🍝 THE DAILY SITDOWN 🍝

So, listen to this cazzo of a story. This broad, Erin Patterson – fifty years old, looks like she shops at the ShopRite, right? – gets nailed for killing three people with some kinda mushroom-laced beef Wellington. Three! A beef Wellington! You gotta be kidding me. Reminds me of that time Paulie Walnuts tried to make a lasagna… let’s just say the results weren't exactly *celebratory*. Anyway, this chick, they originally charged her with trying to off her husband, Simon, three times. Three! Like she was going for a hat trick or something. Apparently, she was lacing his food with poison for years, including – get this – cookies she claimed their *daughter* baked. The kid’s probably gonna need therapy for the rest of her life, what kind of mother is this? The kid's probably a snitch already. Then, boom, on the eve of the trial, they drop the charges against the husband. Just *poof*. No explanation. Like some kinda magic trick. Except instead of a rabbit, it’s three dead relatives. This whole thing stinks worse than a week-old gabagool sandwich. The judge kept a lot of the details quiet, until now, for some reason. I mean, I understand secrecy in court and all that crap, but this is like trying to hide a dead body under a pile of goddamn newspapers. It’s gonna be found out eventually. Trust me on this. So, the victims? Her in-laws, Don and Gail Patterson, seventy years old apiece – two birds with one stone, right? And Gail’s sister, Heather Wilkinson, sixty-six. The only survivor, Heather’s husband, Ian – the pastor, no less – he lived, after weeks in the hospital. The irony, I guess, is not lost on anybody. This poor Simon, the husband, he's sitting there in court, choking back tears. His parents, his aunt…gone. His uncle almost joined the party. He missed the meal by a day. He dodged a bullet, you know? But then, he sits there, half-talking about things he’s not allowed to even mention during the case… the guy’s practically a ghost, already. And this whole story… this is some serious shit. This ain’t some low-level shakedown; this is…organized…*poisoning*. It's the kind of cold-blooded calculation you respect, even if you despise the motives. The planning, the execution… it's almost…artistic, in a twisted, fucked-up way. Almost. I mean, you gotta admire the *chutzpah* of it. Trying to kill your husband *multiple times* with cookies his daughter supposedly baked? That takes balls. Or ovaries, in this case. Either way, it’s something else, ya know? This is beyond whacked, even for the crazy world we live in. This bitch makes Livia look like Mother Teresa. She gave “family dinner” a whole new meaning. Fuhgeddaboudit.