MFM Minisode 501

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Everything has to be cute, but also I'm old and I want comfortable shoes. So I feel like the Neptunes are the perfect answer to that. Yeah, I love how cushy they are. They're like, they go with everything. They're really cute, but your feet are like on little clouds. Check out the Neptune on Reef.com and redeem 15% off your first purchase. Goodbye. Bye-bye. Hello and welcome to My Favorite Murder, the mini-sode. Let's do it. Let's read emails from the world. You go first. Okay. This email is a response email. It's a thing I said one time. We love those ones. And the subject line of this email is, What? That's from the Kentucky meat shower, right? Yes, I believe so. I think they say it here. It starts, Hello, lovely ladies. I've been listening since well before COVID. And then in parentheses, it says, Not quite day one, but close enough to feel like we're friends. That's nice. I like it. We're COVID friends. I thought about writing in so many times. Then I heard episode 539, It Keeps Getting Ruined. And Karen asked if Transylvania University was actually real. That's my alma mater. So naturally, I had to shoot my shot. Transylvania University is a real, tiny, liberal arts school in Lexington, Kentucky, with only about 1,100 students. Wow. It was founded in 1780, making it the first university west of the Appalachians. And despite what every person I've ever met immediately asks, no, Dracula did not attend. Why is it called that? Hold on. Okay. The name comes from the Latin Transylvam, meaning across the woods. Okay. Transylvam. When the school was founded, Kentucky was basically one giant forest. Nothing creepy in those woods. Nope. Everything is non-cryptoid. Camp away. Let's keep going. Now, for the fun part. Every student quickly learns about Constantine Samuel Raffinesque, an absolutely brilliant naturalist, botanist, and by all accounts, an eccentric menace. Yes. Right? Love that. Legend says that he was so angry after leaving the university that he cursed the school. That's my energy entirely. Hell yeah. Naturally, instead of just letting go, alumni decided decades later the best solution was to dig him up and bring him back to campus. This is Shades of Widow's Bay. Wow. Today, he's entombed inside Old Morris and our main administration building. That's like, yeah, he got bit by that animal and then he became that animal. He became the animal. Every relationship I've ever had. Except there's a very real possibility they dug up the wrong person. What? Shit, I should have kept dreaming. This keeps getting better. Now, no one's entirely sure the remains in the tomb are actually Raffinesque's, which somehow makes the whole story even better. Very true. We embrace the weird. Every October, there's Raff Week. Students can enter a raffle to spend Halloween night sleeping in the tomb. Oh, my God. Our campus cafe is called the Raffskeller, and our mascot is Raffinesque's big-eared bat. They just, like, double down on saying fuck you to him. Yes. Like, triple down. They're like, we'll move your body wherever we want. Yeah. We're going to theme you out like Mickey Mouse. We're going to name everything after you. Get ready. If cursed professors aren't enough, the campus is also forever connected to the tragic 1961 murder of student Betty Gail Brown. She was killed after leaving a late-night study session, and despite decades of investigation, it's still one of Kentucky's most infamous unsolved murders. Oh, my God. Walking past Old Morrison at night definitely hits it a little differently once you know the history. Oh, and because apparently the universe decided one bizarre story wasn't enough for our little school, our library became the site of the infamous 2004 rare book heist. Remember, I did this. You did? The rare book heist that ensued. It inspired the movie American Animals. Wait, will you check if I did it? I'm looking right now. I could have just seen that movie. You should do it. Damn it. Like, write it down to do it if you haven't. I think I did because it was, remember, it was like the boys that kept going in to ask to look at the books that were behind the glass? I'm going to say yes, and then Molly's going to say you didn't cover it, and I'm going to look the stupidest. And then, that's right. That's how I do it, is that I put my ass out there, but yours is the one in the sling. That's right. That's right. Yours is the one in the jackpot. Okay. Karen, I'm not seeing that you covered it, but I'm going to keep checking. How dare you accuse me? I knew that. I shouldn't say that I knew what you were talking about, is what I'm saying. Can someone call Steven? We're texting him now. No, leave poor Steven alone. Don't think we won't. The idea that this show has been going on so long, that the memory is reality, what we've watched, what we've seen, what we've talked about casually. 