It's Michael. (Yeah Michael).

I wasn't a super spoiled kid growing up, and I honestly didn't ask or demand much from my parents. There were only a few things that I wanted so so bad. This doll was one of them. It was 1984. Michael Jackson was bloodclot hot, and I needed him in plastic form. He was packaged up like a dream; complete with tight flooded pants and thick, sparkly socks. I used to play the Thriller album and bend him at the joints so he could moonwalk across the kitchen table whenever I felt it was suitable. I remember leaving his glittery, bedazzled mitt at my cousin's house and I didn't see it ever again. I'll bet my aunt probably vacuumed it up by mistake or something. Michael was never the same since; and neither was I, but shit, I loved my parents for getting me that doll.