Dear Mr. Jackson:WTF?
My brother had your doll. It had a glove and black shiny pants and your signature red jacket and he loved it. Also, his friend, Dennis*, had an exact leather replica of your red jacket.
I danced to "Beat It" in my sorority's annual video. No, you can't see it. In fact, I hope somebody's burned it. 1998 was not a good year for me.
What happened, MJ? Where did we go wrong**? What has reduced you to being wheeled around in a wheelchair wearing pepaw house shoes and sleep pants in Las Vegas? Although to be honest, I have to give you props for not having bunnies or clouds or shit on your sleep bottoms.
Come on, Mr. Jackson. Get it together. I would totally pay to see your shit in Las Vegas. In fact, hire me to be your PR assistant*** and together, we'll set the world right. It doesn't matter if you're Black or White. And yes, you can call me Ms. Nasty, if you want.
Yours,
Mandyland
* Dennis, however, was a little punk I wanted to beat down 6 days out of 7. I baby sat him and his four siblings once, and his five-year-old sister grabbed a kitchen knife and crawled behind a dresser. I had to call my mom home from work and all I got was twentyfuckingdollars from their white-trash mom. True story, that one.
** Oooookay. If you guys say so.
*** Free clothing and swag from the paparazzi? Well, if you insist.
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