People Thrilled by Verdict for Man They Don't Know

San Mateo jury came back with the verdict of guilty for Scott Peterson Friday, and a lot of people who couldn't possibly have known the accused mortal to any real degree were really, really pleased. Roars of approval sounded when news of the verdict reached crowds outside, spending valuable time from their lives involving themselves in a case with absolutely no bearing on them.

Peterson, who may receive the death penalty for his crime, had been accused of the murder of his wife and unborn son, and also committed the despicable crime of occupying TV sets everywhere for more than a year when word of his sensationalized crime reached news organizations. His high-profile lawyer, smarmy Mark Geragos, defended his client as "an abominable dick, but not guilty of the crime." While for the opposing side, prosecutor Rick Distaso painted a picture of a man who was "a dick who did exactly what it sounds like he did."

Details of the trial captured the imagination of America, as the miseries of others in the world whose fate our actions control went forgotten. The case became even more fascinating for the uninvolved when it was revealed Peterson had kept a mistress massage therapist named Amber, and the jury were treated to tapes of their sexy phone calls. For months, viewers followed the search for the remains of Laci Peterson, Scott's wife, and their unborn son, and ratings went through the roof when they were discovered in the San Francisco Bay. Peterson was arrested with blond hair, but not for that reason, and was carrying $15,000 the prosecution said he was using to flee to Mexico.

People in no danger from Scott Peterson at all expressed how relieved they were he would be going to jail, or would receive the death penalty. Like Mitzi Kownuhno, of Gleaton, Rhode Island.

"At last, the world makes sense again," over-dramatized Kownuhno, upon watching the verdict on TV.

Those who showed up in person to hear Peterson's fate were also happy about his guilt.

"He's going to get exactly what he deserves, and I would like to be the one to pull the switch," said Herbert Teal of San Mateo, a jobless man who would like to apply for a public executioner position.

Fellow bystander Kiki Armoire agreed. "It's the kind of crime where you have to sit up and take notice. A woman, carrying her husband's child, betrayed by a man she thought was faithful to her… it's scary to think it could happen to any of us." Armoire, 34, admitted she had no husband or children, and had been watching the case extensively between reruns of C.S.I.

"We got him," exclaimed fellow outsider Michelle Pozowonysk, hugging a nearby stranger as she cried. "Thank God we got him!"

In other cities, people gathered in groups to watch the announcement of the verdict on CNN and Court-TV. Living viewers in public establishments such as Vorlon's Tavern in New York City awaited the verdict with baited breath, as if it mattered in the slightest in their insignificant, quickly-evaporating human lives. Most reacted with a swell of joy at the decision, though some demonstrated a degree of disappointment.

"Well, shit," said Jimmy "Meatball" Hughes, a sanitation engineer from Brooklyn. "That's all I had to watch until they start showing the Christmas specials on the TV."

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I'm going to let you all in on a secret that will save our federal government billions of Saddam-hunting dollars and will end this whole Iraq misadventure once and for all. It may take slightly longer than our current approach, but it's cheap and we won't have any more GIs shot in the ass while they're playing beach volleyball. It's simple: All we have to do is open a couple of Pizza Huts over there. They may not have that kind of hut-building technology over in Iraq yet, but we can import it. And within 30 years, all those bomb-happy assholes will have more fat pulsing through their veins than blood and they'll be dropping like lethargic, weak-hearted flies. Advantage: America.

It's a scientific fact that terrorism never originates in countries that get more than 40% of their calories from fat. Constructing a pair of tennis shoes out of plastic explosives or hucking hand grenades at an army patrol sounds like an awful lot of work when rolling over in bed is enough to raise your pulse. But you start feeding these guys rice, beans, and couscous and before you know it you've got some asshole hiding a time bomb in your birthday cake. Bad scene.

Now I'm a realist, so I realize this plan won't work quickly enough for those individuals who want Saddam Hussein's gonads in a Ball jar like, yesterday. But for those impatient folk I believe a slight modification to my Mideast peace plan may suffice.

Let's say you turn those fast food franchising dogs loose on Iraq, to quell the general populace. But while you're at it you save one location for a very special KFC. You might even put this special KFC in Saddam's hometown, couldn't hurt. But the most important thing is to make sure this restaurant is really the cream of the KFC crop, no chicken fingers petrifying under heat lamps for two weeks while the crew chief does lines of coke back in the walk-in freezer. That won't do. What we need here is a real tightly run ship that's cranking out some damned delicious chicken. And once the joint's become established and you've saturated the region with fried chicken fat, one random day you close up shop very unexpectedly. Blame it on to "technical difficulties" or a chicken rampage or what have you.

