Life Everyone Likes a Good Michael Jackson Story
posted by May 30 at 10:08 AM
onYesterday I went to talk to fourth- and fifth-graders about writing. During the Q&A, one of the kids asked if I’d ever had what I thought was a little story grow into a big story, and I told him how my obsession with the creation and dissolution of Michael Jackson spring-boarded into a national news-ish story when Jackson faced new criminal charges in 2005.
After the class, one of the fourth-grade boys came up and told me he’d written a story about Michael Jackson, too. Even better, he gave me a copy.
The full text of Booger Boy and Snot Boy Versus Michael Jackson is after the jump.
One of the many gifts of the story: Confirmation that no adult has ever been able to accurately impersonate childishness (except for her and her).
BOOGER BOY AND SNOT BOY VERSUS MICHAEL JACKSONThere was once a guy who name was Booger Boy. He picked his nose all the time. One time he picked Michael Jackson out, and Michael said, “What am I doin’ up your nose?” Then Michael Jackson said, “I’m going to tell the government you picked me out of your nose!”
Then Booger Boy’s friend came out of the house. His name was Snot Boy. He asked Booger Boy, “What’s the matter?”
Booger Boy said, “Michael Jackson went to go tell on me. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I see him again. I’m probably going to put a banana bomb in his pants and make banana juice splat everywhere.”
And Snot Boy said, “Nah, let’s do something more challenging. Let’s annoy him to death by asking too many questions like, Why do you like singing?, and, Why do you wear your hair so big?”
Then, one Christmas Eve, they snuck into Michael Jackson’s house at ten at night, and hid a walkie talkie under the kitchen table. Then Booger Boy and Snot Boy went home. When Michael Jackson woke up and went to the kitchen to make orange juice, he heard the table asking him questions. He asked the table, Are you asking me questions?”
The table screamed, “YES, I AM!”
Then Michael Jackson said, “Why are you doing this to me? Especially, why are you haunting me?”
The table screamed, “I don’t know. I just feel like it.”
Michael Jackson said, “Ok, if you don’t be quiet, I’m going to get sledgehammer and smash you.”
Next thing you know, BANG BANG BANG. The walkie talkie was still there.
Michael Jackson saw the walkie talkie, picked it up and said, “Snot Boy, Booger Boy, you’re going to pay for this!”
Michael Jackson threw a flash grenade into the kitchen and then went in wearing a Chainsaw Master mask and holding a hockey stick. He stuck the hockey stick to their neck and said, “I told you you’re going to pay for this!”
Then Booger Boy threw a banana peel at his face. Michael Jackson fell down and landed on a banana grenade. It stung him a little bit and he ran home crying, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! I hate you Snot Boy and Booger Boy!”
Comments
That's the best writing I've read all week.
Lovely
Yah, that was pretty amazing, I love reading kid-written stories. They're either completely unintelligible or pop-culture-amalgamation-candy-store-explosions like that.
I think that story got me high a little bit. Thanks kid.
I saw that Koons statue at the SFMOMA. The picture doesn't do it justice. Its slightly larger than life size and the glowing translucent porcelain and the shiny gold are gorgeous. It looks like a Hindu statue of Krishna and it is a beautiful tender devotional work of art. Its also hilarious -I never though I would find a statue to be so funny.
Kids are rad. A banana bomb? Awesome.
This is the best Slog post in eons.
Hire this writer immediately.
I think a banana bomb made splat in my pants last night.
For a fifth grader, that's amazingly well written.
This story makes sense. Unlike most of Mudede's posts.
"The table screamed, “I don’t know. I just feel like it.”"
Imagination is so underrated. If only all evil-doers could be stopped by boogers, snot and bananas.
Thank you, Schnoodle—that was my favorite line, too.
My favorite line is "Especially, why are you haunting me?"
It's got conflict, crisis and (a bit) resolution. More than I can say about a lot of stories. When do we lose that natural story-telling ability? Post-virginity?
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