“…and this duct tape has opened my schedule,” is likely what Casey Anthony was thinking three years ago. (Okay, maybe just the second portion. I’m pretty sure that people who enter “hot body contests” don’t listen to The Smiths.)
And as of today we are officially one month (the estimated half-way point) into the trial and I can’t fucking get enough of this “possibly” homicidal hottie. Yesterday I spent the better part of an hour listening to an attorney coyly scold a toxicologist because there was no official “printed” protocol for collecting samples of air (this is not a typo) from the trunk of a car… and I was mesmerized. So what is it about this (let’s just call her) “morally questionable” vixen that I find so alluring? Is it that she’s possibly the hottest “murderer” of the century thus far? Is it that her mentality, mannerisms and general composure are eerily similar to those of my last girlfriend? Or is it that she’s just totally batshit crazy? Eh, a pinch of column A, a dash of column B, and a Michael-Moore-portion of column C.
A slutty twentysomething (Casey Anthony) grew tired of the responsibilities of being a mom, so just short of her daughter’s (Caylee Anthony) third birthday she did something about it. No one saw Caylee for a month. Casey spent the following month running up her parents’ (Cindy and George Anthony) credit card bills and entering hot body contests at dance clubs. The grandparents get questiony so Casey made up a story about a nanny that got kidnappy. Caylee’s remains are found and now everyone needs to get their stories straight (which seem to change and become all the more beautifully inventive and colourful daily). Since then they’ve become “darlings” of the media, old Georgie tried to off himself, Case-Dog has been arrested several more times, and, finally, they now have to answer for the extension of their 15 minutes. Oh yeah, and then there’s the incest thing!!! Anyway, long-story-short, if Florida (the prosecution) K.O.s Ms. Anthony, she and her daughter will be hand-in-hand sooner than she’d hoped. Currently Casey’s defense team; who are equal parts Shakespeare, Einstein, and Barnum; are weaving a case that is at least the funniest thing you’re likely to see until the next Whit Stillman movie but, like a highly-intellectual cinematic commentary on the current state of society, is unlikely to be taken seriously by anybody (and that is probably for the best).
I’ve always hated news journalism and am admittedly not especially skilled in it. However, Google holds a plethora of info, the trial streams live daily on the internet, truTV’s In Session provides coverage every day, and most news stations have about an hour-long summary each night, so go to the fucking experts and leave me to tell you why The Smiths are so fucking great.) Before leaving you with Moz and Mr. Marr’s eloquent and prophetic commentary on this little predicament, I would like to quote for you a private journal entry from Casey Chloroform, written five days after her daughter was last seen. When The Smiths for Dummies is published, this should be the entry under “This Night Has Opened My Eyes”:
“I have no regrets, just a bit worried… I completely trust my own judgment I know that I made the right decision. I just hope that the end justifies the means. This is the happiest that I have been in a very long time.”
P.S. Casey, if history (see: Charles Manson) has taught us anything, it’s that charisma is what gets public empathy for crazies. Try showing up to court one day in a wet T-shirt and karaoking Lady Gaga. If it doesn’t win you the trial, at least Perez Hilton and John Waters will be “liking” your YouTube clips come judgment day.