Notice how Miss Jackson’s pile of hair bends her neck to the right, a classic chiropractic malady of the 80s.
The National Evil has so, so much going for him. Good health, sharp teeth, an enchanting musk, cattle futures . . . but there’s something that’s been bothering him. A lacuna in the dim recesses of memory:
The Evil never had a teacher after whom he lusted.
It doesn’t seem possible, does it? After all, one of his first exposures to the very concept of grade school was Van Halen’s “Hot For Teacher.” He showed up for that first day of first grade with the understanding that
(A) Students spent most of their day in prison cells.
(B) Your teacher would strip for you if you were bad enough.
(C) You couldn’t talk in the library, but you could rip off a guitar solo while marching across a table.
But at six, none of this really registered on any meaningful level. It wasn’t until 1986, with the release of Janet Jackson’s Control album, that the issue of older, hot female authority figures really came to the forefront.
Her single “Nasty” featured the memorable spoken lyrics: “And no, my name’s not ‘baby’. It’s Janet. Miss Jackson if you’re nasty.”
These three sentences perplexed young Evil. The only ladies he commonly called “Miss” anything were his unmarried teachers. And while Miss Jackson (for the Evil is nasty) repeatedly insisted “Nasty boys don’t mean a thing”, he detected a certain coyness to her approach. She liked nasty boys, whatever she claimed. The fact that Miss Jackson was Michael Jackson’s younger sister, and Michael Jackson was either a zombie or some kind of werelynx (as revealed in the “Thriller” video), seemed to indicate that there was some nastiness floating just under the surface of Miss Jackson’s message.
Which is the true face of MJ?
Or . . .
Which got the Evil to thinking: his teachers insisted he call them “Miss” whatever. Did they want him to be nasty, too?
This question only exacerbated Evil’s perplexity, as nothing in the “Nasty” video really indicated what constituted nastiness, other than Paula Abdul-choreographed dancing. He tried a few such moves in class, but his teachers only stared at him and asked if he was feeling all right. There were parent-teacher conferences, whispered ritalin references. An incident in the hallway involving a wet floor the janitor had failed to mark with a sign. A suspended janitor. Threatening phone calls during dinner. A ruptured Achilles.
Finally Evil limped into his room and did some serious thinking. Miss Jackson, a definite hottie, required nastiness. So too, apparently, did his teachers. But none of them were hotties. And they surely didn’t appreciate his poorly executed thrusts at nastiness. He decided that, short of meeting Miss Jackson in an abandoned warehouse and staging a dance-off, he would shelve the nastiness until he found a Miss Somebody worthy of his thunder.
And still, 22 years later, the Evil searches . . .
Enjoy the holiday weekend. If possible, bust some sort of move.
Back on Monday . . .