A new documentary set to air today on some television channel suggests that O. J. Simpson may not have murdered his former wife after all.
Right. And I guess God didn’t make little green apples, either, right? Right?
"It don’t rain in Indianapolis in the summertime" has been done to death.
Simpson has claimed all along that he didn’t do it and claims to have been somewhere else behaving as a non-murderer when the killings took place.
Yeah, right. And I’m a monkey’s uncle.
If thinking O. J. Simpson is wrong is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
O. J. innocent? I don’t think that I can take it ’cause it took too long to bake it and I’ll never have that recipe again.
There’s no such thing as Doctor Seuss or Disneyland and Mother Goose, no nursery rhyme.
Jesus Christ! My love for you is like a really strained metaphor!
The documentary suggests that a serial killer named Glen something may have been involved.
"Glen?" Who names a serial killer "Glen?"
Glen the Ripper? I don’t think so.
I know it’s not politically correct to say, but I find the whole thing an indictment against so-called "mixed marriages." It’s the kids who suffer most.
When the parents are a running back and a blonde, it’s the kids who suffer, all right. Academically!
How did they ever get him to run the right direction with a football?
If O. J. Simpson didn’t kill his wife, grits ain’t groceries, eggs ain’t poultry, and Mona Lisa was a man.
If you didn’t get that last reference, it’s an obscure blues record by Rheumatoid Arthritic Earl I believe, making some ironic allegorical observations possibly regarding a "fine l’il mama" or, God forbid, as "bluesmen" are so wont to do, making thinly veiled claims regarding the girth of his male member.
Mona Lisa wasn’t really a man. Relax.
"Kill my wife? Moi? I think it was Cubby the Night Stalker."
Next thing you know some rogue documentarian will make a documentary claiming that Lindsay Lohan has never driven while crack-impaired.
And no one’s ever left a cake out in the rain, right?