But before you board up the windows, you sell one last bucket of chicken. The last ever, and it goes to the highest bidder. Doesn't matter who it is. Wherever he's hiding, some of that chicken will find it's way back to Saddam Hussein, guaranteed. Maybe a thigh, maybe a wing. Doesn't matter. But the kicker is that you've saturated that one bucket of chicken with enough fat to kill the three tenors. Silver bullet heart attack variety, extra tasty deadly. Let's see the Iraqi public claim we faked a picture of Saddam Hussein, dead on a toilet with a drumstick hanging out of his mouth. Even those cynical bastards will be shocked into acknowledging the disgusting truth.

It's a sad state of affairs when all this administration wants for Christmas is Saddam Hussein dead on a toilet, but there you go. Merry Christmas.

Escalating the plan further couldn't help but solve the bigger Mideast asshole problem, as all those hard-ons will go soft for stuffed-crust cholesterol bombs and gorgeable Gorditas. And it wouldn't cost the Western superpowers a thing, just cut the fast food chains loose and they'd lick each other's brainpans clean for the chance to do America's dirty work for us. But for God's sake, please leave Subway out of this. The last thing I need to see on television is some big fat Arab guy talking about how he used to be even more big and fat before he started mainlining veggie subs.

If that happens I'm just going to keep my ideas to myself in the future, the common good be damned.

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I don't watch Oprah's show anymore, for quite a while now, ever since she replaced her hookers and lesbians with books. What's the deal there? One day the show is about giving women a forum to curse out they baby's daddy and the next day it's like a friggin' library or something. If I want a library, I'll go some place, like a book store.

Frankly, I've never understood America's fascination with books. Okay, there's a bunch of words. So…? If I want to read words, I can get them in magazines. Have you ever tried reading one of these books? They always start just boring as hell. "John Fancypants was stranded on an island. His food and water was limited and he could die at any minute." Yeah, so? Does he die or what? You want me to read the whole book to find out? I don't have time, pal, I work for a living.

Worse than that are books that start and don't even tell you what you're reading the book for. At least with the guy on the desert island book you know in the first few words where the guy is and what the deal is. Have you ever read one of these books: "Jane Fancypants was a twenty-one year old student at Midwestern College, majoring in Marine Biology." Aw, Christ, now we have to know everything about your stupid "character" before we can find out why we're reading about you. What bullshit. It's like a foreign film or something. If I wanted to read and learn slowly about characters, I'd go to a foreign film. At least I know how long it will last, two or three hours. A book I could be trapped reading for a few days, weeks, or years.

And why are all the characters named Fancypants? That's stupid and obvious. I'm not interested in any character with such a stupid name. On top of that, Fancypants isn't even the stupidest name.

I tried reading books before, really, so it's not like I don't know what I'm talking about. My tutor on the set of Who's Your Daddy? was really big on teaching me a love for books, which is probably why I hate them, it was the worst part of being a star. He assigned me a book called Moby Dick to read once. Wait, before you get all worked up, the shit's about a whale. No kidding. At least there was a picture of a whale on the cover. I got to the first line and was instantly lost. "Call me Ishmael." What the hell is that about? This dude is going to write a book and before he even gets into the story he wants some asshole to call him. A publisher or something? Man, get your shit together before you put it in your dumb book.

You ever heard of this one: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." You're talking about two different times, dickhead. Once again, get your shit together and then send your finished book, hopefully shortened, and maybe I'll try reading it again.

With all that said, I've gotten into the commune's new Book Revolt feature pretty well. It's cool that books can be shortened into magazine-type formats and printed in the commune. Really you're saving trees by doing that and, more importantly, you're saving my time. Just take the best part of your book and put it into a short form I can read and leave me the hell alone. I don't care if your book has 100 tips for beautiful skin or a cure for cancer or whatever, if it's more than a couple pages you're losing me.

Hopefully all of you reading this know what I'm talking about and together we can make a statement to these blabber-typing authors out there who insist on putting nuances and pacing into their stories. Then again, if you're really on my side, you surely didn't get further than the first few sentences without getting bored as hell and going off to search for celebrity pics of Josh Hartnett.

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