This commercial came on TV when I was with my parents:
Mom: Why haven’t I heard of this? I need to get one!
Dad: It’ll blow your hair back though.
Mom: It’s like the opposite of Beiber hair.
Dad: Guess we know where he’s been sticking it then.
Brother: Oh my God.
Since I had to work on Christmas Eve and at 8am the day after Christmas, my parents drove up here while I picked my brother up at the airport. Aunt Crazy Pills, Uncle Fighting Illini and Masturbating Cousin drove down to Cheerleading Cousin’s house, so my family stayed at their house for the holidays.
We dubbed ourselves “The Christmas Squatters”.
Since my mom just had gallbladder surgery, it hurt her to even laugh. Too bad we’re all assholes to each other.
****************
My brother became obsessed with playing Lego Indiana Jones on Masturbating Cousin’s Xbox. My mom and I watched him play and helped him figure things out. My dad was pissed because he wanted to watch the football game.
“I thought there were no video games in the living room.”
“That’s the rule my dad wanted them to enforce,” my mom told him.
“Go play your games upstairs!” my dad yelled at my brother.
“No, this is Freaky Friday. Masturbating Cousin and I traded places. I get to play my games wherever I want, with no regard for anyone else. And I’m going to sleep all day,” my brother told him.
Since we outnumbered him, all my dad could say was, “It’s Thursday, not Friday.”
**************
My aunt left sugar cookie dough for us to make cookies with. I talked my brother into doing it, although he claimed he couldn’t remember how to use a rolling pin.
“You just spread flour out on the counter and then put flour on the pin,” I told him.
“Like this?” He sprinkled flour on it.
“No! You spread it all around. Like you’re . . .massaging it,” my mom told him while acting out a hand job and laughing like a pervy old lady.
*****************
My mom, brother and I had an allergic reaction to the real Christmas tree in the house, so my dad moved it (and all their presents) into another room and barricaded the door with a blanket so no tree spores/mold could get out. We didn’t know how to explain to my aunt and uncle what we did to the tree. Our possible stories:
- Their dog got rabies and tore up the tree and presents. Dad had to take him out in the back and shoot him Old Yeller-Style.
- We gave their tree and presents to a homeless family, who are now living in the garage.
- A squirrel was living in the tree. He knocked it down trying to get out and the tree caught on fire and burned up everything.
- The Grinch showed up and stole Christmas.
Our only real responsibility all weekend, was to watch my aunt and uncle’s dog, Bailey. I’ve dog-sat him numerous times, and have given him his last name of “Bailerton”.
Sleep deprivation led me to write/make up many songs.
One example: (to the tune of Silver Bells)
“Bailey Bailerton, Bailey Bailerton, we’re your new family,
We’ve come to stay at your house this Christmas.
We ate all your food, we drank all your booze,
And we moved your Christmas tree,
but we gave all your presents to the homeless . . .”
**************
After I got out of work on Christmas Eve, my mom called me.
“Where are you? Dinner’s going to be ready in 15 minutes!”
“I gave my co-worker a ride home. She was gonna have to walk in the dark and it’s raining. And she’s partially deaf, so I was afraid she would get hit by a car or something.”
“Is she going to be alone this Christmas? You should have invited her over here to spend Christmas with us!”
“She’s with her boyfriend. Plus, she’s a complete stranger, Mom. I’m not going to invite her over. Where did that come from?”
“I don’t care. It’s not my house. We should have a kegger party. You invite all the deaf people you know.”
**************
My mom had to sleep on the living room couch so she could prop herself up. We teased her about faking surgery, just so she could sleep downstairs and wait for Santa.
Christmas Eve night, we forced her to take her Vicodin, so she fell asleep on the couch at 9pm. My dad and brother went to bed so the Santa duties fell to me.
I tiptoed around trying not to wake up my mother. I failed.
“Is that you, Santa? I’ve been a very good girl!” my mom called out in a little girl voice.
“Go back to sleep, you crazy lady,” I laughed at her.
She quieted down, but when I went back upstairs, she called out, “Good night! I love you, Santa! I love my presents, Santa!”
In the end, my mom felt bad that I knew what was in the stockings, so she put a huge rubberbanded roll (Drug Dealer-style) of $50 bills in our stockings before we woke up.
My dad didn’t get any money, but received a garden gnome. He was excited because they’re leaving on a trip next week and I think he’s going to do a Travelocity type deal with him.
