Crystal is always here (except when she’s being a cougar about town, showing the young women of today how to grind up against the guys) to help answer your problems. Our agony aunt-come-psychic knows best when it comes to problems …
Dear Crystal,
I’ve just stabbed my husband 47 times with a carving knife after he tried to order me around one too many times. Whether it was telling me to stop overreacting or ordering me to put the carving knife away before someone got hurt, that old idiot used to nag, nag, nag me all day long. The upshot is it’s left me in a bit of trouble in terms of disposing of the body. Then I remembered a court case in the ‘70s when a certain young Sydney socialite called Crystal Balls was accused of murdering her millionaire husband, but they never found the body and therefore couldn’t prove a thing. How did you do it?
Yours Margaret
Dear Margaret,
Well I’m shocked that those scandalous rumours and lies are still hounding me all these decades later when I was cleared in a court of law on all charges (apart from the one about arranging an illegal monkey knife fight – how was I to know you needed a permit?) I loved my husband dearly and his vicious and bloody disappearance (not murder, definitely not murder) still wounds me to this day. But – hypothetically speaking if I had to ditch the body of a 63-year-old Wall Street stockbroker whose snoring used to drive me into a murderous rage, then it doesn’t do any harm to perform sexual favours on the nightwatchman at Taronga Zoo in exchange for access to the lion cage. You can fill in the blanks yourself. Then you’re free to spend your beloved husband’s millions on creating a free magazine called BBM so you can insult people who like horoscopes. It’s the perfect crime.
Dear Crystal,
I suspect my foul uncle Claudius of poisoning my father the king in order to steal his crown and take his wife as his own. But what plotteth can I conceive to unravel his scheme and bring judgment on his head. I must have justice dear crone, I must know if he be capable of such foulness. Tell me, what must I do to have mine vengeance? No deed is too black to slake mine thirst for his bloody reckoning.
Yours, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.
Dear Hamlet,
Did you just call me a crone? You cheeky git. So you’re saying you think your uncle knocked off your dad so he could become king of Denmark and shag your mum? But you’re not sure so you’re asking me for help to find proof. That’s a tough old pickle you’re in there. Tell you what; I reckon it’d be a good idea to stage a play in your uncle’s honour that replicates the exact events of which this Claudius bloke is accused. Keep an eye on him, and if he flinches or looks shocked, you know he’s guilty. Now that’s an awesome plot – what could possibly go wrong?