Staunch defenders of Jackson say that these kids are after his money. But in the unlikely event that the sexual abuse is all bullshit, the fact still remains that Michael Jackson slept in a bed with children that weren’t his. Call me modern, but that doesn’t sit well with me. I wouldn’t let my kid sleep in a bed with a stranger. Not in this day and age. Not after all that madness with Michael Jackson. You kidding?

Unless you live under a rock that says “here lies Michael Jackson,” you’re aware that the Michael Jackson documentary that aired on HBO last night. I didn’t see it but I’ve read the synopses, and I can’t wait to check it out tonight. There’s something so validating about watching true crime docs. I sit on my couch and pat my own back for hours, saying “good job, old boy. You’re not like that.” You turned out ok. No kiddies in your bed, no women tied to the boiler. Have another mint milano; you’ve earned it.

I’ve spent the last hour trying to rationalize a scenario where my child sleeps in bed with a stranger and I don’t have an issue. Here’s the best case I could come up with:

You’re a degenerate gambler. You started a company a while back and it’s going well, but your gambling losses eat away at your bottom line. You should be allocating funds towards investments, whether they be in real estate or equities or other assets. But you can’t stop gambling. Tonight’s the night! you repeat, over and over, like an Alzheimer’s patient in the deeper stages of the disease. If you believe in yourself, you’ll win money. Manifest destiny. Power of positive thinking. You worked out today and ate a salad. The gambling gods favor those who feature diverse food groups on their plate.

But you lose, as usual. The hole deepens, widens, becoming a maw-like chasm that swallows paycheck after paycheck. You think perhaps if you throw enough money down the well, it will clog and start to pile up. You rationalize, read statistics, tell yourself things like “the statistical probability of losing again is almost 0.” Until finally, you’ve had enough. You vow to quit. You contact your bookie and tell him to close your account for life. It’s over, no looking back. Better to cut your losses than continue lighting money on fire.

And then, out of nowhere, a young boy enters your life. Is he an angel? A sprout? No, he’s an intern with a knack for picking winners. You bet his pick and win. Then another hits. And another. All of a sudden, you can’t lose. Winner winner microwave dinner. And now, you can’t let him out of your sight. You invite him to your apartment. You drain the soap dispenser to keep his hands moist. He needs… to sleep in your bed.

Apparently, that’s the acceptable scenario. Because it happened and was broadcast across the internet in great detail, and we the people just laughed along. Ha ha ha how funny that an older man has taken a young boy under his wing. How funny that they’re drinking together. How funny that it’s just the two of them, alone for the night.

Mark my words: if Barstool should ever fall, it won’t be due to some Deadspin article. It will be Mr. and Mrs. Smokes suing Dave for emotional duress, counseling hours, and rectum-tightening surgery. Talk about filling that hole in your life. Dave turned Tommy into a leaker. That o-ring looks like a Firestone tire at the height of their problems.