True Confessions

No, this isn’t where I confess to a whole bunch of stuff that would leave you slackjawed. This isn’t where I tell you all about my sordid past and all the scandals in which I was involved (or caused!), or tell you about that thing I did that’s so bad that even I can’t believe I did it. No. Not tat tall. This is just where I say the following.
Why do shows such as “20/20” and “Dateline” insist on having interviews with people like Scott Peterson (the guy who we all know killed his pregnant wife Laci)? Does anyone really think he’s going to finally break down and confess — either covering his handsome face (he is sooo good-lookin’!) with his hands and blubbering, or staring directly into the camera with a raw leonine machismo? In the first scenario, red-faced and sobbing, “Blrrrbb blaahh grrllbbrhh blaah waah i did it blrrrbbb i loved her brrrahhhhbbhh” and in the second, training his steely (and handsome!) gaze on an audience he cannot see, and boldly confessing, “Yes. ‘Twas I.”
It’s not going to happen. It’s not. Really. Just like the Ramseys will never come out and fess up, at long last, to murdering their daughter. “Yes. My wife was jealous of my daughter’s exquisite beauty. We had no choice!” Or OJ. “Why, yes, I did kill Nicole and that young fellow. I forgot!”
Actually, I don’t follow these stories. At all. But enough trickles down (my leg, like pee?) (Did I just say that aloud?) (No. I wrote it, though, which is just as bad.) that I do know enough to say that all of these people are guilty. Guilty. Guilty as “sin”.
Stop interviewing them already. There’s about as much likelihood of getting them to confess, “OK, so I did it! Yeah!” as there is of Michael Jackson admitting that he had more than two plastic surgeries and doesn’t actually sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag when the kids stay overnight at Neverland.
As for me, I will confess nothing. I didn’t do it. I wasn’t there. I saw nothing.
Good day.