500-something episodes. Almost 500. 750 episodes. We're not going to remember anything. Well, and also, we remember everything. So, it's like, it's all the old book heist. But, you know, now I realize I watched the movie. Was it good? I think I watched it on a plane. It was good. Well, it's just crazy, because they, you know, those heisters and their logic. Let's have a heist girl summer. Mm-hmm. Heist girl summer. Yes. Okay. Bottle clavos, fucking stealing people's shit and driving away. It's SPF. It's UV. It's UV. Is that the coverage of balaclava? Opera gloves. Yeah. Balaclavas. Really bright lipstick. And, like, bikini. Yes. Okay. Sorry. That's spring breakers. That's true. Oh, shit. You're right. Okay. Do-do-do. So, yes, our tiny liberal arts college somehow produced a Hollywood crime film. So, to answer your question, yes, Transylvania University is very real. For a school with barely 1,100 students, we've managed to accumulate a cursed professor, a possible case of mistaken remains. Inside the administration building, an unsolved murder, a multi-million dollar rare book heist, and a name that makes everyone immediately ask about vampires. Anyway, thanks for giving me an excuse to finally write in again. If you ever need more weird, transy stories, I guess they call it transy. Okay. I've got plenty. SSDGM, Jay, she, her, Transylvania University, class of 2006. And here is a picture of himself, Constantine Samuel Rafinesque. Wow. That's the man. That's the man that they moved the body and put him in the administration building. He looks like a thumb. They look like they drew a thumb and then drew his picture on a thumb. To me, it looks like he's done so much reading that his eyes are moving around his head like a flounder. He's turning into, what's it called? He's morphing into a book. He got bit by a book and then he's turning into a book. He's morphing for easier reading capabilities. Okay. Love it. Good job. Thank you. Okay. Good job, Jay. Let's start. Yeah. Is it weird that I'm like, I bet that college would have accepted me if I had like, you know. I would have been accepted at Transylvania University. Someone at Transylvania would have, oh God, what if we got a fucking honorary diploma from Transylvania University? For being creeps? We major in being creeps. That would be rad. Okay. Hey, friends. Back in the glory days of 2003-ish, my mom was going through what she needed. Now lovingly. first to ask her middle-aged crazy, a.k.a. she was post-divorce and really into cheap vodka and dudes on motorcycles. This is very Erin Brockovich-y. I bet she's like 39, right? Yeah, you mean when this is happening? Yeah. Yeah. I was a disaffected 15-year-old with my first cell phone and an addiction to AOL Instant Messenger. What a time. My mom was dating one particular shithead with a motorcycle, and the two of them enjoyed going out for long rides on the weekend. What else were they doing? You're not my dad, Randy. My dad was a flight attendant, so I was expected to watch my 11-year-old brother most nights they went out. This particular evening, my mom made sure to tell me that they were going to a movie after their ride and probably wouldn't have their cell phones on, so I should call my dad if I needed anything. Being a teenager, I rolled my eyes or gave her some equally asshole response, and they were on their way. An hour or so later, I was chatting on AIM while my brother watched the Tom Green show. Oh, my God. Yeah. And we were drinking jolt cola. Right. When suddenly my cell phone started to ring. The number was blocked, and as I was a sweet summer child who still believed in answering the phone at all times, much less unknown numbers, I picked up. I said hello and was greeted with the lowest, most gravelly voice I'd ever heard. I've been waiting. I know you're alone. I'm in the backyard. I screamed and immediately hung up the phone and like a good baby murderino, locked the bedroom door. Smart. Even though I was freaked out, I knew it was likely one of my friends messing with me. I quickly sent AIM chats to all my closest friends demanding that they admit they'd call me, but they swore over and over that it wasn't them. Meanwhile, my phone was blowing the fuck up. I answered it a few more times, trying to convince the person on the other end to give up the gag, but the threats