ichael Jackson was caught on video like a red-handed bandit man Tuesday, salaciously nibbling on his youngest son’s toe in full view of the German media. Jackson, who was staying in a Berlin hotel while visiting that country for a Save Dem Childrens benefit, waved to the cameras and flashed a “kissy-peace� hand gesture to his fans before he closed the blinds and proceeded to partake in what can only be speculated as an orgy of underage cannibalism.

“It just sickens me when I close my eyes and think about it,� sighed small-town cop Bufus Randall, who answers questions 24 hours a day and is like a procrastinating reporter’s wet dream. “Just picturing that monster, slurping the baby’s entrails like spaghetti, munching his bones like peppermint sticks and licking the baby’s empty hide clean like a goddamned dinner plate. God. I think I’m gonna be sick.�

Professional housewife Mandy St. Clair echoed Randall’s concerns.

“It’s like it makes you, I don’t know. Want. Want to do something to make that thing different. You know? Different so he’s not eating those babies. Because that’s just wrong, even if the babies want to be eaten. Because how could you really know? They might smile and wave their arms around like they want to be eaten, but it might just be because they’re remembering something nice from when they’re in the womb. Or they might have gas, sometimes babies smile who have gas. So you shouldn’t just eat them.�

Jackson’s fans were quick to defend the troubled star, who recently sort of testified in his own defense in a courtward lawsuit.

“Even if Michael did eat that baby, he only did it for the fans. That’s how much he cares,� explained Kyoko Matsui, a screaming Tokyo fan of Jackson’s appearances on cereal boxes in her home country. “People were yelling, ‘We want to meet the baby!’ and I guess since it was so noisy, Michael probably thought they were saying ‘We want you to eat the baby!’ It was just a tragic misunderstanding.�

But noted sports psychologist Dr. Mandra Jimsack was wary of letting Jackson off the hook so easily.

“Fans yell out all kinds of crazy requests to stars, that doesn’t mean they have to follow them. It’s the star’s job to set boundaries and know where to draw the line. Signing some autographs or flashing your tits out the sunroof of a limo? That’s being a good star. Jerking off in a men’s room at the park or shooting a rival recording artist in the testicles? That’s just going too far. And also, lighting a fart on fire at the Golden Globes? That’s very bad, Mr. Sandler. Very bad.�

Activist groups rallied within minutes of the tape airing on the German news, calling for whatever kind of social services Germany might have to step in and take Jackson’s remaining children away before dinnertime. Lawyers for German’s Die Station news network were also preparing a lawsuit against the singer. According to sources, Jackson caused two of the station’s cameramen to fall out of an evergreen tree near the hotel when he refused to leave his blinds open, forcing them to attempt filming through a small opening in the bathroom window.

Hours later, Jackson appeared at a puppet museum with the live toddler in tow, setting off ripples of speculation through the “thought he ate the baby� community. Randall, however, was not so quick to forgive and forget.

“Jesus Christ, how many of those things has he got? Well, I guess we can add human cloning to the list of charges. Fuckin’ fruit.�

ews just keeps getting better and better for fans of the bizarre and absurd. Friday allegations were made that "actor" Steven Seagal, famous for his chubby-flanked kicking and limp ponytail in horrible action movies, is linked to a private investigator who alleges Seagal hired him to terrorize a reporter.

The victim of the terroristic threatening was a Los Angeles Times reporter, Anita Busch, whose name was being held confidential by police at press time. Busch wrote articles alleging a former filmmaking partner of Seagal's used mob connections to extort $700,000 from the actor, who, in one of his own movies, would have likely punched out the ex-partner with one Aikido punch and cracked the mob boss's arm into a severe fracture before kicking him backwards off the balcony. Instead, the actor paid the money.

Private investigator Anthony Pellicano was allegedly hired by Seagal to scare Busch away from writing her articles about the extortion. Police reports say in June the show biz reporter found a dead fish, a rose, and a note saying "Stop!" on the hood of her smashed car windshield. The monosyllabic note initially led police to suspect Seagal's involvement, but the combination of the dead fish and the rose was just slightly more imaginative than anything that appeared in his films, leading investigators to believe Seagal's involvement was more hands-off.

Just after the incident, Busch was approached by two men and told to stop writing articles about Steven Seagal. Had Seagal not been the perpetrator, and been in the car, and had the whole thing been one of his movies, he likely would have gotten out of the car, leaped upon the hood to deal out a series of bone-splitting kicks before flipping through the air to land behind the larger villain, bending his arm back and forcing him into the car's hood, warning him not to mess with the lady again.

