There’s still a lot of controversy between who’s hotter, me or Casey Anthony? Without makeup, I win hands-down, and Casey Anthony has a strange giant forehead and lives in Florida, so that should automatically disqualify her from hotness, voting, or playing chess by default. The sun down there is murder on your skin, so she probably looks even worse than she used to.
Like everyone else in their right mind, I think Casey did it. She looks nuts, with her wandering eyes and bulging cranium. I look colder and more calculating, but I’m also the kind of girl you’d take home to your parents. I speak properly, don’t dress like a tramp (cough-Casey Anthony-cough), and I’ve kept it high and tight, which is why I got a Netflix special.
Meanwhile, Casey is out pretending to be a PI and probably searching for the “real killer” OJ style. How the hell did that crazy bitch get off? They found her daughter’s corpse practically in her backyard, she’d been neglecting the kid to go out and party forever, and then she made up some ridiculous story about an accidental drowning? My puppy almost drowned in the toilet bowl and I plucked him out and called the vet. I didn’t finish the job and bury him in the nearest copse. (If you’re reading, Casey, a copse is a small patch of trees or woods.)
The crime I was falsely accused of took place in Italy and we all know what a bunch of bumbling clowns they are. They accuse me, my Italian ex-boyfriend, and later some other Italian slob, or basically anyone they could get their greasy paws on.
If I sound bitchy, you try spending four years in an Italian prison for a crime you didn’t commit, then dealing with sleazy English journalists smearing you while trying to grab your ass.
As far as my attitude toward Casey, you can put the cat in prison, but you can’t take the cattiness out of a bitch. I wasn’t a criminal when I went in, but I am one now, and the one thing I learned is that it’s all about the dolla dolla bills y’all. If she wants to do Foxy Boxing or mud wrestling on Pay-Per-View, I’m in. I’ll even settle for a 60-40 split just to knock the tart out of her. Maybe I’ll even fix up her lopsided face.
(The Hot One)
You’re a lot like the whores I used to hang out with back in Galilee—not attractive enough to marry someone with money, so you have to trick strangers into paying for your wedding. You spent more years in an Italian prison than most of them ever did, but it’s not a competition. Have you ever considered prostitution? You’d be good at it. Though, again, you’re not attractive enough to hook the politicians and movie stars, so you shouldn’t expect a Pretty Woman kind of life. Of course, you did write a best-selling memoir, so I guess you don’t need to be fucking strangers for bus fare.
I do appreciate how you recently went after Matt Damon. As any reader of “Divine Advice” knows, ole’ Matt is one of our favorite targets. There’s just something about his puffy dog face that’s so punchable. He’s a rich white man who grew up in a racist city, and we enjoy watching him try to navigate the mucky waters of cancel culture. At this point, he’s soaked up to his neck. Did his move Stillwater exploit your story for profit? Maybe, but complaining about it isn’t winning you any popularity points. You may be a woman, but you’re also white, which makes you a “Karen”—the second most hated player in the culture war.
Now that I think about it, if you’re a young white woman, doing four years in a European prison for a crime you didn’t commit is like winning the lottery. While you’re in there, you get three squares a day, plenty of time to read and exercise, plus you get to have tons of hot lesbian sex with mobster wives. And it’s Europe, so it’s not like you’re going to get shanked or gang-raped. Four years later, you come out of the slammer with a story that people are willing to pay millions for, and you’re set for life. That’s an even better deal than most professional athletes get. You want my advice? Quit complaining like a spoiled bitch and have some fucking gratitude.
I hear that, in Italian prisons, they serve overcooked spaghetti with jar sauce and frozen meatballs. That’s totally inhumane, and it must have taken tremendous courage to survive in those conditions for four whole years. Even in Hell, we make sure the store-brand pasta we serve is al dente, and the meatballs are at least Ikea quality and made with only 60% horse meat. We’re monsters, but we do have standards.
Speaking of Hell, you’re still listed in our database as being a murderer. If you think the wheels of justice turn slowly up there on Earth, imagine the red tape in a place where time doesn’t exist. It will likely take 4,000 years to process the necessary paperwork to overturn your conviction, and since you won’t live that long, you should expect to do a few millennia of hard time down here. It won’t be so bad. I already told you about the spaghetti situation, but this place has other perks, too. In your case, you’ll get a front-row seat to watch us torture those Italian assholes who robbed you of four years of your life. We may even let you participate. The best part is you get to rub it in their faces that, while your stay is only temporary, they’re going to be here for eternity, eating spaghetti that’s slightly better than prison food, but still not as good as their mammas used to make. And they’re totally going to shit themselves when they see that we put American cheese on our pizza bagels instead of mozzarella.
P.S. It wouldn’t kill ya to dress a little more like a tramp. You know, just to show Casey Anthony that you can beat her at her own game.
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