Bayard
ONLY DRINK DIDN'T DO IT
Dick Dickinson, the man I was at the time of my trial, blamed the system because in such blameless situations there is no one else to blame.
And when you have no one else to blame isn't it time to check yourself into one of Kato Kaelin's Self-Serving Psychiatric Centers. No one serves themselves better than OJ's friend Kato. Why not let Kato serve you? Questions or problems about your situation or self worth? The dedicated staff at all of Kato Kaelin's Self-Serving Psychiatric Centers are fully qualified and often, though not always, personally instructed by Mr. Kaelin himself. No longer should you have questions about your place in the spotlight. Your place in the spotlight is assured. Put your faith in Kato and Kato will put your money in his bank. Kato Kaelin's Self-Serving Psychiatric Centers serving you and Kato for as long as necessary.
Chick checked in and would not check out like a roach at one of the finer motels (with hourly rates) I used to frequent as the childish Miriam. The pressure of Chick's insistence overwhelmed Dick's overextended pathology. I had nothing for the woman I married, nothing beyond that sickly compulsion ever husband has for his wife.
Chick stood by me. Stood over me. Smothering me and it hurt. It pained me, my brothers, more than any wound any woman had pressed upon my heart. The agony of her injury compelled my actions. The coercion of her cognizance forced my hand, commanded my will. There was nothing for me but the bottle and the pill.
Caution: heavy drinking ahead.
Only drink didn't do it.
Drink is the start of it. Like elementary school substance awareness course warnings. The soft stuff leads to the hard stuff. You can hear every Mr. or Ms. Elementary School Teacher, wagging their finger and warning, "Just say no."
Is there an explanation how a person can say no is an overwhelmingly yes situation?
No. There is not.
I was never an addict. I want to make that clear to my listening audience and the Federal Communications Commission. I was never an addict and I warn others not to find themselves in Dick's position.
No pop jockey wants a squad of squad cars in hot pursuit when they're holding. Not even an innocent supply of crack cocaine. So many nickels and dimes added together equals hard time under current unconstitutional ordinances.
With determination Dick ingested the evidence before the platoon of traffic officials pulled me, with flashing lights and wailing sirens to the side of the road to warn I was driving without lights.
Of course I was driving without lights. It being daytime. I fully admit (and you my darling listeners as witnesses can uphold my contention in the kangaroo court of your choice) the inclement weather I drove through should have convinced me to turn on my lights, but under severe duress the concept slipped my mind. So overcast was the weather I could have been driving through night but my keen ambient senses detected daylight.
It was daylight. The police department, as so often is the case, could be counted on to be unreliable witnesses. Their contention was incorrect. Of that I am sure, at least my lawyers said of that Dick could be sure.
Dick smoked a little crack cocaine now and then. What's the big deal. He wasn't a brain surgeon, didn't drive a garbage truck or work in public office. I'm a radio talk show host. At that time, as Dick Dickinson, I had just begun my career as a radio personality. Granted Dick was nothing compared to the celebrity I've become, darlings. He was no Saint Miriam, but then who is, or can be?
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Dick smoked a little crack cocaine now and then. What difference did it make? Everyone does it. Or will be doing it soon. I want to again stress I am not an addict. Dick may have smoked a little crack cocaine now and again but I do not. Those that deny it are the ones doing it in secret and are the most serious offenders. Addicts! They are the ones the public must be wary of. They are the ones will rip you off, rob your house, snatch your purse, break all sorts of laws to get at the thing they claim, even under polygraph, they don't do.
Dick was a little crazed that night. Did I say night I meant day. It was most certainly day.
Chick stuck to him like a roach in a motel, I've said that before. I'll say it again. Chick stuck to him like a roach in a roach motel. Her back glued to me. Her arms and legs twitching in the air. She crying, "help me, help me," like a Vincent Price movie on tv.
Dick needed space and a fix and Chick wouldn't back off. She wouldn't get away from me. I had to get out. I needed air. I needed a fix but Chick couldn't be left alone. Post gun shot syndrome, said her doctors. Whatever that is. I figured she'd get over it quick. Women and their illnesses. Couldn't the doctors prescribe some pills?
