I have an unfortunate taste for Court TV, especially “Forensic Files.” It’s unfortunate, because I’m dating a news junkie, who since I have known him has watched, read, heard and studied as much about Laci and Scott Peterson as this chick, which is a fucking lot. First trip I took to Cali to visit him, he decided I needed to see where exactly in Berkeley Marina they found Laci.

The problem is what you get when you mix my interest in tawdry little murders, which seem to invariably invoke a deadly dirtbag’s doing in of his paramour, and the boyo’s interest in the legal details of the flashy headline cases. What you get is my imagination building a plausible case for his offing me. (Well, without the motive.)

But, I’ll tell you this much, if I started finding this shit mixed in with the spice rack, I’m going to start paying attention. Especially if I start feeling a bit more chipper the one month he’s away in the county jail. Not only that, but I’m going let some authority figures know if the backyard barbecue starts flaming up and he ain’t burning up some steaks for dinner but scraps of paper (and I can’t find any of my personal files).

Obviously (I hope, and given my summer experience I should be utterly explicit), anyway I hope it’s obvious that I’m writing this shit in jest. I’m counting on M.’s breaking up with me well before he starts hiding my corpus delecti. (Not that I want to break up, I’d just prefer it to dying.)

However, wouldn’t it just be fucking awesomely literary if after writing this post, we end up the featured Court TV case? If so, I hope one of my more talented friends writes the funniest, most ironic murder mystery and gets fat and rich off it. Nah, fuck that, if I’m dead, my bitter comic persona would be the only think left, so I wouldn’t want anyone to succeed on my bones.

So the murder’s is off, you hear me, you fucking vultures?!