F*** O.J.

O.J. Simpson arrives for his parole hearing at Lovelock Correctional Centre in Lovelock, Nevada, U.S. July 20, 2017. REUTERS/Jason Bean/POOL

Fuck O.J..

He’s out on parole after nine years. Now “The Juice” is loose.

I could care less.

I’ve been through this dog-and-pony show before.

The murder case. The Bronco chase. Kato. Ito. The gloves. “If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit.”

Wanna know why there’s a glut of cable news networks? Thank O.J..

I watched five seconds of the hearing on Facebook. On mute. I didn’t want to hear how he’s been in jail. I didn’t want to hear why he felt he should be out. I didn’t care one way or another whether he’d make parole or stay in jail.

Wherever he goes, I hope he stays low. Of course, TMZ and the like will follow him like a hawk and try to make news out of everything he does.

I wish they wouldn’t.

I don’t care where he lives. I don’t care where he plays golf. I don’t care where he eats. I don’t even care who’s the next blond socialite he’s dating.

He’s seventy years old. I just want him to live out his days. And when he finally takes last breath, I don’t need to see the coverage. Let his family bury him in a private ceremony and we all go about our business.

I get that some have been obsessed about O.J. and his trials since the nineties. They probably watched and hung on to every word of that parole hearing. Fine, I get it. But just stay away from me.

I don’t want your opinion. I don’t care how you feel one way or another. If you really want to know what I think, it comes down to two words.

Fuck O.J..

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