If you try to kill your wife without a plan, you will fail.
There are plenty of assholes who do just that, men who decide to murder their significant other on the spur of the moment because they’re angry or drunk or jealous or just plain tired of the nagging or they don’t want to go through the hassle of a divorce, and they get caught. They always get caught. There are plenty of wife killers moldering in prison, spending their days staring at the cement walls and playing basketball and doing a whole lotta nothing, wishing they hadn’t done that Google search on how to kill someone and git away with it on their home computer so all the cops had to do was look at their browser history and then—BAM!—dead man walking.
Or these men will wish they hadn’t done it in their home, right in the bedroom so there was blood left all over the mattress and walls, and the cops were able to swab it right up, trace evidence left every which way, no matter how much bleach these guys splashed around or how many times they ran the Shop-Vac. These men end up wishing they would’ve left their wives instead, strapped on their sneaks and vanished, disappeared into another city, changed their name and found some other woman to shack up with. There’s not a better place in the world to start a new life than good old ’murica, any fifth grader with a history book can tell you that.
But these guys still think they can get away with it. But they’ll also tell anyone who’ll listen that they love their wives. We’re soul mates, it was love at first sight, I couldn’t possibly have done it because how would I live without her? But these men manage to live, oh yes they do, they dab their tears at first, they promise there will be vengeance, they lock themselves away from curious eyes. But then, after a while, they start showing up at Red Lobster on Friday nights with a new woman. They sell their wife’s car, they jam her clothes in black lawn bags and take them down to Goodwill. They move on too fast, and if it wasn’t a witness that tripped up their scheme, or the bloodstains left on the carpet, or their suspicious internet searches, this will get them caught. They’ll paint themselves right into a corner, so when the cops come knocking, grinning and twirling the handcuffs, it’s not all that much of a surprise—except to them, maybe. Most criminals don’t have much in the way of gray matter in their upstairs, and that’s likely why they ended up as criminals to begin with.
And let’s be honest here. When a woman is murdered, it’s probably the husband. It’s almost always the husband. Hell, anyone with basic cable and the slightest interest in the melodrama of true crime knows it. A woman is killed, her husband is the first suspect. And with good reason. Men kill their wives, women kill their husbands—you can’t be tied to someone for any significant amount of time without at least considering knocking them over the skull with a baseball bat. And it’s nothing new. The same thing’s been happening since the beginning of time, and it’ll keep on until the very end.
So here’s the thing: if you want to kill your wife, don’t. Don’t kill her, don’t touch her. Ditch the bitch if you have to, get on with your life. Or make it work. But kill her? Nope. You want the opposite of Nike’s advice: Just don’t do it. Because sooner or later, no matter how careful you think you’ve been, you’ll get caught.