Interview with Michael Jackson (via Uri Geller)

In his first interview since dying, the King of Pop Michael Jackson sits down for a chin-wag via the psychic ducting of Uri Geller’s frontal lobe. I shit you not. Enjoy!

Michael Jackson

Me: Welcome to my plush abode. Sorry for keeping you waiting.
Uri Geller: It’s not a problem. I bent this spoon while I was waiting.
Me: Where did you get it?
Uri Geller: It was here, on the table.
Me: So it’s mine?
Uri Geller: I don’t know. It was here on the table.
Me: Bend it back now.
Uri Geller: Ok, calm yourself. I was just trying to demonstrate…
Me: Bend it back, right now.
Uri Geller: There. It’s back.

Me: Ground rules Geller.
Uri Geller: Ok.
Me: You don’t touch the cutlery…
Uri Geller: Fine.
Me: You don’t look at the cutlery…
Uri Geller: I understand.
Me: If I give you tea, you stir it with your hand. Capiche?
Uri Geller: I apologise.

Me: What kind of cretin waltzes into another man’s home and attacks the cutlery?
Uri Geller: I said I was sorry.
Me: Channel Michael Jackson or get the hell out.
Uri Geller: I’m channelling, I’m channelling. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm.
Me: Uri?
Uri Geller: Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm.
Me: Is that still you Uri?
Michael Jackson: Uri’s not here right now.

Uri Geller

Me: To whom am I speaking?
Michael Jackson: Michael.
Me: J Fox?
Michael Jackson: Jackson.
Me: Prove it.
Michael Jackson: HEE-HEE.
Me: Ok, your story checks out.

Me: We’ll begin then. Thanks for taking the time Michael. We know you’re a busy man.
Michael Jackson: Not really. I’m brown bread.
Me: Not keeping yourself busy down there?
Michael Jackson: Down there?
Me: Up there. I meant ‘up there’.
Michael Jackson: There’s not a whole lot to do. I’m hoping Bubbles dies soon.
Me: Oh, chimps go to heaven?
Michael Jackson: No. I just hope Bubbles dies soon.

Me: Eh…ok. So, your demise. Suicide? Murder? Natural causes?
Michael Jackson: Do I look like a CSI cop?
Me: You look like Uri Geller. And you smell like wet dog.
Michael Jackson: Listen man, I don’t know what happened. One minute I’m moonwalking into the bathroom to take a shit, and the next I’m at the pearly gates, trying to skip the queue, giving St Peter the old ‘do you know who I am?’
Me: So you can’t shed any light on your passing?

Michael Jackson: Until they find a cure for death, I don’t even want to think about that day.
Me: Grand so, we’ll move on. Elvis’ daughter. Did you stick it in her?
Michael Jackson: My penis?
Me: Yes.
Michael Jackson: Good heavens no.
Me: Debbie Rowe?
Michael Jackson: No.
Me: MacCaulay Culkin?
Michael Jackson: Ah, MacCaulay Culkin. Star of Home Alone.
Me: That wasn’t really an answer. You just seemed to…
Michael Jackson: Yessiree, MacCaulay Culkin. Star of Home Alone.

Me: Rightio. Plastic surgery.
Michael Jackson: Never had any.
Me: You’re dead. Why not tell the truth?
Michael Jackson: Fine. I had 864 operations.
Me: 864?
Michael Jackson: 865 if you count the gills.
Me: Gills?
Michael Jackson: Yeah. Bit of an overreaction to seeing Kevin Costner’s Water World.
Me: Did they work?
Michael Jackson: Yes, but only when they were connected to a two-stroke engine.
Me: That doesn’t sound very practical.
Michael Jackson: They’re freaking gills man. What do you want from me?

Me: Quick fire round. List your siblings in order of preference.
Michael Jackson: La Toya, Janet, Tito, Marlon, Jackie, Jermaine.
Me: Now list your parents in order of preference.
Michael Jackson: Mom, Dad.
Me: Now list Hitler and your Dad in order of preference.
Michael Jackson: Hitler, Dad.

Me: Interesting. Tell us a funny showbiz story.
Michael Jackson: One time myself and Tito beat the shit out of a gardener at Neverland, for no reason. We had to buy his silence afterwards.
Me: Jesus. How is that funny?
Michael Jackson: Well, I was dressed as a clown.
Me: What was Tito dressed as?
Michael Jackson: Some manner of otter.
Me: I see.
Michael Jackson: Do you?
Me: Don’t I?
Michael Jackson: Touché. But do you?

Me: Eh…Uri, I’m getting a bit freaked out now. Can we wrap this up?
Michael Jackson: There is no more Uri. There is only Michael.
Me: Uri?
Michael Jackson: Tell me, have you ever seen an Israeli mentalist channelling a dead white African American man naked?
Michael Jackson: Sp…oon?
Uri Geller: Sp…oon?

