Over the last several months, there’s been a rash of brutal murders in and around Tijuana, Mexico. American females in their twenties, who often cross the border from San Diego to party for the weekend, are the primary targets, although occasionally some youthful ladies in their thirties have found themselves victims. The women are savagely beaten, then spun about inside a giant hamster ball until they pass out, and then have their noses plugged gently until they stop breathing altogether.
Media outlets have dubbed the perpetrator “the T.J. Killer”, much to the dismay of Los Angeles-based comedian T.J. Miller. After a series of threats directed at him on Twitter, followed by a series of bricks thrown through his garden-level kitchen window, Miller has been forced to repeatedly deny that he is the man¹ behind the horrific acts. According to jim², “It wouldn’t make sense for me to drive down there every weekend. That’s when I’m doing shows. Do you want to look up my tour dates? I was in Montreal that day you’re talking about!”
As we all know, only calculating serial killers trying to cover their tracks would have such a tight alibi for their whereabouts, complete with calendars and other such knick-knacks, so I paddywack his hand away when he sticks his day planner in front of me.
For now, Miller is only a prime suspect, but the more dead girls found, the more likely it is that he will be discovered to be at the very least a copycat killer, resigned to continue the deeds of his predecessor once the accusations numbered high enough that, “hell, I might as well do the things they say I’m doing.”
While this logic is certainly flawed, you’ve never been blamed for a murder before, so maybe this is the only way out for him. Last I heard, Miller had crossed into Panama to continue his spree, all the while having a doppelgänger assume his identity while supporting comedian Ed Bundy throughout his European tour.
¹ Or woman! or women! or womyn!
² [Author’s note: “Jim” is how Mexicans spell “him”]
[Author’s friend’s note: Last night I was telling a girl that the new song that should be taught as the appropriate tempo for CPR is “Come On Eileen” (110 bpm) instead of “Stayin’ Alive” (104 bpm) since the American Heart Association updated its guidelines. As I’m telling the story, TJ Miller came to the party, and she says, loudly “omg is that TJ Miller!” and I said “Shut up, no one cares, what I’m telling you could save a life” and he heard me and shot me a dirty look. And I said “maybe your life” to him. Then he left the party.]
[Editor’s note: This stemmed from a dream in which Mr. Miller committed a murder purely for the comedic value of the “T.J. Killer” newspaper headerline, so it still fits the monthly theme.]