It never ceases to amaze me just how dumb the average American murderer is. Now don’t get all stars and stripes on me; I am convinced that statistical analyses would prove the United States criminal to be exponentially less savvy than those in most other countries. There must be a Polish joke I’m missing here, but there are Baked Cheetos to eat and very little time.
I often think, in a way that a young woman who publishes her thoughts for the worldwide Interwebs probably should not, just how I would commit the perfect murder. How I’d plan his demise, because of course he would be a philandering, formerly attractive HE, how I’d dismember his body with a sawing product under five-year Kenmore warrantee, wrapping up his bits in a tarp stolen from gypsies, topped with a madras bow I purchased while wearing an Andrew McCarthy mask.
Seriously, people. Who actually Google searches “top ways to screw a dead body and blame it on your father-in-law Larry G. Guomo?” And then. Four days later. Does it? At a Motel 6 at which they use their Discover Card? No, sir. Aliens interested in your Lladro did not commandeer both your Dell and your lame credit card, my dear.
Why, for the love of God, would you stand outside your chosen crime scene and suck down a cigarette of obscure origin, say, a non-filtered smoke produced by Spam-loving Guatemalan little people? Bubble gum flavored cloves tax stamped by a progeria-suffering Montel guest? You idiot. Just like the damned career of David Caruso, the CSI Unit will find you. And if you must smoke the above and you must concurrently slaughter the humans, I’d advise you to stop tonguing the rim of your cigarettes. Both your high school photo and your redneck mama will thank you.
And stop burying your bodies in a damned remote shallow grave. How anticlimactic. Did you spend all that time in killer summer school to have your piece de resistance be a Shenandoah Valley barbeque pit? Please. Do something original. Feed your ex to the cats. Stuff the Barcalounger with a cocktail of ground limbs and his Mets bobblehead collection. Mount his genitals and tell the neighborhood children it’s an original Snuffleupagus. Just please, please fill the Court TV queue with something more interesting than the insufferable, predictable succotash that currently resides therein.
If not for your own cries of innocence, please, please do it for Kris.
I often think, in a way that a young woman who publishes her thoughts for the worldwide Interwebs probably should not, just how I would commit the perfect murder. How I’d plan his demise, because of course he would be a philandering, formerly attractive HE, how I’d dismember his body with a sawing product under five-year Kenmore warrantee, wrapping up his bits in a tarp stolen from gypsies, topped with a madras bow I purchased while wearing an Andrew McCarthy mask.
Seriously, people. Who actually Google searches “top ways to screw a dead body and blame it on your father-in-law Larry G. Guomo?” And then. Four days later. Does it? At a Motel 6 at which they use their Discover Card? No, sir. Aliens interested in your Lladro did not commandeer both your Dell and your lame credit card, my dear.
Why, for the love of God, would you stand outside your chosen crime scene and suck down a cigarette of obscure origin, say, a non-filtered smoke produced by Spam-loving Guatemalan little people? Bubble gum flavored cloves tax stamped by a progeria-suffering Montel guest? You idiot. Just like the damned career of David Caruso, the CSI Unit will find you. And if you must smoke the above and you must concurrently slaughter the humans, I’d advise you to stop tonguing the rim of your cigarettes. Both your high school photo and your redneck mama will thank you.
And stop burying your bodies in a damned remote shallow grave. How anticlimactic. Did you spend all that time in killer summer school to have your piece de resistance be a Shenandoah Valley barbeque pit? Please. Do something original. Feed your ex to the cats. Stuff the Barcalounger with a cocktail of ground limbs and his Mets bobblehead collection. Mount his genitals and tell the neighborhood children it’s an original Snuffleupagus. Just please, please fill the Court TV queue with something more interesting than the insufferable, predictable succotash that currently resides therein.
If not for your own cries of innocence, please, please do it for Kris.
19 Comments:
Your fingers are stained orange, aren't they? You know I am right. And this is why I am convinced that you are my long lost twin: you have been watching too much Court TV whilst eating too many Baked Cheetos.
We're so going to have a bag for every night of BlogHer. Our room: Baked Cheeto HQ.
Do you know that I still can't forget about the episode that fascinated us the last time I visited? The one in Russia? Because, wow. If there were an Oscar for crime television (would it be the Ted? The Jeffrey? The Gacy Awards?), that would take it. I mean, SERIOUSLY.
Also, GOOD NEWS: "While such gruesome killings have outraged the nation, some experts caution that the dismembering of victims is not always a symptom of deeper social disfunction."
Whew!
(Source: http://www.iht.com/articles/ap/2007/05/15/asia/AS-GEN-Japan-Severed-Head.php)
Dammit.
Source
You forgot how the killer always goes to a Sears and asks for a freezer that's oh, big enough to put a body in.
That's why I don't jog. It's always the joggers who find those dismembered torsos.
It's never someone sitting quietly on their couch with the TIVO remote in hand. Many fewer corpses there at home.
People are too lazy these days for a little originality.
You figure if you are going to go big......
As much as I love my car, I often worry that its limited trunk space will prove a huge obstacle if I should ever need to dispose of a body. So I'd have to borrow a friend's car, which is probably better anyway because that way any trunk fibres that get transferred onto the body won't be linked with me.
Not that I think about this at all.
You.
Scare.
Me.
...
...
That's hawt.
Oh dears . . . don't be scared. Just don't ever cross me.
My favorite has always been from Fried Green Tomatoes. They never come right out and say it, but you know they cut Mary Louise Parker's abusive husband into pieces, smoked him on the pit and slathered him with barbecue sauce and fed the ribs to customers, including the city-slicker investigator who showed up looking for him.
What, so you're saying I shouldn't wrap the body in a monogrammed sheet and stick a picture of myself in his front pocket before I dump his body behind the [organization I belong to]?
YES. Then be sure to douse his body with an accelerant that is only sold at two local stores: those owned by you and your mother.
Um, funny post, but I was distracted.
You were able to use insufferable succotash, and that makes me love you so much more than I already did.
YOU'RE the Rock Star! But, sadly, the rock star who has murderin' plans. Grissam'll catchya!
Yeah, my boyfriend told me how he'd kill me a few months into our relationship. I'm still with him, for some reason, but if I mysteriously wind up dead, I expect people to inspect my freckles for needle marks...
I'm calling Comcast and having them turn off your Court TV and, while I'm at it, blocking Ghost Whisperer.
And Stacy, only REAL cheetos for Blogher. We're on vacation for goodness sake.
If we're gonna have real Cheetos, we'd might as well have real sex too.
crickets.
KIM. Real Cheetos are against the Lord. Fred Phelps would picket our hotel room.
This is silly. If you really want to avoid getting caught, then after you kill the person, you should kill yourself too and make it look like a botched home invasion.
Since you're dead, they won't suspect you were behind the whole thing. It's the perfect crime really, except for the whole "being dead" thing.
Original Snuffleupagus - LOL!
today's bumper sticker:
i do it in words (for kris).
huggin eunich snuffleluffaguses,
lord f
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