may bear.
Does the King molest the boys?
Or has he bought more expensive toys -
Or both! We cannot ever know
what Michael has, but doesn't show.

(exeunt)

OL' DIRTY BASTARD: Hark, the Wu-Tang Clan have stumbled upon this merry gathering.
GZA: Hear ye! Hear ye!
My prose will go uncontested,
I shan't be bested
At my own game, old Willy be the man
but he's long dead,
weavils and slugs bore through his head,
So I henceforth proclaim this nigga be bus'ed.

CURTAIN
End of Act One

ACT TWO
The imperial bedroom suite at Neverland. A cock crows. Rays of morning sun illuminate the elaborate plastic drapes of the king's oxygen tent.

LADY JACKSON: (Outside bedroom door) My Lord? Are you awake?

THE KING: Come... come in?

LADY JACKSON: I think I'll just stay here, by your leave
I don't want any nasty surprises like last time, my liege.
Just to say Phoebus has risen, it's soon
Time for your portrait with the artist, Jeff Koons.
Do you need any help picking out hair
Skin from the closet, or a nice face to wear?

THE KING: Away, woman, fie, I don't need your help
I can do all those things pretty much by myself
But one thing thou couldst do -- if you see Dr Wax
Tell him to bring an iron and a couple of skin grafts.

LADY JACKSON: Very well. Oh, just one more thing
There's a new Beatles songbook someone's publishing
It's stuffed full of songs you own and can sing
Do you want me to push it under the door?

THE KING: Very well, push it under. I'll sing them in the shower.

Pose this question, if you will
How'd my brother get so...shrill?
Is it genes and would you bother
Turning white to deny your father?

A music man from Gary, Indiana
Hit his kids with a rusty spanner
Wrenched from reality
Precocious musicality
The rod unspared in discipline's totality

Brother mine should tread with care
Victims turned bullies are not so rare
Spoiling kiddies with his piebald rod
The Fool is he,
Not that Yankovic sod

O Fortuna, whom the King hast spurned
Cast off, it seems your wheel has turned
And landed us in a red-lit quarter
Where profits slump like ice to water
Instead of beating Britney Spears
He owes us payment in arrears
So now the choice - O, heart is sore!
To go now to the breach once more?
Pour funds into his holy war?
Commission posters, four by four?
Or double back the way we came?
For though steeped in this stream of shame
Where walking on or walking back
Will doubtless make us just as black
It seems, to beat a fast retreat
Will better serve our balance sheet

But hark now! Who is this young coquettish
Sent hither to quench the King's old fetish?

SIR PAUL: Fie on thee, thy scurvy dog,
The Queen art mine, mine, mine,

(sorry)

(SIR PAUL falls to the floor, seemingly paralyzed before THE KING. Enter SIR MICK, who upon seeing the tableau, cries out)

SIR MICK:
I find myself in a state of incapacitation, where you my King, have placed me.

(SIR MICK falls to the floor next to SIR PAUL)

KING
Aye, but what perplexes me,
Is the nature of thy game.
(To Sir Paul)Waste not thy time, for the Queen is mine

SIR PAUL:
She has but this night confided
That I be her eternal lover.

KING:
After me, she said, she will ne'er love another.
Begone! Thou mak'st me want to scream.

Exeunt all except The King

O calumny thou hast torn my life askew!

Of trees and hungry starved there are few;

Yet I as Messiah will speak my peace,

Brave children I shall enlist, low in grease,

For minor are my misfortunes to God,

When considereth thou the wretched law of Sod,

I am the light which earth shalt illumine,

To banish hellwise bowls for Columbine.

What of the trees? What of the dying birds?

What of the children whom I mistake not for turds?

For God am I, I am namdam forsooth,

Or would be had not Randy robbed me of wisdom tooth...

Enter abruptly SIR JARVAIS OF COCKAIGNE:

SIR JARVAIS:

"Begone, false prophet, for thou durst speakest tosh!

Your pitiful pretensions are unfit e'en for nosh!

Roaches shalt never climb your quadruple-garotted walls,

As evidenced by your lack of recordings by the Falls.

For Princess Janet hath taken all thy cred,

Whilst thou indulgest in filth and sausage atop thy bed!

She now hath the trust of Courtier Beenieman

Whilst you would be fortunate to attract a 90-summers-old Exeter fan!

I embrace the future, Ladytron and Electralane,

Thou wretched sneitch, doomest e'ermore to Sir Toby Keith's pain!

He blows his bottom at THE KING and exits, stage left.

(Curtain)

ACT THREE
The business district of an unnamed American city with lots of buildings and signs in it that often include the words 'New Yorke.'

THE KING enters.]

THE KING
Having thus confounded this mighty wound
I must now confront the evils of this land
For my home realm now falls prey to Yorke
And a new city raises itself in mockery
To my plans and devices for a golden age
Of glory against the forces of despite
Who would yet seek to destroy what I hold dear.
What horrors are seen here among these citizens!
Picks up a Village Voice
Some scribblers here proclaim the sons of Yorke
To be the bearers of deep meaning and truth
A HEALEY, so-named, yet he cannot heal his soul
And a Lord MARTIN who clearly wets his bed
Or some uncouth former ally of the Sony board
Once said in a moment of outraged passion
Brought on by excess of red meat and wine.
Nay nay, I must fight this idiocy sublime
For the world will understand how I champion
Their causes and dreams, their deep motives.

