An Inside Look at the Crowning of a New King

by Gabe Grossman

Something is rotten in the state of Neverland.

As the world-except the Lost Boys and some of the giraffes on his ranch-by now knows, thanks to a glut of coverage reaching its boiling point, something big happened this past weekend, and it was not in Honduras. The Hindenberg to humanity’s hope, Thursday the 25th of June marked the end of the Dynasty of Pop. Though short-lived at only twenty years, its reach spread far and wide: from the snow-capped mountains of Carpathia to the sinking temples of Tenochtitlan, from the Alaskan archipelagos to the humpbacked whales of Cape Horn.

One of the last remaining dynasties in the world, the Line of Pop has reached a critical moment. Just as the English government was left with a similarly difficult decision with death of Elizabeth I, and with it the Tudor family’s reign in England, so must we, the Parliament of Pop, decide in the coming days the future of its sovereignty. This reporter managed to sneak into the meeting of the Parliament of Pop, the coven that met in an emergency meeting over the weekend at the LAX Airport Hilton. What you see before you may shock you, it may disgust you. Behold, the horror!

As I entered the air-conditioning duct above the conference room (at the airport meeting) I saw a group robed figures sitting in a circle. One sat in what could only be described as an elaborate wooden throne.

“You cannot fail to see the significance of this moment-this, my friends, is a pivotal moment in the history of rock and roll. Nay-the world. For you see, the title King of Pop bears with it numerous responsibilities, most of which overshadow those of most Western governments. Michael educated the youth of the world with the peaceful and vivacious scepter of his title, spreading his message of unity into the deepest, most cavernous depths of the world. He illuminated for children of the world the importance of imagination, and like a dreamcatcher, sat in spirit at their bedside, protecting them from the evils of the world.

“With his most unfortunate and untimely passing, the duty falls to us, the Parliament of Pop, to seek out the next rightful king. For those of you who do not know, the principles of succession are not technically monarchical. Rather, they follow a similar model to those of the Papacy. But we’ve been barred by the RIAA from using the term Pope of Pop, because it would offend some people. (And David Geffen already owns the title.)

“But I digress: the task falls with us to elect or invite a new Regent of Rock and Roll. Now I know what you’re thinking-what of the Dukes, Marquesses, Earls, Viscounts, and Barons of Pop? At the present there exist no such classifications. Gentlemen, Ladies, we’ve another duty lined up for us. We have to establish a hierarchy of pop, so that we may avoid a similar emergency if the next King of Pop passes in a similarly untimely and tragic fashion. (And, let’s be real for a second, we are musicians, we do not fade quietly into the night. We burn out in an orgiastic explosion of morphine, Demerol, cocaine, Vicodin, whiskey, Percocet, ecstasy, crack, uppers, downers, meth, heroin, acid, pcp, gin, cough syrup, and cheetos.)

But first, before we allot titles to the future sovereigns of Soul we must consult the will of our Once and Future King of Pop. We must consult his spirit.”

Standing before the portrait of the deceased king, the speaker removed his hood. It was Prince. He began to chant:

“Darkness falls across the land
The midnight hour is close at hand
Creatures crawl in search of blood
To terrorize y’alls neighborhood.”

After chanting the verse, the coffin in the center of the minyon began to shake. A grey hand shot up through the dark oak of the coffin, followed soon after by its equally scarred and decomposed mate. The hands, threshing to and fro, ripped apart the lid of the coffin, and rested on the sides. What was hoisted from that coffin, dear reader, pray you never see. Raised from the coffin came the corroding corpse of Michael Jackson himself. He stepped out from the raised altar on which his former bed lay. The Parliament stood up, and watched the soulless body of Jackson take the throne from the leader of the assembly, who revealed himself to be none other than Will Smith and, in typical big Willie style, removed his hood and ceremoniously gave up the seat to his king. Jackson tapped at the wooden chair, and soon began to speak, his falsetto rendered even more haunting by his current state of existence.