Hold on, folks, ‘Puter feels a multi-tiered stem winder coming on here, prompted by the lavish attention showered on Michael Jackson.

Michael Jackson was many things, most of bad, and all of no lasting consequence. Quick! Think of one thing about Michael Jackson that will be of any moment 100 years from now. You can’t.

What do we know with certainty about Mr. Jackson? He was arguably a pioneer in the crappiest of all musical genres, pop. His talent and abilities waned as he aged gracelessly. He blew through money like Mayor For Life Marion Barry blows through crack and hookers. He was at a minimum a devotee of plastic surgery, if not an outright addict, to the detriment of his looks. He surrounded himself with yes men and hangers on more concerned with Mr. Jackson’s wealth than his health. He called one of his kids Blanket, as if that won’t come up in therapy for the rest of the kid’s life. In short, Mr. Jackson was a marginally musically talented absolute wreck of a human being. And ‘Puter’s opinion stated above leaves aside the numerous allegations that Mr. Jackson molested children, one of the most heinous crimes around.

And so how does the world react to the death of this idiot man child? With a full-on two week fist-pounding, screaming media orgasm. Oh, and a “memorial service”fit for royalty. If by royalty you mean tacky Hollywood flashes in the pan, complete with sycophantic hangers-on. ‘Puter’s looking at you “Reverend” Jackson and “Reverend” Sharpton.

Where has our perspective gone? Did we have such reactions to the death of men and women whose lives were far more consequential? Ah, ‘Puter recalls fondly the weeping in the streets and two week period of national mourning for the death of Dr. Jonas Salk, savior of hundreds of millions of potential polio victims. Wait, didn’t happen.

And before ‘Puter gets inundated with 326 versions of “ZOMG! ‘Puter, don’t you understand!?! MICHAEL TOUCHED ME DEEPLY!!!11!1!1!,” let ‘Puter explain. ‘Puter’s not denying that Michael Jackson moved you, ‘Puter’s just calling you a shallow, self-absorbed pack of weenies with no sense of historical perspective.

Can we now please move on from this pathetic man’s tragic existence and get back to discussing things that matter? There’s no shortage of issues of consequence with which to deal. Here’s a few freebies for the media and serious people to bandy about: nationalization of health care; faltering world economy; Iran; North Korea; and Honduras. ‘Puter’s left about a jillion things more important than Michael Jackson’s death off the list.

Now get back to work, dammit!

'Puter

Always right, unless he isn’t, the infallible Ghettoputer F. X. Gormogons claims to be an in-law of the Volgi, although no one really believes this.

’Puter carefully follows economic and financial trends, legal affairs, and serves as the Gormogons’ financial and legal advisor. He successfully defended us against a lawsuit from a liquor distributor worth hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid deliveries of bootleg shandies.

The Geep has an IQ so high it is untestable and attempts to measure it have resulted in dangerously unstable results as well as injuries to researchers. Coincidentally, he publishes intelligence tests as a side gig.

His sarcasm is so highly developed it borders on the psychic, and he is often able to insult a person even before meeting them. ’Puter enjoys hunting small game with 000 slugs and punt guns, correcting homilies in real time at Mass, and undermining unions. ’Puter likes to wear a hockey mask and carry an axe into public campgrounds, where he bursts into people’s tents and screams. As you might expect, he has been shot several times but remains completely undeterred.

He assures us that his obsessive fawning over news stories involving women teachers sleeping with young students is not Freudian in any way, although he admits something similar once happened to him. Uniquely, ’Puter is unable to speak, read, or write Russian, but he is able to sing it fluently.

Geep joined the order in the mid-1980s. He arrived at the Castle door with dozens of steamer trunks and an inarticulate hissing creature of astonishingly low intelligence he calls “Sleestak.” Ghettoputer appears to make his wishes known to Sleestak, although no one is sure whether this is the result of complex sign language, expert body posture reading, or simply beating Sleestak with a rubber mallet.

‘Puter suggests the Czar suck it.