TV Bitch Likely to Become Prison Bitch

n a setback for complete bitches everywhere, Martha Stewart was convicted of four criminal charges by a jury of twelve of her peers, only much poorer. A deleted phone message and testimony from a "friend" of Stewart put the nails in her defense's coffin and doomed the austere homemaker and queen bitch to almost certain prison time.

With no television cameras in the courtroom, the prosecution spent less time on their hair and suits and focused on building a concrete case against Stewart, who was found guilty for trading her shares of ImClone based on an improper stock tip and attempting to cover up evidence of the illegal action. Stewart's defense claimed the ImClone stock was sold because Stewart had meant to buy stock in the Raelian company that made the clone baby, but got the name wrong. The defense claimed Stewart believed ImClone, a pharmaceutical company working on a cure for cancer, was "sure as shit not going to show profit."

Though Stewart has yet to be sentenced, with the severity of the crime, a term in a minimum-security prison is most likely. Stock in her own company, Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia, dropped 25% in value when her conviction was made public. Stewart didn't do anything to help her sentencing hearing when she dumped all shares shortly before the announcement.

Stewart met the court proceedings with confidence, even showing up the first day of the trial with a $12,000 handbag in tow, prompting members of the jury to murmur, "Jesus, you believe this bitch?" As she was found guilty on all counts, courtroom witnesses described Stewart as "surprised, with an underlying current of bitchy just below the surface."

Since the end of the trial Stewart has professed her innocence and vowed to appeal the case until she is exonerated. She didn't stand on the steps of the courthouse frantically smacking her lawyers about the face and pushing them down the steps, hair frazzled and face manic like a comic Cruella DeVille, but wouldn't it have been great if she had?

Judge Miriam Cederbaum instructed the jury Stewart was subject to guilty or not guilty findings based only on the evidence, and not on the obscure "what a bitch" clause the prosecution proposed, which was originally founded to justify temporary insanity in spousal murder cases. The jury deliberated seven hours before returning, and according to juror Shelby Thucker, they were very conscious of the media attention their verdict would be given.

"We were all extra careful to argue both sides of the case, to make sure our decision wasn't based on anything but evidence," said Thucker, via phone interview. "The men in the jury were quick to call her a bitch, while most of the women found her to be a very successful self-made woman. Finally, we came to the conclusion we were both right. I know lots of people consider powerful women to be bitches, and that's not fair. But Martha Stewart… don't you get the feeling she could be penniless and still be the world's biggest, poorest bitch?"

Clearly, Stewart could be idolized by young upwardly-mobile women everywhere for her shrew business sense and formidable demeanor. For those who find bitchiness a virtue, she was a true beacon in the business world. Even her ethical behavior in making more money and protecting her interests can be respected by aspiring self-made women. However, she got caught, which should be enough to lose all of our respect.

Stewart would not return calls placed to her attorneys by the commune—the bitch.

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Help me! Good people, this is not a lark, I'm serious—I've fallen and I can't get up.

I can excuse the snickering and guffaws from the peanut gallery. I, too, have witnessed those B-grade commercials for elderly alarm devices in which pathetic crones are horizontal in embarrassing positions, crying and screaming in weak cinema pathos about their inability to get up. I, too, have lampooned such advertisements—but this is serious! I really can't get up!

Ow… ooo… I think I landed on my keys, too, to make it worse. Yikes, that smarts! This is no longer amusing. At first it held a bit of self-deprecating charm, but now I'm terrified I'll never be able to get up. Help me!

This just isn't funny. I can't even move and nobody's helping me. I wish I had one of those damned alert devices now, I can see the wisdom of one now that I'm in this situation. ARRRRGH! I just moved a little and it really hurts! I'm not doing this for comic effect! I'm in serious agony!

I just stepped into the bathroom to change a light bulb, climbed up on the toilet—without having the foresight to close the lid first—and then my foot slipped right into the mouth of the toilet and I fell backwards with severe impact against the bathtub. Ouch! It hurts even more when I recall the incident, still fresh in my quickly-fading consciousness. I don't even know where the light bulb went… I heard a glassy smash when I hit, but I worry that could've been my own spine. I certainly don't feel much pain below the neck. Surely, if I could feel intense pain I could likewise move, but both seem just fond memories to me now.

