Jay Leno and David Letterman got their barbs in and moved on, but I'm still intrigued.
Intrigued by the Vanity Fair revelation that Michael Jackson three years ago hired an African witch doctor to put a hex on 25 Hollywood celebrities, among them billionaires Steven Spielberg and music mogul David Geffen.
According to the story, the witch doctor works his magic in Switzerland, goes by the name Baba, and charges $150,000 per house call. And then there's this: After inking the deal, Baba butchered 42 cows, while Jackson took a ceremonial blood bath and then returned to the states to resume his life as a Perfectly Normal Parent.
This provocative story raises the question: How is your average revenge-minded working stiff supposed to rake up $150,000?
You and I can't afford Baba. He's the Rolex of witch doctors, by invitation only. Baba doesn't do charity work, and he certainly isn't on Kaiser Permanente's list of preferred providers.
So what options has the do-it-yourselfer who definitely has a grudge, but not the cash, to bankroll his voodoo revenge fantasies? The answer was easy. Determined to strike out on my own, so to speak, I turned to the Internet and struck gold.
My first hit, CareerVoodoo.com, hawks its "Get That Job Voodoo Doll" and the "Pink Slip Voodoo Doll" as the ultimate corporate survival tools. The premise is simple: If you can't beat the competition, eliminate it altogether.
In 12-point Arial font, the sales pitch sweetly woos, "When . . . back-stabbing and typical dirty office politics just won't work any longer, this is the tool that will keep your name off the 'pink slip' lists. Then, use it to enhance your career, get promoted, win at job interviews."
The ad suggests that, by simply affixing a $19.95 voodoo doll to your suit lapel you will send "a very powerful message to upper management and corporate recruiters." Can't argue with that. To complete your new look, Gemnaries.com will sell you an authentic "mojo bag" ($5.95) or a shaman herbal medicine bag ($6.95), conveniently sized to fit your business card, Palm Pilot, and blow dart.
After a little more Googling, I found "authentic" voodoo dolls handcrafted by the ominous "Mr. Lucky" (Mardigraswizard.com). Yes, we're talking a witch doctor so fiendish, so diabolically sinister that he's forced to assume the inconspicuous alias "Rev. Zombie."
On his user-friendly Web site, Rev. Zombie's publicist, the Wizard, describes him as "a famous and reclusive New Orleans craftsman and artist" whose objets d'art are prominently displayed "in many of the finer shops and museums in New Orleans."
Big ax to grind? No problem. Rev. Zombie will gladly supersize your order.
For a nominal fee, the famous and reclusive witch doctor will go into a "self-induced magical trance" (I'm thinking a Bob Marley CD and mucho ganja) and customize for you a six-foot voodoo doll.
Forget the triple-weave afghan. There's nothing like one of Rev. Zombie's voodoo dolls sprawled across your family room love seat to make that powerful statement: Leave me alone.
Hoping to position himself as the next Martha Stewart, Rev. Zombie even offers a few interior design tips, suggesting that you display his voodoo dolls "in your business lobby, shopping mall, or personal altar." Meanwhile, commuters will surely take comfort in the fact that there's nothing on the books that specifically prohibits driving in HOV lanes with a six-foot voodoo doll in your passenger seat.
Attuned to the latest trends, Gemnaries.com has shrewdly cornered the market on voodoo dolls shaped like gingerbread men.
I think I'm on safe ground when I say that the brilliant Chinese strategist Sun Tzu would probably frown upon trying to strike terror in the hearts of your adversaries using pink, polyester-filled gingerbread dolls.
In the end, your choice is simple: Max out your credit card and go with Baba, witch doctor to the stars, or work your own magic with the help of the all-powerful Internet.