At the Sun Palace, all your evening's entertainment is included. Tonight: it's the "Michael Jackson Show."
The faithful assemble in a ballroom and are seated around a stage adorned by a pair of video screens that have seen better days (one has a swath of tape holding it's middle together), and told to await "MJ." And, at the appointed moment, here comes a skinny, off-color, high-water-pants wearing "impersonator" to not only try to dance like The King Of Pop, but to lip-sync his performances as well.
He's backed up by four "dancers:" one, a stunningly constructed blonde-brunette lady, is the only performer who saves this show, or at least comes close. At least two of the three others rely on their ability to perform breakdance moves; the other, a dude of at least age 30, is overweight.
This travesty goes on for the best part of an hour I'll never get back in my life, and may be the gayest thing I've ever seen. It's so unbelievably bad, it must be seen to be believed -- though not on a full stomach.
How really awful was this? My wife, who loved Michael and his music as much as anyone could, was the first person in the front row (admission of guilt) to leave the room. Quickly. Before the host was finished wrapping it up.
Bad. Bad. Really, really bad.
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