Me: That’s right, spoon. Good to have you back Uri.
Uri Geller: Can I keep the spoon?
Me: You can borrow it.
Uri Geller: What did Michael say? Did he mention me?
Me: Yes. He said spoon-bending is for dorks.
Uri Geller: It’s at time like these, I’m  glad he is dead.
Me: What? That’s an astonishing thing to say. I thought you were his friend?
Uri Geller: Spoons are my only friend.

Me: Eh…
Uri Geller: You know what you remind me of?
Me: A spoon?
Uri Geller: Yes, exactly. You share many qualities with cutlery.
Me: Eh…I’m going to leave now because I’m a bit frightened. You stay as long as you want.

Sense and Prejudicability

I now present the last page of my period drama ‘Sense and Prejudicability’. First published in 1992, my agent Diane begged me to remove ‘Prejudicability’ from the title, on account of it not being a word. I told her that if she gave me any more lip, I’d replace ‘Sense’ with ‘Gumptionality’. Check mate. Enjoy!



Flann O’Coonassa

Page 548 of 548

…and though your proposal is kind and genteel in nature, Mr Dashley, I must regretfully decline sir. I do treasure the friendship we have forged this summer, and beg you that our correspondence might continue in a cordial vein, upon your return to London tomorrow morn,” said Lady Chastly.
“Why you Goddamned Mickey-teasing slut-faced bitch,” replied Mr Dashley.
“Mr Dashley!” gasped Lady Chastly.
“Ah, cut the shite. Three months I’ve been minding my ‘P’s and ‘Q’s, playing the society game, bending over backwards trying to get into your knickers. And for what? Not so much as a blowjob. You frigid oul’ bag, you. I’m absolutely gutted.”
“Mr Dashley, I must insist you curb your tongue, sir,” said Lady Chastly sternly.

Mr Dashley removed his gentleman’s wig and threw it in the fire. He then loosened his belt and let a slow, lingering fart that stunk the air green and unsettled the servants.

“That….is….heaven,” said Mr Dashley blissfully. “I haven’t been able to do that for three Goddamned months.”
“Sir, this will not do,” implored Lady Chastly, close to tears.

The butler entered the drawing room.

“May I present the Countess Meddlesworth,” announced the butler drily.
“Sir, you look dishevelled. What is the meaning of this?” she inquired.
“Don’t start with me, you big, fat, meddling oul fossil,” replied Mr Dashley.
“He’s gone quite mad,” replied Lady Chastly, running to her aunt’s side.
“Three months,” said Mr Dashley. “Three months I spent poncing around this dump, courting this wench. All because you suggested she was gamey.”

Countess Meddlesworth moved gracefully to Mr Dashley, removed a glove from her purse, and slapped him lightly across the face with it.

“Remember yourself, sir,” she scolded.
“Do that again, and I’ll take that glove out into the garden, fill it with rocks, come back in and beat you to death with it.”
“You heard me. To death.”

Unbeknownst to Mr Dashley, his words were heard by Baron Von Pinklesforth, standing just inside the door.

“What is the meaning of this sir? These threats will simply not do,” said Von Pinklesforth.
“Put a sock in it Von Pinkesforth, or so help me, I’ll flip you over and stick it in you. My balls are about to explode, and I’m in the red. I’m warning all of you, someone’s getting it tonight.”

Von Pinklesforth gulped visibly, and retreated several paces until his anus was secured against the nearest wall. Mr Dashley took a bottle of port from the mantelpiece and gulped from it, pausing occasionally to belch wildly.

“Three months…,” he occasionally repeated between swigs, as his three companions looked on in frozen terror.

Now drunk, Mr Dashley began to disrobe. First his pantaloons. Next his waist jacket, breeches and girdle. Soon he was stark-bollock naked.

“Sir, I beg of you,” said a teary Lady Chastly, “if not for my sake, please consider the good Countess Meddlesworth. Please return your member to its holdings.”
“No deal, Chastly. Dashley Junior is out of the cage, and he ain’t going back in till someone gives him a good oul’ tug.”

With that, Countess Meddlesworth fainted. Upon seeing her head collide with the billiards table, Mr Dashley burst into a laughter that spewed a cocktail of snots and bourbon from his nostrils.

“Fuckin, right off the side of the billiards table,” he laughed, before himself collapsing into a drunken stupor on the floor.

When Mr Dashley awoke the next morning, he found himself alone. At first, he had no memory of the previous night’s doings. Moments later, to his horror, he found that he was lying in a cake of his own defecation.

“This won’t do,” said Mr Dashley, his manners finally restored. He selected a pistol from a case in the writing desk drawer, placed the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.


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Rant by is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Copyright © 2009 Flann O'Coonassa