Further, had this been a Steven Seagal movie, the police force would have been under the power of the corrupt Hollywood star/villain—Seagal, in this case—and seeking their help against the threatening would have been fruitless for the victim. However, the victim did go to the police in this case, and Seagal's alleged henchmen were arrested and charged with the incidents. Seagal has yet to be charged, but a paper trail and witness accounts may put Seagal behind bars yet, this time for a crime he did commit.

In the private investigator Pellicano's office, police found a cache of plastic explosive, a detonating cord and blasting cap, two grenades, 15 to 20 bundles of cash bearing $10,000 wrappers and a number of pieces of jewelry—i.e., things you might find in the hideout of the lead henchman in any Steven Seagal movie. Had the police not intercepted Pellicano and his hired goon, according to initial statements, plans were in place to blow up Busch's car, something that would have sent movie-Seagal out in the night, angrily breaking into the top boss's house—his own, in this case—to deliver the final, fatal beating that ended the movie.

In the real world, however, Seagal waits patiently for his court date, when his lawyer will argue fine points and details of testimony to discredit Pellicano's claims of direct requests from Seagal that initiated his actions. There is likely to be little kicking and punching, and Seagal will be referred to as Steven or Mr. Seagal instead of "Jack," "John," or "Mason Storm."

I'm madder than a skunk who smells like flowers. 'Cause they usually smell like ass, is what I mean.

I just found out there's a usurper to my crown. That's how my sister, Cassandra, phrased it, and it seemed to fit pretty well. Really Branaghian or something. A usurper, for those of you who don't have a smart lawyer sister to tell you, is a real bitch who thinks she's hot shit and tries to steal what you own right out from under you. Picture Christina Aguilera snaking Britney's number one spot with a cheesy cover of some New Edition song.

The tart's name is Jayme Kristofson, and I know that's totally made up. Her real name's probably Shirley Hemphill or something, but she's all showbiz-smart and is trying to steal all my thunder. Her first target is the Metallichick comic book I do. I was too late to notice and before I knew it she went from being some kind of rabid comic book fan—I should have known something was wrong when a girl said she liked comic books—to Nat Herschel's girlfriend. Nat, if you're reading this, if I got the website address right for the first time, she's playing you, dude. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you to your face, but you were ignoring me and had your ears covered and shit. It's called denial, dude—look into it. But you should know better—no one with a body like that really thinks an Elfquest T-shirt is cool. Face facts, man.

I've had my share of hot-to-trot actresses trying to horn in on my business over the years, I'm no newcomer. There was this short teen-ager who used to stand in for me when I was on Who's Your Daddy? and she was always saying she could rehearse a scene in my place when I was too hungover to do it. She knew how to climb the ladder, always getting coffee for the other castmembers and complimenting the director on his work. But I was a smart kid, and Dusty had friends in the cement business who made sure she broke her leg and couldn't stand in so well afterwards. It's a rough game, that's all I got to say. Don't walk in to a fight without someone covering your back.

There are other examples, too, but some of those I was well over 18 and could legally be considered an accomplice, so let's just skip to the point: I know hardball. If this bitch wants to play, I'm bringing my ball. So to speak.

She may be pinning Nat's tail on the donkey, and suggesting costume changes and cover ideas and whatever, but if she thinks she's going any further than that, she don't know Clarissa Coleman. I can bide my time, I can wait in the shadows, but I'll get you in the end. I don't need Dusty's friends to keep you from stealing my role. Especially not since they're all in their mid-90s by now.

Besides, just between you and me, she'll never fit into the costume. Not without hoarding half the world's supply of Kleenex. Not that I'm scared or anything. The fans wouldn't accept it. They're used to my angry growl on the cover of that book each month. Some people may argue you can only see the bottom 25% of my face, like Nat once did, but I say it's enough to tell the difference between a genuine talent and a hack sleeping her way to the—well, slightly elevated above the bottom, anyway.

Truthfully, I'm not even all that happy with this assignment. Posing in a goofy vinyl/plastic costume with a big-ass sword in a freezing basement is good when you're just starting out, but I can do much better, as I keep telling people. But at this point, even if I wanted to leave the job, I wouldn't. She needs to be put in her place but good. If I let her steal this from me, even if I don't want it, the next thing I know she'll be showing up on the Archipelago Law reunion ten years from now. Then I'd have to get that sword out for real.

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