continued. I'm on your porch now. I have a knife. Fuck. It was then that my brother and I heard banging on the sliding glass door downstairs, followed by scraping along the walls at the back of the house. Our backyard was basically a big forest that cushioned us from another neighborhood. Very easy for someone to hide out back there. At this point, I was sobbing, calling my mom, dad, and even the shithead boyfriend only to get their voicemails. I was convinced I was about to be murdered and had no idea what to do. The phone kept ringing, so my sweet angel baby brother yelled at me to call the cops and get in the closet. He's 11. I watched as he darted down the hall and grabbed the shitty, boyfriend's hunting rifle from under the bed. 11. Oh. And he closed the bedroom door again and sat there staring at it with the gun pointed directly at it. The 911 operator, who had been talking me off a ledge, told me to peek out my bedroom window and I would see a patrol car pulling up with no lights on. Sure enough, an officer was sneaking up my driveway to assess the situation. About a minute later, the operator explained that everything was okay and that I should go down to the driveway to talk to the officer. Scared shitless but wanting to follow directions, my brother and I walked down the stairs to find my mother. She and her boyfriend were drunk off their asses and trying to explain why they'd been pretending to be murderers in the backyard for the last hour. The shitty boyfriend had been using a rake against the walls to create the creepy noises, and mom had turned her phone off so we'd get her voicemail when we called. Everyone could have killed her. Everybody. The cops, the brother. Is that a valid? I mean, I'm so furious. What in the fuck are you doing? Totally. Go to AA, you fucking weirdo. My brother called both of them bitches, his favorite part of the story, and stomped back upstairs while I sat there, basically apoplectic. Apoplectic? Apoplectic. That's a tough one. Yeah. And sobbing. My mom walked over to comfort me, but my crying made her laugh so hard that she, no shit, almost peed herself and had to walk away. This isn't, this is not called trash, trash mom, and it should be. It isn't? No. You'd think she'd feel bad about it, but to this day, my mom can't tell that story without laughing until she hears it here. Your mom is a sociopath. I love reminding her of how she turned me into a neurotic weirdo who always locks her fucking doors and how her insane antics are going to fill my memoir one of these days. That's fucking right. Thank you for everything you do. If you're ever in ATL, Atlanta, facials are on me. Whoa, yes. I know. Stay sexy. And avoid the middle-aged crazy, Amy. Well, I mean, that, I forgot about Amy's mom, basically, at the beginning was like, hey, I was going through some stuff. Yeah. But that is torture. Yeah. And I also, is it wrong to admit that I have a crush on that 11-year-old boy that went, I'm going to go get the fucking gun? He knew what he was doing. And then calling them bitches. See, 11 in 2003, that was 23 years ago. So that means he's 34. Perfect for me. Because that's a, that's a, that's a boy who got turned into a man that day. That's right. And that probably never stopped where he's like, these bitches are in charge. Now I have to be in charge. Totally. And he took care of his older sister. So obviously he knows what he's doing. Yes. Match made in heaven. I mean, this is, this is what, you know, the bad parenting begets, which is hyper responsible and handling. You stay here. I'm going to go get the gun. Totally. Also like lock your guns up, people. Lock your boyfriend. Lock your boyfriend's guns up when your children are so many things. Don't be in the seventies socializing with fucking hell's angels or whatever the fuck it was you were doing. It was 2003. Yeah. Oh, no excuse. That's bad. Capture your favorite summer feeling with Pandora jewelry. Discover a collection inspired by the sunshine, freedom, and unforgettable moments that make the season so special. 