*******************
Every year, I end up with a ridiculous gift. Probably because I’m the biggest asshole. All of this was in one box.
- Plain white socks.
- A used, talking Mr. Potato Head, which was being sold at the garage sale this summer. It was sitting on the cashier’s table and kept yelling at people, annoying the shit out of me until I tried to throw him in the creek. He was rescued and given to me as a Christmas present, to torment me for the rest of the year.
- My High School diploma, which I couldn’t find anywhere.
- My mortarboard, which I wore while fixing Christmas breakfast.
- a $50 bill, making it obvious this package was put together by my father, since he about crapped his pants when he saw our “Drug Dealing Money”
My mom is having somewhat-emergency gallbladder surgery today. She didn’t ask me to come down for it, probably because she knows I’m going to get pissed at my dad for being a man-child.
I called their cell phone this afternoon. My dad answered.
“How’d the surgery go?”
“Oh, they haven’t taken her in yet. Probably in the next hour or so.”
“How’s mom doing though? Is she okay?”
“Well, I keep making her laugh. Trying to get her to laugh the gallstones out so she doesn’t have to have surgery. But the laughing hurts her.”
“Is she going to keep the gallstones, like grandma did when she had them out?”
“Are you going to keep the gallstones? . . .She says no, unless you want them.”
“What would I do with them? Sell them on the internet? ‘Buy my mom’s gallstones. REEEAL CHEAP.’ ?”
“They’re the family jewels. We can make them into a necklace for you.”
“Gross, Dad.”
“Well, I’m off. Gotta go Christmas shopping.”
“Um . . . ok. Is Laura stopping by?”
“Yeah, I think she’s going to be here soon.”
WTF, Dad. “My wife’s going in for surgery, so I’m leaving her alone to go shopping.” I knew I should have driven down.
When my brother and I were in high school, he drove like a typical teenage boy. More concerned about his friends and what music was playing, than about what was happening on the road. Thank God cell phones weren’t more prevalent back then, because he’d probably be dead by now.
One day, he came home with his side mirror busted off. “I hit a deer,” he told my parents.
“Where did these metal scrapes come from then?” our dad asked him.
“Oh . . .that’s from where the mirror scraped the car,” he blurted out.
Later, we noticed our neighbors’ mailbox in the ditch. I, of course, had to taunt him about this. “What kind of deer was this? Was it a ROBOTIC DEER?” (complete with my awesome Mr. Roboto dance moves.)
It took him 10 years of us taunting him about the robot deer, before he finally admitted what happened. And that’s only because my mom later worked with one of his former classmates, who told her that my brother came to school bragging about how he got away with it.
Apparently, he was changing CDs, lost control of the car on the windy mountain road, and crashed into the mailbox on his 180 degree spin into the ditch.
Hitting a deer was a good excuse though. My mom had done it when we were kids. People hit deer all the time. When I was a kid, the local drive-thru wild animal park would pick up the roadkill deer to feed to the lions and tigers. That was, until they realized that some of the deer were hit because they’d gotten into someone’s marijuana crop and were stoned out of their minds and were blinded by all the pretty headlights . Stoned dead deer = stoned live lions trying to get inside people’s cars because they have the munchies.
When I arrived home on the night before Thanksgiving, my mom and brother were still driving up from California. So I watched The Tonight Show with my dad and he regaled me with all the happenings about town.
“When I got home yesterday, there was a dead deer right up next to the house.”
“What? Why was it next to the house?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t look old or sick or anything. I think it was being chased and ran into the house and broke its neck.”
“Not to assume or anything.”
“It was a momma or a yearling. It wasn’t old. I drug it off down the mountain, so your brother’s dog won’t try to eat it.”
The next morning, so I took the dog outside to pee.
I could see the fucking dead deer from the front yard. The dog could smell it. She was going nuts trying to get down to it.
I stormed inside to my dad and brother watching the game.
“Why the hell is the deer just barely down the hill? You said you threw it off the mountain. The dog’s trying to get it.”
“Oh, I thought you might want to take it with you,” my dad said.
“What? Why would I take a dead deer with me?”
“Wrap it up in a tarp and take it out to the wild animal park. Yeaaaaaah, 420-time, lion buddies. Naaaaants ingonyamaaaaaa, bagithi baba . . .” my brother started singing.
“Why would I be the one to do that? Why wouldn’t we take dad’s truck?”
My mom walked into the room. “You should take it. You don’t have any money for food. Hehehehe.”
