Let’s start out by assuming Michael Jackson is guilty. OK? Yes yes yes, innocent until proven and all that. We’re talking theoretically here. We’re going to look at the circumstantial evidence before our eyes — past charges, eccentric lifestyle, an admission that he loves children and has sleepovers with them — and just say, works for me. We’ll stipulate it could all be a setup, yet another shakedown for a few million, but for now, let’s assume it isn’t.
And you know what? When I consider this, I can’t even get all that mad at Michael Jackson anymore. It’s like being angry at a hyena for biting you. Unless the hyena gained entrance to your home in a very convincing kitten suit, who else are you going to blame? “Shut up, silly woman,” said that reptile with a grin / “You knew durn well I was a snake before you brought me in.”
How do you pass out responsibility? How about the first family, who accepted what’s reliably reported to be an eight-figure settlement in exchange for a refusal to testify against Jacko? They accepted a big payday and, in return, allowed a molester to return to the street.
How about the surrogate mothers who, after Jackson switched to a grow-your-own strategy, willingly conceived and bore children for him, turning over their parental rights and effectively delivering defenseless infants into the hands of a man any reasonable person could see should be kept far, far away from anyone under 18?
How about the parents who, star-struck, allowed their children to cuddle up with Jackson during those sleepovers? How about the ones who thought a day at the Neverland amusement park was worth pushing their anxiety aside? How about the ones who never had any anxiety?
What about them?