Wacko Jacko is dead.

Sigh.

I suppose we’ll be hearing about this for the next eleventy hundred years.

And of course it’s begun already: deejays and entertainment reporters who’ve mocked Jacko’s various idiosyncrasies and legal problems over the years are now mourning the loss of “one of the greatest performers of all time”; the endless testimonials from tearful fans telling their stories about the first time they saw Michael moonwalk (we all saw that special so get over it); those nutjobs keeping vigil outside UCLA Medical Center (what does that shit prove, may I ask?); and the outrage over the supposed last photo of Michael on the ET website (hey, it may be tacky but when your life was a circus you gotta expect there to be gawkers).

Why can’t we just remember the good times and move on?

(Any guesses how long it will be before the first tabloid declares this whole thing to be an elaborate ruse by The King of Pop to escape the glare of the spotlight — and his financial woes — and start a new life in New Zealand? And since celebrity deaths always come in three, any guess who the next two will be?)