Enter a CITIZEN, dressed in strange and colourful garb.

Good dweller of this land! I am here to free thee
From the horrible bonds of YORKE that have ensnared
You and your fellow dwellers for too long.
Come follow me, your rightful lord and master!

CITIZEN
'Sblood, thou stinkard, remove thy prating follies
From this fair island that truly inhabits the center
Of the Known Universe (or so I keep hearing from others
Who have never in fact left it to live elsewhere).
We have no need of thy follies anymore now that we have
A truer set of lords and masters.

THE KING
But Yorke!
He is no king of thine.

CITIZEN
Yorke is but a chimera
In these days of plenty and calm. We now worship
The better sovereigns of a truly New Yorke --
The good lords CASABLANCAS and NELLY, and not only them
But the mighty Queen MISSY and her oft-talked frappe
Not to mention Princess AGUILERA and her tantrum fits
And the Northern Duchess LAVIGNE, who speaks of Bois.
These in fact give us the hope and reaches we need
In this time when chimpanzees pretend to rule the land
From houses painted in white and surrounded by guards.
For we must have a modern hope and not thy spewings.

KING: What manner of monster are thee? Why hast thou daughter forsaken me in my need? My kingdom for a pie! My kingdom for a pie!

exeunt

MICHAEL
'Struth, I shall rally my own musical forces, and reclaim the charts that formerly were mine! (hums a little riff that resolves into "Got to Be Startin' Somethin")

MICHAEL stops abruptly in front of a portrait of Sieur Thomas De La Mottola.

MICHAEL
Why did I not see this before?
DE LA MOTTOLA is the author of my woe!
He underfunded my most recent campaign
Because he scorns those of the sable strain!

MICHAEL pulls out a pencil and scribbles a devil's horns and goatee on the portrait. Enter stage right the ghost of ELVIS I.

ELVIS
What? I am the one who is ectoplasm
Yet is my son-in-law the greater phantasm?

MICHAEL
Heavens! My eyes pop forth from my head!
But wait just a sec--is the KING really dead?

ELVIS
Aye, I have been dead these 25 years
But sometimes I do walk this earth, in tears.
In Rock-and-Roll Heaven there's a hell of a band
But never a peanut butter and banana sandwich at hand.
And I will try to help a musician in strife
To help them with this thing called life.

MICHAEL (excitedly)
Who has thou visited in their house of pain?
Courtney LOVE? Robert SMITH?

ELVIS
Uh, Kurt COBAIN?
But dwell not on how others did fail
Now, now you must haste to save your own tail.
Do you remember just how I died?

MICHAEL
Straining on the toilet, ass open wide?

ELVIS
You fool! I mean how death did me tug,
By many a greasy sandwich and prescription drug.
The COLONEL and DOCTOR FEELGOODE, together
Catered to my every whim, whateversoever.
If I could perform, I was their gold-laying goose.
But they did not see that I was in a noose.
They gave me whatever I thought I did need
Yet hastened me to my grave at headlong speed.
You are similarly protected by flacks
And this shield causes the strength of the attacks
Launched upon you by those critical hacks.
Banish your yes-men, think for yourself;
In here who truly profits from your wealth?
You must face the consequences of your actions
And study what renders musical satisfactions.
I hope you can do this; once a young boy
Sang "We are the world," and gave the world joy.
You can regain your spirit, audience, niche
Now where might a hungry ghost find a sandwich?

MICHAEL
Turn left, and go to the end of that hall.

ELVIS exits stage left.

MICHAEL
Is all that true? Can I rewin it all?

Curtain

LADY LATOYA
[madly] You there, Foo, come heel to me. And Your Highness,
I request an audience to dsicuss
A mattter most urgent. Prithee, draw near.
[aside]What fortune, what chance! With these steps my plan
Nears fruition! The players set, curtain
Ready, my scheme -- but hold! Tis time!
[to both]Far be it for one of my station low
To pose this query so: if this drama be,
And more, be true, should not you, rustic clown,
Speak free from poesie and rather in prose
To designate proper your vulgar place?
Unless! Unless! Yes, there is more, and less!
I have stumbled on a masquerade,
The Fool, true King, whilst yon Jackson -- knave!

[The King's face begins to melt]

LADY LATOYA
Mine eyes! His nose detached and fall'n! Syphilitic?
Plastic alchemy 'come parasitic?

Though my enemies fade me
I am innocent of these foul crimes
and though this judge dost lord o'er me
still I shall dance atop this SUV.

IT IS TIME!

Enter THE KING, MISS JANET, SIR PAUL, SIR MICK, the consul for the defence URI GELLER and for the prosecution ALEX IN NYC.

THE KING: Actually, not since 1986.

THE KING: 'Tis just another part of me.

