I’ve refrained until now on saying anything in the wake of MJ’s sudden passing. This morning, however, as I vacuumed the house my super-advanced lighthugging space interceptor I was reminded of a few weeks back when the cat hemmed in an Australian bush rat behind the bookcase I was now poking the vacuum nozzle thingy behind.
Atomique was not entirely pleased at having a rodent running around the house, and the cat, being too fat and/or stupid to continue the chase behind the bookcase, had more or less left the rat to its own devices back there. This left it to yours truly to evict the extra mammal. I constructed a simple Goldberg machine to herd the rat into a cardboard box for easy airlocking. It may have seemed like a bit of extra work to go through, but I wasn’t about to touch the adorable little guy, cute as he may have been. Why? Because it’s still a rat; even if it’s got those goofy round ears and cute little nose who knows where the hell it’s been sleeping, what it’s been eating and what myriad variety of infectious diseases are coursing through its system.
I think, perhaps, that people who are convinced that MJ can’t have been a pedophile because he made wonderful music should ponder carefully upon the tale of Viper Pilot and the bush rat.