Those Lips, Those Lies

Is Michael Jackson guilty of more than dysfunction?

Things reached an even more feverish pitch when I got a press release from a child sex-abuse expert who feels Jacko should submit to "a penile plethysmograph"—a device that measures your sexual arousal patterns to various pervy scenarios. All righty, who wants to be the one to hook up the plethysmograph?

Eventually, some cleansing truths will flush out all the murk, but until Bonnie Fuller outs the cancer kid (which at least one Brit tab has already done, in addition to breaking the love-letter scoop that gave us twisted hope), we're only left with more trash-minded questions. Like, if the kid ends up detailing Michael's penis on the stand, couldn't the defense argue that he might have just read all that in the book about Michael's other molestation charges? (Not that I've read the epic work nine times. It's circumcised, with very little pubic hair, and pink and brown patches on the testicles.) And when the Daily News outlined the secret passageway to Jacko's kiddie stay-over room, were we sick to relish lines like, "In the back of Michael's closet, there's a hidden door"?

And psst, how 'bout that freakin' schnoz?

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