“It’s the Cirrrrcle of Liiiife . . .” my brother continued to sing.
“I’m not taking a rotting dead deer for food, you crazies!”
“It’s okay. We can just strap it to your roof. No one will break into your car, because you’ll be ‘That Crazy Hillbilly Girl’,” my dad said.
Then my mom added, “Yeah, we can cut his head off and strap it to your grill and paint its nose red. It’ll be Christmassy.”
WTF.
So my brother’s now ex-girlfriend is a crazy, selfish bitch.
She broke up with my brother because she wanted him to spend more time with her. Apparently spending every night and weekend wasn’t enough and she wanted him to call off work to hang out. Too bad that little head game backfired on her and my brother refused to get back together with her, even when she called him in tears.
Also, she turns 30 in January, so believe that I had plenty to say to my brother about the whole thing.
You remember last year when she showed up to meet us for the first time and brought her new puppy with her? Well, she’s a total flake and didn’t know what she was getting herself into when she got a dog.
She’s not allowed to have a dog in her apartment, so my brother-the-pushover let her keep the dog at his place. He has an hour commute both ways every day to work, so she would go to his apartment to walk the dog.
However in the past year, she’s gone back to her home state of Minnesota about 9 times, leaving my brother to rush home from work to let the dog out.
Several weeks ago, my brother bought his plane tickets to come home for Thanksgiving. Since he would be flying into Portland, I would pick him up, and my parents were going to drive up here, to either have Thanksgiving in my apartment, or at Aunt Crazy Pills house, since I was probably going to have to work.
But oh no, The Viking had to schedule an eye surgery right before Thanksgiving, leaving him with the dog.
“Why can’t she take the dog with her?” I asked my brother.
“Because her mom doesn’t like the dog shedding all over the house.”
“Lemme get this straight. Her mom not wanting dog hair everywhere OVERRIDES you spending Thanksgiving with your family.”
“I guess so.”
“How many times has she gone home this year?”
“This will be the 6th time in the past 7 months.”
“And how many times a year do you come home? Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
“I know. But if I don’t take the dog, she’ll have to put her in a kennel and I don’t want her to do that.” (We had a very bad experience as children when our parents put our poor puppy in a kennel and she about had a nervous breakdown.)
“Un-fucking-believable. She’s a selfish little bitch. I’m about ready to send a bitch-email to her.”
“Don’t. She’ll probably kill herself or something.”
So now, my mom randomly bought a one-way ticket to San Diego, so she can help him drive up after he gets out of work on Wednesday afternoon.
(I honestly believe it’s 50% to see my brother, 50% to see the dog.)
And luckily, I open the day before Thanksgiving, and close the day after, so I can actually go home. I thought everything worked out okay, until my grandmother called me tonight.
“Just calling to tell you that I can help you with Thanksgiving dinner.”
“What?”
“You know, since your mom and brother are going to be driving.”
“So it’s my responsibility to fix Thanksgiving dinner? Mom hasn’t said anything to me about it.”
“Well, they’re not going to be back in time for your mom to start it. I think she just figured it out today.”
“Wow. The Viking’s really screwing us all over here, isn’t she?”
If my brother gets back together with that little bitch, I will disown him.
I’ve only broken one bone in my life.
I had just turned 13 and was at a Youth Group event at the house of a family who went to our church.
They had 4 rambunctious sons, ages 6 to 14, and lived by the river, with a huge, flat backyard leading up to it. The parents bought their sons a giant 6′ tall rubber foursquare-type Earthball, probably for them to wear themselves out on.
On this particular spring evening, the sons and the other junior-high-aged boys were running around the backyard, screeching like banshees, and playing makeshift soccer with the oversized ball. The girls just stood around gossiping and laughing at the idiot boys.
At one point, the family’s husky 12-year-old decided to run at the ball as fast as he could, hitting the ball with his full body weight. He didn’t bother to see if anyone was on the other side.
The other girls noticed what was happening, and got the hell out of the way. Don’t know what the hell I was doing. Daydreaming or some shit.
Left: Me, flying through the air. Right: Idiot Fat Kid
The ball hit me on my right side, and little, runty, 4’10″, 60 lb. soaking wet Chamuca flew through the air like a rag doll.
I put my hand out to catch myself, and in landing, my humerus cracked right at the shoulder joint.
Should have drank my milk like my mom said.
Speaking of mi madre, I talked to her on the phone today.
“Guess what? I got that sales job at Macy’s.”
“Really? That’s great! How much will you make?”