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I was listening to Miniso 299 about that poor fraud rep who was expected to out the guy with the sex work credit card charges to his wife when Karen said, quote, if anything you're about to do is going to make the customer cry, that goes upstairs. And I thought, do you remember that? I don't know what you're talking about. It was basically like, tell the manager before you blow it up. And they say, and I thought I'd share some tips. Oh, my God. So, Karen nailed it. Most customer service reps do not get paid enough to deal with this shit. But guess who does? Up there sitting at the top of those proverbial stairs. That'd be me. I'm a customer service manager at a small town bank. I manage a team of tellers, and I tell them the same thing Karen said. You don't get paid enough. If a client is escalating, tag me in. Nice. And then you tag in the 11-year-old boy with the shotgun. A woman came in already in tears. Her husband had taken her debit card and kicked her out of the house. And she wanted to know if she could just withdraw some cash. She said, he's just not very nice. And looked away with tears rolling down her face. I took her to my desk, reviewed her account, and in my perky as customer service voice said, well, looky here. You are listed as the second account owner on your joint account, meaning you have full authority to do anything with the account that you need. We closed the account, issued her a check made payable only to her, used it to open an account with only her name on it, got her own debit card, gave her $1,000 in cash, and called her a cab to the next town over where her sister lived. Fuck yes. And that's the end of the story, right? And goodbye. She had no more tears going out the door. But guess who had big, fat crocodile tears the next day when he stumbled in wondering why his card wasn't working. That's right. He was crying because how could he live without her paycheck? Who was going to pay his bills? Then he said, quote, she never thinks of the consequences when she does stupid shit like that. She never thinks of the consequences when she does stupid shit like this. End quote. When I was unmoved by his tears, he turned them off like a faucet and stormed out the door. Of course. Thank you, ladies, for all you do. Good. I thought the lady was a scammer. Nope. Not at all. I think it was basically like the customer service people who actually give real needed customer service. Love it. Stay sexy and maybe don't be a money-grubbing douche canoe. Oh, and be kind to customer service personnel. Sarah. Love it. Yeah. Perfect. This is a side hustle, children's side hustle. Oh, yes. Hello, all. You asked for stories about late confessions, late in life confessions. Perhaps this story will tickle your fancy. I was in grade nine when I realized that I could forge my mom's signature. All of a sudden, I wasn't skipping class. I had an excused absence. The kicker to all this, my mom taught at the same high school I attended. I would hand in the notes with her signature on it and no one in the office would question it. That's a fucking dangerous game you're playing. That's sloppy. Well, but also, yeah, it would literally take one of this, like, huh, just a light curiosity to be, like, comparing this. Hey, Joan, could you just write your signature in here for me? Andrea called out again today, Joan. Every time I brought my report card home, my mom would comment about not remembering that many absences, but she never followed up on it. One day, a friend asked if I could forge her parents' signature. She got me a sample, I practiced a few times, and my high school side hustle was born. For a mere $5 and a sample signature, I could get my friends out of class or sign a disciplinary note that had been sent home or give permission to attend a field trip. I kept it fairly low-key as to not get caught, but I made a nice little sum for it over the four years. Holy shit. $5 a signature, maybe, like, a couple a month. I wonder what, like, the blah she's breaking is. Like, for example, like, in Law & Order, they're always like, this is a RICO case or whatever. What is that? I guess forgery? Forgery. But under 18, a teenager, they probably don't give a shit, right? They're just going to scare them. It's just a field trip. Yeah. To the morgue. To the liquor store. To the Mormon missionary. My sister got my mom's signature down so hard. She used to do it for us. Of course she did. Uh-huh. About six or seven years after I graduated, my short stint living the life of a criminal long forgotten, and my mom retired, the two of us went for lunch. She had recently had surgery on her right hand, so when the credit card receipt needed to be signed, she passed it over to me. She was in the middle of telling me not to worry about how it looked because she'd notify the company about the surgery when I, out of habit, did my perfect forgery of her signature. She took one look at the signed receipt and demanded to know how long I had been able to sign her name. I watched the pieces fall into place after I told her I first did in grade nine. She said, I knew I'd never signed you out of that many