Good morning. It’s August 25, 2008 and Michael Jackson is still dead. Not only is he dead, he was MURDERED! It’s official. His death has been ruled a homicide. The L.A. Times reports:
L.A. County coroner’s officials found lethal levels of the powerful anesthetic propofol after examining Michael Jackson’s body.
Jackson’s doctor, Conrad Murray, told detectives . . . that he had been treating Jackson for insomnia for about six weeks. He had been giving Jackson 50 milligrams of propofol every night using an intravenous line.
And on the morning of Mike Jack’s death, Dr. Murray laid off the propofol, thinking Jackson was addicted, and instead, gave him some Valium at 1:30 A.M. It didn’t work, so Murray shot him up with lorazepam. That didn’t work, so he then shot him full of midazolam. Over the next few hours, MJ was given “various other drugs” until Murray gave him and administered the lethal dose of propofol at 10:40 A.M., took a leak, and when he got back, the King of Pop was King of Dead.
Call us crazy, but if we spent nine hours getting pumped full of sleepy juice and were still kicking, we’d just shrug and accept that sleep wasn’t happening and go try to do something productive. Soapbox racing. Origami. Batik. Collecting lifesized statues of underage children and arranging them in suggestive manners in a room full of Shirley Temple memorabilia. Whatever.
