Disclaimer: This post is not for the faint or weak of heart. It contains images that some may find disturbing, and it is suggested that children, pregnant women, and those with a tendency to barf stop reading now. You’ve been warned.
My kitchen was the scene of a heinous, vicious, violent crime. It’s currently sectioned off from the rest of my home with yellow caution tape, and various law enforcement types are walking around, touching my things with their gloved hands, lifting fingerprints off of my various household items. They gathered around this, murmuring and shaking their heads, and photographed it from all angles:
I’ll tell you what I told them: it’s just ketchup. From an unrelated incident.
One detective told me that they wouldn’t be leaving until they’ve gathered all the evidence and completed their investigation, and that really irks me, because there’s no need for an investigation. I already confessed. Take me downtown and put me in a cold gray room with a singular light bulb swinging from the ceiling, and I’ll confess again. Send in your tough, ruggedly handsome, internally-conflicted, doesn’t-play-by-the-rules new guy, and I’ll confess to him. Send in Kyra Sedgwick, Mariska Hargitay, Cagney and/or Lacey, and I’ll confess to them (and compliment their hair).
I am a murderer.
Look at that, I just confessed again! I killed my roommate. It wasn’t an crime of passion or a freak accident. It was a premeditated, carefully orchestrated, masterfully executed event. It’s not the first time I’ve killed my roommate, and it may not be the last. Here’s a picture of my roommate from a few days ago:
If you saw my post from last week, you’ll know that it was the worst roommate a guy could ever have. It was rude and inconsiderate, with a penchant for phone sex that was downright disgusting. I even announced my plans for murder at the end of that post!
Despite my confession and the fact that I declared my murderous intentions days ago, the coppers are still wandering in their trench coats, hunched over their tiny notebooks, putting together their case. I didn’t clean up after myself, so the evidence is abundant:
EXHIBIT A – Bits of my former roommate, including an appendage, on the floor:
EXHIBIT B – More pieces of my roommate, scattered across a cutting board:
EXHIBIT C – A dirty non-stick skillet, still warm t0 the touch, complete with charred roommate bits:
EXHIBIT D – The murder weapon!
(Remember that aforementioned unrelated ketchup incident? Some ketchup got on the knife, too.)
Of course, I can’t be charged with murder if there’s no proof of a death, and I didn’t have time (or the interest) to bury my roommate’s body in the woods or tie it to a brick and toss it off a pier. The corpse was out, in plain sight.
If you’re squeamish but somehow made it this far, I suggest you close your browser, because this is where it gets gross.
I’m not above showing a photograph of my maimed, dismembered, mutilated, defaced, disfigured roommate. Take a deep breath, summon your courage, and take a look:
Haunting, isn’t it? It’s not the sort of image that you can easily erase from your head.
So why did I do it? It’s a question that the detectives have been asking me over and over and over and over again, and I’m getting tired of answering it. But you, dear readers, you deserve to know. My murderous rampage can be attributed to two things:
- Revenge. I was sick and tired of my roommate being a jerkface and taking advantage of my generousity.
- I wanted a healthy lunch.
There’s two photographs that I have yet to share with the police officers. They saw my roommate’s barren stalk, but not where the rest of it ended up. They know I used that skillet for something, and they must be pretty crappy detectives, because they haven’t yet asked what was in that skillet.
First, I slicked it down with some nonfat cooking spray. Then I added 1/2 an onion, thinly sliced, and 3 minced cloves of garlic. Then, I added my roommate’s delicious sprouts, halved. I sauteed them on medium-high heat (so they got a little color) until they were tender all the way through (6-8 minutes), and about a minute before they were finished, I hit them with about a 1/4 cup of nonfat balsamic vinaigrette.
If you happened to think my roommate looked appealing before, take a look at what it looked like after!
My roommate was even more delicious than he looks. And I’m not afraid to tell that to a judge.
Keep it up, David!