classes. Yeah. Since then, I've continued to sign things for her when she just doesn't feel like it. The number of times. The number of birthday checks I've signed for myself and my siblings should probably get me into some sort of legal trouble, but my mom's hands are shaky now and she doesn't want to lose her backup, so she'll never squeal. Cheers, Andrea. She, her. Andrea, that is perfection. Yeah. Because also that's the kind of, I feel like we're out of that age in the tech age that we're in. Right. That truly feels like a Little House on the Prairie story. Totally. I remember when you had to forge signatures and your parents wouldn't even know, or like it's a report card. They never knew came. It's like driving stick shift. Like you won't need that and forging signatures until the end days. Yeah. But they're going to come in handy again someday. I learned the other day that Vince doesn't know how to drive stick shift and I, I kind of was like. You got the ick? No, I was just like, I thought I knew you. Oh, yeah. It's a brand. Oh, your whole relationship, you're going to have new discoveries. Isn't that wonderful? Yeah. 13 years in and I'm still. You're like, what? I was very shocked. I'm really good at teaching people how to drive stick. If he ever needs. Okay, great. And days we're going to come over. Yes, exactly. We'll mount a nice machine gun on the top. We'll get the, we'll get the little brothers in the back with his fucking. Yep. We'll tape him to the front. Mad Max style. 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Hey, you guys. Greetings from Wisconsin. So this is going to be good. You love kooky grandparent stories. You love treasure. You asked for deathbed treasure hunts in Minnesota 474, and this story has it all. Let me introduce you to my Grandpa Randall, whom I affectionately call, and this kind of ruined it for me, but we're going to power through it, Grampy. Grampy was the true definition of a self-made man. He rode bucking broncos. He rode bucking broncos in the rodeo. He had his pilot's license. He was a business owner twice over, all on just an eighth-grade education. Wow. See, we're like Grampy. He loved telling us stories of his childhood in the 40s, like how his parents gave chickens to the local hospital to settle a medical test. Oh, my God. Amazing. Is that so funny? I just picture, like, I picture them giving them to the medical center to become doctors, and then the chickens had little, like, doctor's hats on and little stethoscopes. And they become the doctor. They're not food. They become the doctor. Yeah, that's right. We got to get these guys in training. That's right. We need more help in x-ray. Okay, so, or how they would trade car parts from their salvage yard for tattoos. Amazing. Even see it. I have him to thank for my love of true crime. I can remember spending my many childhood sleepovers at Grammy and Grampy's curled up in the living room. Oh, it makes more sense with Grammy. Yeah, it sounds gross. We can't have a freestanding Grampy. It's just too. It's sick. Yeah. Curled up in the living room eating peach rings and cheese popcorn. Damn. And watching true crime classics like Forensic Files and Dateline. He was quick with a joke and even quicker to tell us he loved us. Sadly, we lost him in 2019. About a year after his passing, I was sitting at my grandma's kitchen table drinking coffee when Grammy abruptly blurted out, Have I told you about your grandpa's hidden stash? Huh? I asked. No, but I need to know. Then she proceeded to tell me this story. A few months after he died, Grammy had finally worked up the courage to go through some of Grampy's belongings. When she was cleaning out his wallet, tucked in the very back was a piece of paper folded up with her name on it. Upon unfolding it, she was confused to find a rough drawn outline of their home. Oh, my God. As she examined it closer, she realized it was a treasure map. X marks the spot and all. After a quick hunt, she located the stash in the utility room next to the water heater. And tucked into the wall behind a loose piece of insulation was a Ziploc bag stuffed with cash. No! Yes. Over the decade that they had lived there, he had squirreled away over $6,000. Holy shit! Safe to say, when she moved out that summer, she turned that place inside out, making sure there wasn't another hidden stash. There wasn't. Thanks for keeping me company and adding some joy to the otherwise mundane tasks of life. Stay sexy and hug your grandparents, Robin. She, her. Oh, my God. That is amazing. I am going to make Vince, we're both going to buy each other a present, hide a map in