“Oh?”

“First of all, I went to that new Ticketmaster. You know, the one down at the mall?”

“The combination ice cream parlor / Ticketmaster? Where not only can you buy tickets for Lake Trout and Leftover Salmon, but for an additional service charge you can have your choice of toppings? How was it?”

“It was the stuff dreams were made of, Honey. They had double-dipped Korn cones, Oasis parfaits and Moby shakes.”

“Moby shakes? How do you make a Moby shake?”

“Invite him to your next dinner party and seat him next to Eminem.”

“Oohhh!!!”

“Sorry, a little ice cream parlor humor there. Anyway, there I was, standing at the counter trying to decide whether I should pick up a pint of hand-packed Bob Dylan tickets or a half gallon of GWAR, when guess who walked in. The King of Pop himself.”

“The artist of the millennium?

“None other. He said that his walk-in freezer at the Neverland Ranch had blown a fuse, and he asked the clerk if he could store something in the Ticketmaster freezer until he got his power back.”

“And the clerk let him?”

“Sure. After all, when the King of Pop asks you for a favor, how can you refuse?”

“Of course. What happened next?”

“So, Michael goes out to his car then comes back in dragging a six-foot block of ice.”

“Uh? You don’t mean…”

“That’s right. The frozen remains of Ted Williams. Michael said he got him off of eBay in exchange for the commercial rights to ‘A Day In The Life.'”

“That Michael. Always the consummate deal-maker.”

“Isn’t he though? Anyway, the clerk was just about to help Michael put Ted in the freezer when it happened.”

“Uh? What?”

“In through the door walked Paul McCartney. And he wasn’t his usual, cheery self, either. He grabbed the King, lifted him up in the air, and then sent him crashing into a stack of Jerry Cantrell tickets located in an end-of-aisle display case, all the while muttering something about the commercial marketing of Beatles songs. I gotta tell you. He was one unhappy moptop.”

“I’ll bet. Then what happened?”

“Well, Michael was lying on his back, with Sir Paul standing over him, saying that he was ‘through being Mr. Nice Guy’ and that Jacko had better hand over the copyrights to the Beatles catalog or he was going to ‘come down on him like the RIAA on Napster.'”

“Oh, my gosh! What did Michael do?”

“He gave in. Or so it seemed. He told Macca that he was sorry, that he had all the copyrights in his back pocket, and that he would gladly give them to him if Paul would only extend a hand and help him up.”

“Wait a second. I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Paul never saw it coming. As he helped the King of Pop to his feet, Michael pivoted, then grabbed Paul by the back of the neck and squeezed.”

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me.”

“Yup. Paul crashed faster than Lizzie Grubman’s SUV in Long Island on a Saturday Night. He was quite a sight, too. Passed out amidst the tickets for Counting Crows and Dashboard Confessional, with Michael standing over him. Then Michael turned to all of us, lifted up his gloved hand, spread the fingers apart and said, “Live long and prosper.” After which, he quickly tapped one of the medals on his chest, said, “energize,” and vanished in a ray of glimmering light right before our very eyes.”

“Wait a second. Let me see if I got this straight. The King of Pop walks into Ticketmaster dragging a frozen Ted Williams with him. He then proceeds to get into a fight with Paul McCartney, but defeats Macca by using the old Vulcan Neck Pinch on him, and then beams right out of the store. You’re right, Honey, I can barely believe a word of it.”

“It is pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

“No wonder he’s considered the artist of the millennium. I mean, who would have ever thought that Michael Jackson was an alien from the planet Vulcan?”

“I know I was surprised.”

“I mean, I always thought he was from Mars.”

“Well, you know what they say. Live and learn.”