Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, let's talk about The Pyramids of Giza.
Now, common knowledge states that these were tombs and monuments built thousands of years ago by ancient Egyptians. But, given the immense complexity of the processes needed to cut, move, and stack the stones, it is impossible to think that a primitive society could complete such a task.
No, they must have gotten help from someone else. From something else. And that “thing,” Ladies and Gentlemen? That thing murdered my wife.
Don’t believe me? Let’s break it down. The Pyramids were built using 4000-pound stones, which were raised 400 feet into the air. You want me to believe a person did that? In 10,500 BC? No. No, sir. That takes cunning. The same type of cunning needed to pick up a kitchen knife and stab my wife in the sternum thirty-seven times.
Now, the prosecution is going to try and tell you that years of trauma to my skull as a professional linebacker caused me to become violent and fixated on alien conspiracies. But, I think it is important to remember—and I can't stress this enough—I do not recognize the authority of the US government or the district attorneys who are representing them here today.
And sure, we could debate who killed whose wife all month in here, and we have. But, that’s not what this murder trial is about. Well, it is, but only in a literal sense.
I’m here before you, a jury of my peers, to ask the question: What is a peer? I’ll tell you what it’s not—an alien. An alien like the ones who built the pyramids and murdered my wife.
But why her, you ask? Why murder my wife, specifically? Well, who's to say… Maybe they heard her talking one time.
I don't know. I’m just one man with just one dead wife as far as anyone here knows. This is about the big picture. Society. The Universe. Everyone’s dead wives.
Look around this courtroom today. Look to your right. Look to your left. One of these people is an extraterrestrial. And, if you don’t believe me: just try stabbing them. Just take out your car keys and stab them right now.
I can wait.
Here's a question: if aliens don't exist, then why do I keep hearing them whisper things inside my head? That, ladies and gentleman, is something I plan to bring up again during appeals.
And sure, the judge may say this is all “outside the scope of the trial”—but who are you gonna listen to? Me, or this fuckin' alien judge? Sorry, your honor.
Now, when I first announced that I was planning to act as my own attorney, I was widely mocked by the news media. But, as I look around this courtroom here today, I know in my heart that I'm killing it. Just like I killed my w—nothing. Never mind.
Getting back to the issue at hand. I realize at this point that the jury has been instructed to ignore large chunks of the testimony in my defense, so allow me to recap:
On the night of January 15, aliens flew to earth, murdered my wife, then returned to their home planet—but not before they stole my clothes, soaked them in my wife’s blood and then put them back in the trunk of my car.
In summary, whatever the verdict, I ask only that it be delivered quickly as I’m supposed to be appearing in a different courtroom later today to explain why the Illuminati made me rob a Marshall’s.