So I get up this morning and I take a look at the headlines and I see
And I think, "Man, that's really gonna screw with her modeling career," and the next thing I think is, "Huh, I wonder if he tasted like chicken," and then I think about what part she probably ate, considering the psycho-sexual ramifications of cannibalising one's spouse and think it probably tasted like bratwurst.
And then I sip my coffee and wonder if I should up my dosage.
Back in 1991, model Omaima Aree Nelson, killed her husband of two months, ground up as much as she could in the garbage disposal and then took bags of body parts to ex-boyfriends in the hopes they would hide them for her.
I can just imagine how well those conversations went over.
Ultimately, though, she just had too much to ditch. So she cooked him and ate him. They recovered his roasted head and his hands were deep fried. She went on to say, "Nothing tastes as good as the man I married. It's the sauce that does it."
Of all 230 pounds of the guy the cops never found 80. I always knew those models could pack it away. Eat like birds, my ass. Sure, if they're fucking vultures.
Anyway, she's up for parole and, surprise! the DA thinks that's maybe not the best idea. I don't know. I think she could be a useful and productive member of society.
Just aim her at rich scumbags who own a blender and a deep fryer and you're all set.