ALEX IN NYC:
let the wide arch of brooklyn
into the foaming hudson fall
before these many-cursed villains
once more attain their liberty.
It out-Herods Herod! ha! liberty! what is it
but a yet more spacious cage within which
reprobates and traitors ply their schemes?
but let us quiet!
- the trial begins!

(aside)
i'll daub it thus for now, outrage seeming heaped on outrage until the jurors beg heaven to contend against such villainy! then i'll 'minster the fatal blow; when bashir speaks, the noose will follow!

ALEX IN NYC:
From what Planet, sirrah, do you come?
Are you ignorant, or are you simply dumb--
The King of Pop, he stands afore your eyes
No Fool would miss such lame disguise.

Enter one of the KING's minions, leading a strange beast on a leash

KING: Ah, 'tis CaliBubbles! Speak, CaliBubbles, speak!

CALIBUBBLES: Ooo! Oooo! Oooo! Eeee! Eee! Eee!

Chorus of JACKSON WASSAILERS: "...Easy as one, two, three."

HARK! THE JURY SITS!

Have to agree. His appeal, while maddening, is relentless. Of all the collected wisdom on my personal site, this picture accounts for half of the hits every day, gratis, ususally, google image search. Okay, maybe wisdom is the wrong word...

an image

Enter TIMBERLAKE.

TIMBERLAKE aside:
As the path of the sunne in yon sky
Th'arc of Fame doth live, and doth die.
Renown once held must in some wise stop
I shall usurp his crown of Pop.

Once I was but a mere Boy amongst a band.
My moves were freshe, but my beats, they were bland.
Then a vexèd wardrobe shocked each rube
Now my Fame rests on one piercèd boob.

TIMBERLAKE:
as with you my liege
'tis but the native hue of resolution
sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought

THE KING:
damned insolence!
(aside)
yet this leads nowhere
i shall consult my soothsayer!
call geller!

enter GELLER

THE KING: is't true soothsayer
that in the movement of swallows
o'erarching the cerulean firmament
that shadowy arc which divides men from stars
thou can'st divine man's fortunes?

GELLER:
in nature's infinite book of secrecy
A little I can read

THE KING:
pray then, foresee my fate

GELLER:
thou shalt be innocent until the army of exeter
doth topple to the rude shock
of manchestrian onslaughts

THE KING:
'tis good

GELLER:
till iron spoons bend and watches wake from dusty death
your kingdom will endure

THE KING
excellent soothsayer!

i cry for thee, jackson
these tears shall cleanse

THE KING:
do not despair your majestie!
for my plans never cease to be
i now must cultivate an army
an army of leprechauns from thee!

THE KING OF IRELAND:
but what ambitions and what tomfoolery a plan this could be
how must you convince the Mother Of Nature
to provide you with many a storm
many a rain
many a drizzle
many an interrupting Sun
to allow many a rainbow
for which thy must find all these pots o gold, ye pop king, dare i ask?

THE KING:
begorrah!
i may exist on thee plain of a pauper in these dying aching days
but even a leper, less of that a leprechaun, hath always the gift of luck!
and being blessed with immaculate charm in earlier years, ye
you generous and love of conditional, your majestie of clovers
must not deny the law above all dirt on which we lay, we walk, and we shovel
it is magick, your majestie!
leprechauns will bring you this majick! Me majick!
The world majick!
Commission a park for this army of leprechaun magick at once!

THE KING OF IRELAND:
i am overwhelmed with your charm, pop king. you do never lie.
to my people, nor ever again on this slag of dung!

THE KING:
i shall never!

And so surprised as the musick hath been abridged
a lobbing of this coat of mine into a sea of admirers
Mine a tribute to my phalanx of this future of young
so overpowering it could not all be sung!

only jackson thread that matters

so true

<3 this thread - hope someone steps up for the epilogue

I'll make some calls.

^^^to all the above

But hush, what commotion is this? Methinks the king or someone else arrives. I'll to to the arrass, conceal myself and watch what business shall unfold!

ultimate fucked-up child star, move along, nothing to see here, folks

Wow.

SIR PAUL
A glooming peace o'er Neverland this day.
Peter Pan for sorrow will not show his head.
Go hence, to have more talk of death of pop;
Biographies rewritten, concerts cancelled.
The Earth song will be sung in far flung lands;
For never was a HIStory of more woe
Than this of Michael and his Billie Jean.

http://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/that-was-it-the-tragic-tale-of-our-king-michael-jackson/Event?oid=7050531

That Was It: The Tragic Tale of Our King Michael Jackson

Tongue firmly in cheek, playwright C.J. Tuor borrows the structure of a Greek tragedy (plus a few tricks from Shakespeare and Bertolt Brecht) to tell the King of Pop's life story. Director-choreographer Ali Keirn embellishes Tuor's extremely witty tale -- featuring a chorus that intones lyrics from Jackson hits -- with eccentric dramatic poses, overwrought modern-dance tableaux, and lots of trademark Jackson moves. But what really sells this high-energy comedy is the cast's ability to win laughs even as they lay bare the pathos in Jackson's story. Playing Jackson pre- and post-plastic surgery respectively, Tom Daily and Emily Goldberg are particularly winning. —Jack Helbig