Conrad Robert Murray was a doctor, but he's now he's not. Now he's a bloke who has dodged bum-rape and shivs for 2 years in Los Angeles County Jail for putting the worlds most adored gyrating pelvis (Michael Jackson) on ice. An undeniable fucker of a hand to be dealt.
In this addition of the The Back Paddle, Integrity C. Cronkite sits down with former Dr Conrad Murray for his play by play of the very night he apparently jettisoned Michael Jackson to the real "Never-Never-Land".
Integrity: Conrad thanks for taking the time to speak with HTMG, although we can't and shan't pay you a dime we appreciate it none the less.
Conrad: That's cool, not a problem.
Integrity: So you were the last Doctor treating Michael Jackson prior to his death correct?
Conrad: I was the last "registered" Doctor treating Michael. You have to understand, at this point there were at least four minor celebrities at any one time in MJ's room getting extremely high, and frequently falling under the impression they were medical experts of sorts. This regularly lead to them administering Michael shamelessly with a viscous nectar so vile in it's gunk that when I finally had time to assess the "angel of pop" he was even more decimated than Peter Andrea's career.
Integrity: So your telling me OG's were posing as MD's and just dosing Micky D relentlessly?
Conrad: Absolutely, once Billy Zane decided to put him under and try to straighten his spine.
Integrity: Gods! Why on earth?
Conrad: He'd been smoking crack and dab for forty eight hours straight.
Integrity: That would explain it. How'd it end?
Conrad: Terribly, the King Of Pop awoke screaming until one of Billy's assistants knocked him out with a decisive blow to the cranium, I'm pretty sure it was Coolio.
Integrity: Wow, that's an insane disregard for the man's safety.
Conrad: That's nothing. One day Michael had taken so much what he affectionately referred to as "Michael's Milk" (which in fact was a Canadian bobcat pheromone), that he went into what I could only describe as some kind of Peter Garrett like muscular convulsion.
Integrity: No doubt you swung into action and showered "the man in the mirror" in some of your medical craft?
Conrad: I would have but before I got the chance Busta Ryhmes was using him to play twister. I was dumbstruck and all I could do was watch in a semi state of curious horror as the fastest rapper in the world contorted "The child whom refused to grow up" into assorted shapes and positions to the laughter of the crowd.
Integrity: Is this when we lost Michael?
Conrad: No that happened after the assortment of gangsters and cronies got bored and bailed to a party at Drake's pad. I found myself alone with Michael and unsurprisingly he was in a state more depleted than Gérard Depardieu's sweat stained bed sheets.
Integrity: Oh I see, so now he dies?
Conrad: Not yet. Given MJ's battered and corrupted state I assumed he was dead and I was dealing with nothing more than a majestic child like cadaver. You can imagine my shock when the Moon-Walker himself suddenly sat bolt upright and whilst throttling me glared deep into my eyes like a malevolent androgynous poltergeist and in a curdled syrupy voice managed the simple word, "milk".
Integrity: Holy Shit
Conrad: I know right. So I rig 'The Never-Land Kid" up to the most terrifyingly, hideous, intravenous medical contraption you'd care to imagine and start filling him with litre after litre of jungle juice. A moment that will without a doubt torment me for the rest of my ruined life.
Integrity: Hold up there Conrad. Now i'm no doctor or embalming expect but how on god's could "The Gloved One's" body actually handle this degree of torment?
Conrad: Well at this stage Michael had completely ceased communicating other than performing the slightest action of ever so slowly rolling the tips of his fingers on his left hand upwards into the center of his palm over and over again. A gesture which I interpreted as the universal sign for "gimme more".
Integrity: So you gave him more?
Conrad: And then some. I lost track of time but at some stage his skin began some kind of harrowing metamorphosis and turned to a rubbery texture not unlike half set seamen.
Conrad: As i'm gazing down at this perplexing pre-formed pupa, the entire body surface of what was once Michael Jackson but now is surely not, begins glowing gold, brighter and brighter.
Integrity: Are you suggesting "The Child King" transcended to a higher being?
Conrad: No, not at all, the glow faded after a minute at best, and I was left with some sort of benign but unsettling being which looked not unlike the alien from that awesome Steve Guttenberg movie "Cocoon".
Integrity: That movie sucked, but go on
Conrad: This is when Michael calmly turned his head toward me, blew me a kiss then commenced to collapse in on himself like an old chalked dog shit riddled with glitter. What was once quite possibly the most talented entertainer on earth was now a small pile of reeking chalk and glitter and given the impossibility of explaining just what in Odin's fuck went on in that room, i chose to leg it like a crackhead at a court appearance and get the fuck out of there.
Integrity: I'm assuming not long after the law came asking questions, and given your above accounts I imagine your answers would have been as well received as Silvio Berlusconi offering to drive your daughter to her prom night. Am I right?
Conrad: Exactly. The rest of the story in a nutshell is; conviction, incarceration and penetration.
Integrity: We'll leave it right there where it needs to be I reckon. Thanks for your time chatting with HTMG Conrad.
Conrad: Your welcome Integrity, thanks for the short reprieve from the hard sodomy.
Integrity: Well, a lot to take in there but I think we can all agree that the less sky-larking, lampooning, stupid-ass ball-bags like Billy Zane and Coolio we have in our life at any given time the better. Integrity out.