Are you taking Anthrax? We've all taking Anthrax. Suffered the stifling side effects and the staggering cost to our health care providers. Are you taking Anthrax? We've all taken Anthrax. Now there's no need. Not now that your doctor can prescribe Mycobacterium Leprae. Anthrax is a prescription of the past. Why not embrace your pharmacological future? Suffer the stifling side effects of Mycobacterium Leprae and leave the staggering cost to your health care provider. Call your doctor and see if Mycobacterium Leprae isn't right for you. We'll be glad you did. Why take Anthrax when there's new Mycobacterium Leprae? Call your doctor or pharmacist today.
Chick didn't or wouldn't (honestly I thought she was faking for attention) loosen her choke hold around Dick's neck. Her clutching insistence got tighter and tighter like a horror movie about a rogue Boy Scout kerchief gone berserk.
On days I could take Chick no longer, on days I needed to get out and get a little fresh air and a couple vials, those sweet boys from next door would stop over the house to watch over her. They'd bring their rat combs, styling gel and blow dryers and rearrange our furniture. They were regular boy scouts. Not real Boy Scouts or real boys for that matter but men, grown men, hard core men living together. What was that about? We, the conventional suburban populace, didn't have vocabulary (other than crude slang) to describe what they were, so affectionately dubbed them Boy Scouts. They held weekly jamborees in their tented backyard. Didn't do it as a profession but as a public service. None of our common citizenry was sure of their true profession. Our Boy Scouts claimed constituency to many diverse walks of life. Number one was actor but none of us average folk had seen them in anything. Not even a tv advertisement. What us ordinary public citizens knew for sure was when the Boy Scouts worked they worked as waiters in all the best restaurants in our area. You could hire them for private parties!
How could we the mere, the ordinary, say anything against them? If we'd upset our Boy Scouts we'd never get service in a decent restaurant again. I never imagined leaving my wife in their capable hands would be, or could be a problem.
And when you have unresolved problems isn't it time to check yourself into one of Kato Kaelin's Self-Serving Psychiatric Centers. No one serves themselves better than OJ's friend Kato. Why not let Kato serve you? Questions or problems about your situation or self worth? The dedicated staff at all of Kato Kaelin's Self-Serving Psychiatric Centers are fully qualified and often, though not always, personally instructed by Mr. Kaelin himself. No longer should you have questions about your place in the spotlight. Your place in the spotlight is assured. Put your faith in Kato and Kato will put your money in his bank. Kato Kaelin's Self-Serving Psychiatric Centers serving you and Kato for as long as necessary.
Leaving my wife in the capable hands of the Boy Scouts was never a problem until the day Dick came home after ingesting a trifling supply of crack cocaine to escape police imposition. I opened the door. Had a heady buzz on. The furniture had been coquettishly rearranged. I liked the arrangement as well as any man could like furniture arrangement but kept stumbling into the armoires and antique sideboards placed conspicuously in the middle of every room.
An unnatural buzzing in the house like laughter coming in from the bathroom tickled my ears. Was the buzzing an auditory hallucination caused by the overt quantity of crack cocaine I'd been forced to ingest or was there laughter coming from the bathroom? A paranoid hallucination? Or my wife and the neighborhood Boy Scouts in the tub together splashing around like ducks?
I'd never played pro-ball but when I discovered my wife and her friends doing each others' hair endorphins surged through my countenance like superbowl stars at a post game party. The power of ten, no twenty, burly men, flashing their superbowl rings and stuffing hundreds in the g-strings of extremely high priced hookers overflowed my beings. With the butcher knife I kept on my person at all times to keep away paranoiac hallucinations of police cruisers following me through the night...did I say night? I meant day. paranoiac hallucinations of police cruisers following me through the day, I began to swing and hack and generally rearrange the bathroom and its contents. I didn't stop. I couldn't stop until I was done.
What options were open to Dick in his jealous rage, my brothers?
No one offered to do my my hair, darlings.
Panting hard, barely able to get my breath, I tracked the blood of my victims through the house, through the garden, lost a glove (didn't care they never fit properly) got in my fabulous four wheeled drive smearing blood across the seats, dash and steering wheel and drove into the sunset. Or was it sunrise?
Chick, finally dead, would haunt me no more. That at least was Dick's contention. But Chick clung in death like she'd never clung before.
I needed a fix.
I needed a few bowls to calm my nerves.
I needed to call my lawyers.