No Fat Chick Jokes, Please

The murderous wife of a Staten Island fire marshal who repeatedly made barbs about her ballooning weight was convicted yesterday of his "cold and calculated execution."

The widow chugged whiskey as she told emergency responders that she was shocked to find her husband's blood-soaked body when she went to fetch clothes from her closet.

She said she never heard the shots because she used earplugs when she slept and had spent the night in the room of her kids, Melanie, 7, and Renee, 8.

The weeks that followed saw a series of bizarre antics from Mercereau, including tossing a treadmill -- and the bloodied mattress she shared with her husband -- from her house and strutting down her driveway posing for news cameras as if she were a catwalk model.

In some aspects, I miss my hometown because you get crazies like this presented by the New York Post in your morning read - not that I encourage such behavior[1], but, I admit, I do have a morbid fascination with the darker side of people and so does the Post.

However, there is a lesson to be learned here . . . if wifey is putting on the pounds, try encouraging outdoor activities that you can do together. Without firearms, preferably.

[1] However, when I am mad at my husband, I do tell him, "We'll never divorce, because we are Catholics. But I could kill you, go to Confession, and honestly tell the priest that I would never do it again."