Rosie DiManno sucks. Every day, poor Toronto Star readers are subjected to another over-the-top, awkwardly-written, occasionally-insulting column about the day’s top depressing story from the purple-streaked purveyor of pulp. Torontoist, for one, can’t take it anymore.
One hundred and sixty-nine days, since jury selection began in the first-degree murder trial of Richard Wills.
Two thousand and eighty-three days since Linda Mariani – perhaps still breathing, we’ll never know for sure – was stuffed into a plastic garbage canister and entombed behind a basement wall, which the defendant admits doing.
One thousand, nine hundred and seventy-one days since the victim’s body was discovered by police, summoned by Wills, the trash bin-cum-sepulchre helpfully removed from its niche and waiting at the bottom of the cellar staircase.
Yesterday morning, finally, mercifully, the case went to the jury. Gathering up their documents and transcripts, a tall heap of paper, the six men and six women dutifully departed for deliberations without a backward glance, Wills’ hungry eyes following them out the door. Otherwise, the defendant remained – unusually for him – immobile, soft hands clasped in his lap, nary a face-twitch nor a neck rotation nor a snotty snort.
4/6 DIMANNOS (The more DiMannos, the worse the column is.)
How do you measure, measure a year? If you’re Rosie DiManno, you do it in trash bins, in soft hands, in maybe-he-did maybe-he-didn’t live burials (Happy Halloween!), and in “snotty snorts” (what the fuck? seriously, what the fuck). Just be thankful that we didn’t quote the part of the article where DiManno, talking about Wills’s lawyers, says that “He’d gone through a bunch of `em, all cha-ching billing the Ministry of the Attorney General.” Cha-ching indeed, Ms. DiManno.