I hope my wife comes home soon. She stepped out for more light bulbs, ironically. Maybe I'd find that more amusing if I wasn't broken into pieces with my foot in a toilet, pain gnawing at me like a rat on my nerves.

Christ, almighty, how long does it take that woman to buy light bulbs? Is she making them from scratch?!? And what's with you people? I'm in pain and you sons of bitches are sitting there reading the commune like it holds the meaning of life! I'm just asking for a goddamn ambulance or something! Shit on fire, help me!

Next column I hope to tackle the touchy subject of teenage pregnancy. If I'm not fucking dead by then, which seems like a blissful alternative at this point.

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Any of you hear about this poisoned dog food scare? I don't know how long this shit's been going on, I only found out when they cut into KNTZ's rock block on Thursday night to announce that Spuds MacKenzie was dead, from an Alpo overdose. At first I was like, yeah, bullshit, that dog drank enough Budweiser to put a Kennedy in the ground, but then my neighbor Mitch said something about feeding his dogs nothing but deer meat until the epidemic blew over. He said that's why he'd spent the whole night driving drunk in the woods, hoping to hit a Bigfoot or something he could tell his dogs was deer meat. That was after he went to the zoo to shoot a deer and they turned him away because you need some kind of permit or something to hunt at the zoo. You really do learn something new every day.

Anyway, Mitch may be a lot of things, but he sure as hell doesn't follow directions, so I was pretty sure the tainted dog food noise was for real. And Foghat barfs and shits all over the place more than enough already when he's healthy, I can't afford however many of those shit-eating Roomba robots it would take to keep up with him if he caught Ass-Dropitis, or whatever this new dog plague is.

They didn't say on the radio which brands of dog food were tainted, but I wasn't taking any chances, so I threw out all the Chuck Wagon in the house immediately. I've never been comfortable with how much that name sounds like Upchuck Wagon anyway. And Iams was right out, too, because that name sounds like somebody was writing "I am sick" but dropped dead before they could finish. Too suspicious.

Science Diet was nixed as well, because I've never liked the idea of scientists experimenting on my dog. Leave that shit for the rabbits and half a cow or whatever they do. I mean, what if the experiment this week is to see what happens to dogs when they eat ground-up Nerf balls? I ain't bankrolling that shit.

In the end I decided Kibbles 'n Bits was the way to go, even though I have no idea what a kibble is, but that's all Foghat will eat anyway. But how to know if the dog food was safe? I figured there was only one way to be sure: I'd have to try it myself. This isn't as gross as it sounds, after all, what do you think Cocoa Puffs are? You can make anything taste good if you add enough chocolate.

The shit really wasn't that bad, and the milk helped. But half an hour later I was feeling like Andre the Giant had crawled inside my nutsack and died. And Foghat wasn't looking too hot either, just laying there on the couch, watching World's Wildest Police Chases, barely moving. True, that's his normal state of being, but normally he hasn't just eaten an assload of possibly-tainted dog food.

So I did the only thing a responsible dog owner could do: I rushed Foghat to the emergency room. And you know what? We waited in line for three hours at that fucked-up place, like there was going to be a roller coaster or something, before somebody told me they don't treat dogs at the emergency room any more and I had to find a vet. Goddamn this luck.

Well, guess what I found out at the VFW? Yep, those motherfuckers have sworn off curing dogs as well. Isn't there anybody in this whole goddamned town with the balls to de-sick my dog?

After that I blacked out, and woke up on my couch back home. Turns out Foghat had dragged me all the way back home because he was missing Nanny 911, so I guess he got over whatever he was dying from. True, my car was still over at the VFW, and all my clothes were ruined from being dragged all the way across town by a dog with a saliva problem, but I was mostly just happy that Foghat was okay.

Then I threw up from the bottom of my balls.

Don't eat dog food, it's bullshit for people. Bricks out.

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