I'm the Wendy's receipt, meant to give the murderess an alibi.
I'm the crushing credit-card debt.
*Snap* *SNAP* *SNAPP!*
I'm the Home Depot security cam footage showing our perp purchasing a large Rubbermaid tub, duct tape, a power saw, a box of latex gloves and several gas cans.
I'm the kids who still couldn't trap daddy into fidelity.
I'm the hooker costume the defendant says her hubby made her wear for sexytimes.
I'm the implausible death story made up on the spot while talking to 911.
I'm the shockingly beautiful Texas tart who shoots her husband in the face when he suggests that I reign in my spending. But our Christmas wreaths are drooping, I shriek. I blame it on some black kids and even finger them in a line up.
Speaking of Texas tarts remember Darlie Routier?
I'd forgotten all about her but she's still on death row. Innocent or guilty?
I'm the friend who makes sure to say the titular line, She just snapped. I fot new lowlights for the occasion and and a professional bra fitting for my double HHs. I hope the interviewer can't tell I stopped at TGI Fridays for an Appletini to mix with my xanax. Cameras make me so nervous ya'll!!!
In Mother Russia, we do not beat around the bush. The show would be called 'Chopped'.
Besides, Snapped sounds too gay!
I'm the crying without tears.
I'm the church that was torn apart when the young preacher's wife starts a torrid affair with the organist. It's funny because I always thought he was a big 'mo.
I'm the weird amount of law enforcement employees who are featured on this show. From the show it's easy to see we spend a lot more time stalking, fucking, sucking and obsessing with each other than wr ever do solving crimes.
I'm the small town lesbian reporter. Whether it's Bristol North Dakota or Bristol North Carolina, small town lesbian reporter will be there with her bowl cut and gold rimmed glasses discussing blood spatter and subfloor staining.
Oh Lord, I love watching this crap-fest.
It is, hands-down, my biggest guilty pleasure.
I love the voice over work as well.
I'm the blurry photos of the accused and smiling her husband, taken weeks before his body was found in their storage unit.
That should read "I'm the blurry photos of the accused and her smiling husband".
I'm the incredibly stupid detail that gets the culprit caught. Whether it's an easily provable lie or keeping the murder weapon in the nightstand, I make you wonder just how many people get away with murder each year. Probably a lot.
I'm the windswept trailer in Nebraska where the murderess grew up . She escaped me and found a real estate agent in California who specialized in million dollar homes. He had a bad toupee and that got him shot in the face even more than his 2500000 life insurance policy.
I'm the fake tits the victim bought the killer in an effort to make her look more like his first girlfriend who broke his heart.
I'm the insurance policy, purchased 6 weeks before the murder, and 10 times the salary of the deceased.
I'm the murderer's community college communications degree.
I'm the registered nurse's 30 pill a day Tramadol habit. I'm the reason she shot her veteran in the back of head as he slept and blamed it on black burglars. You think to yourself, Tramadol? How the fuck do you get addicted to a lame drug like Tramadol?
I'm the white-trash Satanist who inexplicably achieved career success as a technical writer, then got arrested for stuffing my alcoholic mom in a trash can while she was still alive and leaving her to liquefy for three years so I could collect her Social Security.
I'm the duct tape that the murderess kept. Not only to my tear marks match the piece wrapped around the victim's wrists, I'm covered in the perp's DNA because she stupidly tore me with her teeth. You wonder to yourself how did this bitch get a biology degree?