Ladies and gentlemen of Los Angeles who clearly had nothing better to do, we come here today to mourn the death of a true American legend, Michael Jackson. Or rather, we come to mourn a highly selective version of him, cherrypicked from his childhood of forced labor and glory days of musical success during a time when even Hall and Oates could reach double platinum. Today, we will remember fondly the ways in which Michael inspired us while willfully omitting all the horrible things about the last 20 years of his existence. Using the rosiest-tinted glasses conceivably possible, we are going to celebrate 60% of our dear friend Michael’s life.
Some of you may be wondering why I was asked to speak at this funeral. I didn’t know Michael Jackson personally, nor did any of my relatives. I wasn’t even a specific fan of his music, having been born several years after the peak of his popularity. In fact, the only music video I even really remember of his is the stirring “Black or White”, which features Macaulay Culkin blasting Cheers‘ George Wendt through the ceiling of a house with a strum of his guitar. Still, that song remains with me to this day, and likely still plays in the hearts of all of us who, one day, wish to see George Wendt blasted through the ceiling of a house with a guitar.