Multiple murderer O.J. Simpson had a book and television deal underway in Nov. 2006 for a tome he penned called “If I Did It”, which purported to tell HIS theory on who who killed his ex-wife Nicole and waiter Ron Goldman. Yeah, breathe slowly in through your nose and out through your mouth to deal with the nausea. Only in America can you almost make bank off having slaughtered a couple of people – one of them being the mother of your children. Anyway, that got the kibosh when someone with taste stepped in. TMZ has gotten ahold of the manuscript and it’s about as vomitous you would think a memoir by someone who got away with double murder and is trying to cast himself as the hero would be.
I’m going to tell you a story you’ve never heard before, because no one knows this story the way I know it. It takes place on the night June 12, 1994, and it concerns the murder of my ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her young friend, Ronald Goldman. I want you to forget everything you think you know about that night because I know the facts better than anyone. I know the players. I’ve seen the evidence. I’ve heard the theories. And, of course, I’ve read all the stories: That I did it. That I did it but I don’t know I did it. That I can no longer tell fact from fiction. That I wake up in the middle of the night, consumed by guilt, screaming.
Is that a confession? America? America. Keep reading for the part where he’s covered in blood which I’m sure is supposed to be metaphoric but we all know he was chopping off heads left and right.
Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened, but I can’t tell you exactly how. I was still standing in Nicole’s courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there, when I’d arrived, or even why I was there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital-with little Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping balls into my neighbor’s yard; Paula, angry, not answering her phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly shit about Nicole’s behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive from Rockingham to the Bundy condo. And now? Now I was standing in Nicole’s courtyard, in the dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I couldn’t get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of me was covered in blood, but it didn’t compute. Is this really blood? I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?
No, but you should be.