case one of us dies. Yes. Right? Post-death surprises and pranks. I love that. It's really sweet. It's like so sweet. It's really a lovely. Cash is great, too. Cash is amazing. Yeah. But then any kind of like, hey, I was thinking of you before I left. Before I left this mortal coil. I love it. Yes. Okay, my last one is called Little Sister Lore. Yes. Hi, friends, long-time listener and lifetime older sister here. I've spent the last 10 plus years trying to get my little sister, Mandy, to listen to your show simply because you guys get the dynamic we have. It's exhausting being right all the time. Mandy is the best kind of person, a con artist in her past life with the biggest heart. When we were 10 and 12-ish back in the 90s, we'd go to Costco with our parents every week. We weren't allowed to be left alone in the Aerostar after we thought it would be funny one time to hide under the seats when our parents came home. and back from shopping, making them think we were kidnapped. Yes. When the kids do it, it's funny. When the parents, no. And then it says, whoops. In the store, I'd spend the whole time in the book section while my parents shopped and Mandy would be my shadow. One day when it came time to check out, a worker approached our family and told us to come to the manager's office where it was revealed that my tiny, sweet Mandy shoplifted an electronic translator. The 90s. The worker accused both of us of being in on it, and my no-bullshit Filipina nurse mother immediately said, no, I know this one, pointing to me, her eldest. Didn't do it. It had to be my younger daughter. She knew us and immediately set the story straight, and she was right. I was none the wiser wanting to read. Mandy was a sneaky kid who saw a translator system knowing I wanted to learn a new language and wanted to steal it for me. So criminally sweet. We had to abandon the humor. She had a huge cart of groceries. They wouldn't even let them check out. We're going to get fucking toilet paper in bulk. I mean, and also just don't punish the mother or the older sister. Totally. Mandy was banned from Costco for a whole year. She did it at Costco? Yeah. And she had to write an apology letter to the store. It's extreme. Dear hot dogs, I'm so sorry. Our family still laughs about this today because while Mandy avoided a life of crime, she never stopped being the creative considerate. And fearless woman, only little sisters can be. Aww. That's right. I know you both talk a lot about your role as younger sisters. And while us elders can be bossy, deep down, we love you more than any book, fancy new gadget, or cart full of wholesale priced goods. Plus, I think the funniest people in the world are baby sisters. Sorry, Laura and Leah, but it's true. It is true. Thank you. That's an official older sister vote. Hell yeah. It's why this podcast is my favorite breath of comedic fresh air. Oh, my God. Eat that, Laura and Leah. Laura's like, I don't know that you're saying that because I don't listen to this podcast. My sister's like, same. Leah's like, can't hear you. Yeah. Stay sexy and don't steal from one of the few companies that stand firmly with DEI initiatives and sell $1.50 hot dogs. Missy. Missy, thank you for that messaging at the end. That was flawless, Missy. Very strong. Costco is now on TikTok. And one of the first videos was that guy that said he'll never raise the, he told the CEO that if you ever raise the price, the hot dogs, I'll kill you. Oh, my God. The owner, basically. And he made a video of himself eating one of the hot dogs. Hell yeah. So good. Missy, you shoplifted our hearts. Thank you for that email. And thank you guys for listening. Yeah, this was a really good one. This is a nice batch. Send us your stories, whatever they may be, at MyFavoriteMurder at Gmail. We need to hear from middle sisters. Oh, my God. Right? What are they like? What's the fifth of five sisters act like? Jesus. The book Little Women. Oh. All right. Well, stay sexy. And don't get murdered. Goodbye. Never read Little Women. Same. Elvis, do you want a cookie? This has been an Exactly Right production. Our managing producer is Molly Smith. Our consulting producer is Kate Schellenbach. Our creative lead is Allison Agosti. Our associate producer is Tessa Hughes. And our editor is Aristotle Acevedo. This episode was mixed by Liana. Email your hometowns to MyFavoriteMurder at gmail.com and follow the show on Instagram at MyFavoriteMurder. Listen to MyFavoriteMurder on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Or watch new episodes every week on Netflix. 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