“Barely above minimum wage, and it’s just for the holidays. And the hours aren’t set. Oh, and it doesn’t really start for another 2 weeks. But if I don’t get another job by then, it’ll be better than what I’m getting from unemployment.”
At that point, my dad wandered through the background. “Where’d she get a job?”
“At Macy’s.”
“Is she gonna be in charge of the Wimpy Kid float?”
“Did he seriously just ask that?” I asked my mom.
“Ahhhhh, the Wimpy Kid got away from me! I am soaring over Manhattan!” my dad said in a high-pitched voice. I can tell he is spinning around in circles, acting out this scenario for my mother.
“No, she’s not gonna be in the parade, Randy!”
“Yeah, that’s probably better anyway. That Earthball already did a doozy on her, a parade balloon would probably finish her off. ‘Ahhhhhh, HUGE INFLATED OBJECTS!!!! I’M GOING TO DIE!!!’ “
I’m glad my childhood injuries still amuse my parents.
Also, how the hell does my dad know about the Wimpy Kid?
I spent Halloween night corralling three little sugar-addled trick-or-treaters, all boys, ages 6, 9, and 12.
Lobster always takes the Lobsterling and the Lobsterling’s half brothers ever year. In years past, it’s been too cold or the kids were too little and bitched all the time.
This year, the weather was perfect and the kids were so hyper about all the candy, they DID NOT WANT TO STOP.
It didn’t help matters that Lobster and I strategized about how to get as much candy as possible. Because you know when the kids go to bed, you get to eat whatever you want. That’s like one of the major pluses of having kids.
Lobster and I went over to Baby Momma’s house in the afternoon, to help the kids carve their pumpkins and to watch the kids’ 4-month-old baby sister, while Baby Momma made the baby’s costume – a shark. Her own costume consisted of a Michelle Obama mask and nothing else. She only wore it to TP the prankster neighbor’s house down the street, after the kids went to bed.
Judgy and Crotchety, check and check
Lobster and I didn’t dress up, because Lobster is like the Scrooge of Halloween. I tried to get him to dress up with me like Statler and Waldorf, because that would be AWESOME. But it was too much of a hassle for him, even if I was the one making the costume.
He even got his hair cut last week, so he kind of looks like Harry Potter with his dark hair and glasses.
“Just let me draw a scar on your head with this lipliner. That’ll be the extent of your costume. You can wear your normal clothes. I won’t even make you carry a stick as a wand.”
“It’ll stain my head and make a mess.”
“You are no fun at all. You were going to be Harry Potter and I was going to be Hermione and we were going to tell people that Ron had run off because he was being a jealous little bitch because he was wearing the locket and YOU’VE RUINED EVERYTHING.”
Lobster just stared at me blankly, since he refuses to read the books until he’s seen all the movies. He’s heard me bitch enough times about how the movies are messed up, and I’m shocked he even watched the movies in the first place. Too mainstream.
Goddamn Old Punk Rocker.
Anyway, the kids were all rambunctious and stabbing their pumpkins and making a huge mess of the pumpkin guts. Lobsterling was so amped up, he even sneaked out of the house and started trick-or-treating at 4:30pm.
Lobsterling’s punishment was to put all of his loot in the bowl his mom was using to hand out candy to trick-or-treaters. Lobsterling was distraught, and his brothers taunted him mercilessly.
We finally left the house at dusk with three little ninjas, dressed completely in black. We made them wear red glowsticks so we could keep track of them easier. Because those little monsters like to run ahead and lag behind and make themselves easy prey for the pervs on Pedophile’s Favorite Holiday of the Year.
(It could be Christmas, but that’s only if the perv’s a mall Santa and so he can have a lot of kids sitting on his lap.)
We set up some rules for them:
1) If you bitch, we’re going home.
2) If you run off, we’re going home.
3) If you say “trick or treat, smell my feet, etc.”, we’re going home.
4) If you don’t say “Thank You!” and “Happy Halloween!”, we’re going home.
5) If we have to carry your candy, we’re eating it.
As we made the rounds, we met some interesting people:
- The boys left one old ladies house. The oldest boy told us, “That lady had never seen glowsticks before!” “She touched my glowstick,” the youngest boy said, in confusion and violation. Lobster and I laughed, and it took the older boys a second before the understood the euphemism. “Hahahaha, she touched your weiner!” Smart little shits.
