A Hypothetical Example:
So let's say this hypothetical Internet comedy writer is in the washroom, cramming poison into a mini-quiche, when the door opens, and in comes the victim's cardiologist, his learned eyes quickly diagnosing what's happening.
He's not mad. Just disappointed.
"I hope you're about to eat that yourself," he hoped.
"Derrrr," our hypothetical perfect criminal derrred, noticing that his Perfect Crime was becoming decidedly less perfecter. The doctor leaned in to examine the hypothetical bottle of poison that I, uh, someone else was hypothetically holding.
"Because that old slipping-someone-a-laxative prank is illegal," the doctor said. "And dangerous."
"Laxative?" Our hypothetical hero asked.
"Tegaserod is a powerful laxative. A banned one, too; it causes an increased risk of cardiac problems in people with pre-existing conditions. Were you down behind the old van factory recently?"
"Increased risk, like from 0 to 100 percent?" our perfect murderer hypothetically asked.
"If you're healthy, it's probably not that much of a risk at all," the doctor hypothetically responded. "Though I wouldn't eat i-" he stopped, mouth agape, as I hypothetically ate it.
"Thank you, doctor," our hero hypothetically thanked the doctor. "You've provided the perfect solution." Lunging past the doctor's shocked expression, our perfect criminal strode out into the middle of the party and stood there, both legs spread just a little farther apart than normal, a determined expression on his face.
Frank dickishly rushed up a couple of minutes later.
Not even hypothetically this time. Provably, repeatably, confirmed by multiple independent studies, a dick.
"What the hell are you doing?" he dicked. "My doctor just told me you're planning to shit my party? You have to get out of here. Or at least get off the carpet."
"Nope. This is happening, Frank. Although you might live, your precious carpet will not. And best of all? It will all be just an unfortunate accident. The perfect crime!"
Frank hypothetically lunged back, aghast at my levels of criminal mastermindery.
And then a few seconds later aghast at something else entirely.
Anyway, a few days later, he did end up suing me for several thousand dollars' worth of mental stress, carpet cleaning, and mental cleaning, but that was technically a civil action, not a criminal case, which is basically a loophole, or certainly good enough for me. So there you go: The perfect crime isn't a crime at all.
Chris Bucholz is a Cracked columnist and can be found most nights down behind the old van factory. Join him on Facebook or Twitter and beg him to reconsider his life choices.
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