Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Pops' Digest Condensed Books: OJ Simpson's If I Did It
OJ Simpson has never murdered anyone. This is according to the system of criminal justice in the state of California as expressed by a jury of his peers. Where they found twelve pro sports Hall of Famers to sit on a jury for a year, I'll never figure out. I can only assume one of them was Bruce Jenner. He'll do anything to get on TV.

Not only has OJ Simpson never officially killed anyone, he would like you to know that he has, in fact, never killed anyone or anyone's friend who happened to be stopping by to visit anyone to return her sunglasses and/or have sex with anyone. It just didn't happen.

Any speculation to that end is entirely in the realm of fiction, the kind of indulgence that would require a malicious, obstinate, narcissistic-to-the-point-of-pscyhotic mind to foster or perpetuate.

With that in mind, I give you the new book If I Did It, by OJ Simpson wherein he describes--totally hypothetically--how he would have killed his ex-wife and Ronald Goldman if he were going to.

You are all lucky that I was able to savagely murder work some sorces and provide a POPS' BUCKET EXCLUSIVE sneak peek.

Chapter titles include:

  • "I Didn't Run For 2,000 Yards In One Season With Any Help From Any Goddamn 'Anger Management' Bullshit Either"
  • "A Little Club Soda Won't Get That Right Out If You've Been Swimming In Human Gore"
  • "Murder Etiquette: Ladies First"
  • "I'm Coming For You Next, Bob Costas"
  • "But They Look Just Like Her: 15 Reasons Why NOT To Also Murder Your Kids, No Matter How Badly You'll Want To"

    And now, with the reluctant permission of the publisher, I can offer this exclusive excerpt taken from Chapter 33: "The Hypothetical Downside Of Killing People, Even If They Deserve It"

    by OJ Simpson

    Last June, I was sitting around a table at Mezzaluna with the regular crew--Al Cowlings, Kato, Dustin "Screech" Diamond, Leslie Nielsen, the box I keep Johnnie Cochrane's head--shooting the shit, you know, just bluffin' and joshin' like a group of guys will. I come here every year at this time to commemorate the loss of my ex-wife and that dude she was probably banging. Part of it is commemoration and the other is to stake the place out. We get a table in the back, in one of the corners, to keep a low profile. My theory is that this restaurant, where that wife-fucker Goldman worked, is the thing that linked them together. So logically, it must be where they were connected to whoever it was that killed them for whatever reason. Probably a drug deal gone bad or a vigilante strike team who confused them for gang members or maybe a CIA sniper team who killed them to save them from terrorists or something. Because it's just like a CIA sniper team to stab two people somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty times each.

    Screech and Kato didn't say much. They never did. Especially when the check came. Leslie, as usual, kept trying to talk to the flowered centerpiece when he wasn't playing with that stupid electronic fart-sound machine he carries with him everywhere he goes. I mean, yeah, it was funny when he took it on Letterman, but we were trying to keep a low profile and dude's walking around sounding like the rusty trumpet section of a hobo band.

    So that just left me and AC and Johnnie to carry the evening. I put Johnnie on door duty. He's real patient these days, never misses nothing. Meanwhile AC tried to talk to me about cars or football or how we should kill more people because he can't get that feeling of power out of his head. Same old shit. I wasn't listening.

    All I could think about was how I was there, in that place again, Mezzaluna, a free man. I had friends, family, a few dollars in offshore accounts... life was perfect. Except my pasta pomodoro. How do you fucking overcook noodles in an Italian restaurant? No, I couldn't hear anything except the blood pounding in my ears. AC rattled on and on and all I could think about were the precise, precise details of how I was going to brutally and bloodily murder the entire kitchen staff with an array of kitchen tools from the obvious (knives, cleavers, pans) to the sublime (peppercorns, dessert trolleys, chicken piccata). Hypothetically.


    So that's it. You don't have to run out and buy it if you don't want to. But think of the risk you're taking if you don't.

    Next week, we are planning on having a little something from Michael Jackson's upcoming new book I Would Totally Fuck A Kid.


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