- The boys attempted trick-or-treating at an old man’s house. His porch light wasn’t on, but a huge lamp was in the naked bare window and we could see him sitting right there, watching TV. Once they rang the doorbell, he got up, went over to the door and locked it, before sitting back down. “If anyone deserves to have his house egged, it’s that guy,” Lobster said, in disbelief. When we told Baby Momma later, she wanted to know where the house was, so she could TP him.
- One house set up a little haunted maze in their driveway, complete with a boom box playing spooky Halloween sounds. The older boys were so psyched, but the little one refused to go in, even if I held his hand. Lobster told me he got scared after watching Ghostbusters, so it was a no-go. Lobster and I ran through it after the older boys finished, and it was pretty fucking sweet. The people were really nice too, and we appreciated the effort they put into their maze. Mainly because only about 40% of the houses we walked past were giving out candy. Totally shocked me because I remember almost every house giving out candy when I was a kid
Having three candy-greedy little boys and two strategizing adults (who are candy fiends themselves) backfired on us. We just kept going and going and going, trying to get as much candy as possible. It lasted until Lobster and I realized we’d all walked about 5 miles and had no fucking clue where we were. Normally we both have a good sense of direction, but the sun obviously wasn’t out and the streets aren’t laid out in a grid pattern.
Finally, I tried to Google Map us home on my phone, but the goddamn directions told us to turn north. Can’t fucking tell where north is, Google Maps. Ass.
Once we figured out we were lost, I felt bad that the little one was having to carry his huge bag of loot, so I grabbed it from him.
That bitch had to weigh at least 10 pounds and the kid wasn’t even bitching at all. I passed it off to Lobster.
“Feel how heavy this bag is.”
“Holy shit. Hey, you two. Lemme see your bags.”
They were almost as heavy, but not quite. The little one was getting more candy, because when he would get to the door he’d tell the people, “I LIKE KIT KATS,” and they would give him more candy because he’s little and cute.
(In the end, he ended up with 17 Kit Kats.)
Lobster was afraid their mother would flip out when she saw how much candy they boys had. She ended up being impressed with how well they did in just 2 hours, and probably, was just as excited as we were for the kids to go to bed.
We ended up dumping all the candy together, so they wouldn’t fight and steal from each other.
Our estimation of the final weight: between 20 and 25 pounds. We are master trick-or-treaters, bitches.
Today, I found out how much money I’m going to get from unemployment, and it’s not even enough to pay my rent.
My normally moderate anxiety is through the roof right now. I really don’t know what to do. If I don’t find a job in the next month, there’s a very real possibility that I’ll have to move back home to live with my parents.
So, I’ve been wandering about my apartment, debating what things to put in storage, and what things I’ll be able to fit in one of my parents’ spare rooms, while trying to stave off being a big fat girl and bursting into tears.
I’m trying to look at the pros and cons of moving home.
PROS
* I wouldn’t have to stress about paying as many bills.
* Living with my insane parents would equal a lot of blog fodder.
* I would get to spend more time with my three elderly grandparents, something I wish I would have done with my grandma before she died.
* My high school best friend moved back to town after college, so I would get to hang out with her more often.
* I would quit smoking, since I don’t smoke around my parents.
CONS
*My hometown has an unemployment rate that’s two times higher than the town I live in now.
* If I stayed out too late or didn’t tell my parents where I was going, my mother would guilt trip me. If I spent money on anything, my father would guilt trip me.
* I’d be that loser who moves back in with his/her parents at the age of almost 30. I’m even more of a loser since my little brother is a lawyer.
* Said high school best friend only hangs out with pretentious Americorps Vistas, who move to our hometown and talk shit about it, without realizing how offensive they’re being. High school best friend also has a new Americorps Vista boy toy whom she’s desperately throwing herself at. I was so disgusted by it, I just didn’t call her when I was in town last.
* I’d have to give up smoking.
* I wouldn’t get to hang out with Lobster as often, because we would be three hours apart.
* I will probably end up marrying a gas station attendant whom I went to high school with, and who hasn’t moved out of town since.
So, yeah, lose/lose. Gotta beat the streets again tomorrow. I’m at the point where my anxiety is almost paralyzing me and making me want to just give the fuck up. FML.
I’m fucking torn about whom to vote for in my state’s gubernatorial elections.
This year’s Republican nominee is a doozy. . .a former pro basketball player. I think the Republican party is hoping he’ll gain the votes of people who vote for celebrity nominees, a la Jesse Ventura and Ahhhnold.
