Michael Jackson is so broke he’s selling his stuff. He’s apparently selling 2,000 items he owns including his glittery single glove and the gates to Neverland Ranch. Interested parties can bid in person or online.
Better than this.
People who collect other people’s shit bother me. Why do they insist on having things that celebrities once owned? I realize the point isn’t to own a sparkly glove, because if you really wanted to own a sparkly glove, you could just buy one here for 3 bucks. But, what would one do with The Glove? I’m sure it would be put in some hyperbaric chamber like David Duchovny‘s hand in Zoolander, but if I were in possession of such an item I think I’d have to wear it around.
I can see it now: A picture perfect day in upstate New York. The trees are in bloom, hippies are playing frisbee and hand drums, the faint smell of pot sweetens the air and it feels like nothing could disturb such a scene. Then I appear from the woods. I’m wearing a black suit with an open white shirt, black shoes, white socks and a black fedora. On my left hand is a white sparkly glove and in my right, held up to my ear is a huge ghetto blaster alternately blaring “Smooth Criminal” and “Still of the Night” by Whitesnake. Why? Because David Coverdale is the fucking man (I’m a libertarian for the record, but that’s a great statement from Mr. Whitesnake).
As I saunter around the public park there’s a good chance some crabby old AARP member will approach me and ask something like “What in Sam Hill do you think you’re doing here?” I lower my Ray-Ban shades and reply in a silky smooth tone “Is it too loud? I can turn it down if you want.” His reply will undoubtedly be “Yes, that’s exactly what I want.” When I get done savagely beating him and wiping my brow with my new glove, I make my way to the swingset where a beatiful young lady has caught my eye:
Me: Hey babe, you catch last week’s episode of Two and a Half Men?
Me: (Laughs) Me either… I’ve never watched an episode in my life (I look away and bite my lip).
Hottie: Wanna push me?
Me: I thought you’d never ask.
After I push her off her swing and into the dirt underneath it, I resume my earlier mission – to rock. I change the tape from the custom Coverdale-Jackson mixtape I made to one perhaps a little more appropriate – the lead single from Damn Yankees‘ debut, “High Enough”.
I hop in my red ’83 Camaro Z28, transfer my tape from the blaster to the car stereo, crank it up and manually roll the windows down. I put my shades back on and then floor it back to my bedroom where I flip through some music rags with oversized headphones on.
Alright, I may have spoke too soon. Owning Michael Jackson’s glove would kick ass.