I think we should start naming laws after people we wish were dead. First up: Nancy Grace.
The genetic drift who wallowed in this vulgar spectacle are probably the same ones who stayed glued to the screen during the previous O.J., Jonbenet and Laci prolefeed sessions. Also probably the same ones who left boquets at the Buckingham Palace gates in 1997.
I'm with Jennifer Abel on the whole Casey Anthony thing:
I do not condone the killing of toddlers, especially not cute ones, but anything that makes Nancy Grace so pissed off must have something going for it. And if Grace and a certain few I know in real life work themselves into a fatal stroke or aneurysm over this -- hope springs eternal -- I'm getting a sex-change operation and converting to Catholicism solely so I can work my way up to Pope and nominate Casey Anthony for sainthood.
Preferably the aneurism will be the explosive kind where red jelly squirts out of Nancy "Crooked Prosecutor" Grace's eye sockets, she falls down and starts frenetically drumming her feet on the floor, and shits her pants. You know, like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner, only with red jelly and pants-shitting.
If the Nancy Grace Show emitted deadly radiation that gave brain cancer to everyone watching it, it would set the gene pool ahead 200 years.
Update: I got sent this sketch in response. Skip it if you're on Ritalin. Otherwise, check it out.