Recently, the Democrats put out a mudslinging TV ad using a clip of him saying he’s talked to restaurant owners who complain to him about servers in my state making minimum wage PLUS tips.
And since my state has the second highest minimum wage in the nation, that’s apparently bullshit. Especially since most other states have a server wage of like $2.13 an hour, and their tips are supposed to make up for it somehow.
He’s come out with a response to the ad saying that most of that footage was left on the cutting room floor, but fails to show us the context of what he really said, which leads me to believe it still makes him look bad.
So it should be an easy choice, right? As a left-leaning restaurant server, there is no way I should vote for the Republican basketball player nominee.
Too bad the Democratic nominee almost killed my dad.
Right after the Dem Nom graduated from med school, he got a job working as an ER doc in a hospital in my hometown, the hospital where I was born.
Almost 24 years ago (to the day), my father, a building contractor, was roofing a house with my grandfather (the one with the Cows).
It was a cold and wet autumn that year, and the old shingles were slippery. My dad wasn’t being careful, slipped and dove head first off the two-story roof onto the hard concrete below.
(A lot of this story I’ve heard secondhand, because I was only 5 years old at the time. All I remember was my mom sitting me down to tell me the bad news. At the time, I thought she was going to tell me I missed Halloween, which apparently is the worst fucking news a 5 year old could hear.)
Anyway, my dad was went into shock almost immediately, my grandfather ran inside the house and called 911, and my dad was on his way to the hospital.
When my mom got to there she was greeted by the Dem Nom, who told her my dad was fine and she could take him home. She stared at my father, lying naked and shivering on the table with his shoulder obviously dislocated, and told the Dem Nom my dad was obviously in shock. The Dem Nom tried to argue with her, but she fortunately stood her ground.
Turns out his brain was fucking hemorrhaging after its impact with the concrete. Nice one, doc.
So yeah, who do I vote for? The idiot basketball player or the idiot doctor who almost killed my dad?
I hate everyone.
This is the actual hydrant. Hilarious.
Somehow, I came across an online news article from last year, featuring my grandpa (the one with the Squirrels). Apparently, some local hoodlums spray painted the fire hydrant in front of his house, and he was pissed the fuck off. The article quotes him as saying “the hydrant should be yellow”. There’s even a picture of him, posing next to it.
My grandma’s only quote is that “it’s horrible”.
I couldn’t stop laughing for a good 10 minutes. I immediately sent the link to my brother, who had to shut his office door, to keep his bosses from barging in on him laughing his ass off.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised though. Earlier that year, some other hoodlums spray painted their imagined badass graffiti all over his garage door. His response to the situation was to set up surveillance cameras all over the outside of his house, which are hooked up to record weeks worth of footage. I’m not kidding. He can watch the outside of his house from anywhere in the world over the internet.
Anyway, I ended up googling other people I know, to see if they were in ridiculous news articles as well. And I came across the article from when my friend, Katie, was killed.
I’d never read it before, nor did I know the name of the asshat who drove drunk the wrong way down a one-way street, plowing into a car filled with my childhood friends, killing Katie, and seriously injuring the other three.
So I googled the asshat. Apparently, he applied for a writ of habeas corpus about 2 years ago, which is online for anyone to read.
Apparently, the motherfucker doesn’t think he should be in prison anymore. . .
1) He wrote a letter to Katie’s family, apologizing for what he’d done, and his lawyer told him to destroy it. Therefore, in his fucked up little head, the jury gave him a longer sentence (25 years), because he hadn’t shown any remorse.
(How would the jury know about the letter, if he would have been able to give it to Katie’s parents?)
2) Since he injured himself in the accident as well, he was transported to the hospital. While there, he drunkenly said all kinds of incriminating shit in front of the cops, which was used as evidence against him. He’s trying to claim that he was being restrained (since he was strapped down on the gurney, because he broke his collarbone), but he hadn’t been read his Miranda Rights yet, so everything he said before that should be inadmissible.
He wants it to be inadmissible because it made him look like more of a jackass, and again, he thinks the jury gave him a longer sentence, since he hadn’t shown any remorse.
Yeah, you fucker. You’re trying to get out of prison (after only 8 years) on a technicalities. You wonder why the judge denied your claim? Because YOU AREN’T SHOWING ANY REMORSE. Idiot.
I guess he’s taking it to the U.S. Court of Appeals next. We’ll see how that goes.
Oh, and I also found his profile on WriteAPrisoner.com, where he’s looking for love. Jesus.
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