One Hell of a Honeymoon
Although usually hyperaware of titillating news stories, I somehow missed one last month that is just too bizarre to let pass without comment.
I regret that I am six weeks late. Blame it on John Roberts, Tommy Lee, and Jim Cantore. And, of course, Jessica Simpson’s breasts. Somehow the honeymoon disappearance of George Allen Smith in early July slipped right by me.
While on a 12-day cruise on Royal Caribbean’s “Brilliance of the Seas” in the Mediterranean, Smith just up and vanished. Gone. Without a trace.
Well, except for some blood. And lots of juicy innuendo.
You see, the fine journalists at A Current Affair have been all over this story. But even with their stellar investigatory work (and other journalists’ efforts), the authorities are just not talking. Some unverified details are nevertheless making the rounds:
In case you have not heard, the apparently happy couple spent the night of July 4 celebrating their recent nuptials by drinking, gambling, and—according to some reports—getting very social with a group of young men.
Oh yes, and Smith may have won a large amount—tens of thousands of dollars—that night in the casino, where some witnesses report seeing Smith and his bride fighting. Some say that her husband’s failure to object to another man groping her led her to kick him in the beanbag—and storm back to their room alone.
Then he may have gone back to the room to find her, but at least one witness says that she was gone and he returned to the casino. (Some reports say the next morning she was awakened in a lounge area, where she seems to have passed out.) Regardless, Smith ended up drinking even more and supposedly had to be carried back to his room by three men.
Then things got strange.
Passengers reported hearing a scream and loud noises, including a loud thud, from the couple’s room early in the morning of July 5. And then there is the blood that the crew found inside the room … and the large stain with a bloody handprint on the outside balcony.
Sounds like a recipe: Take loads of cash. Add copious amounts of alcohol. A dash of frolicking and groping. Mix in screams and blood stains. Put on steady heat until morning.
And what do you get? A missing body. An invisible husband. A swimaway groom.
I am sure that investigators are looking at several possibilities. A marital argument that got out of control. Group sex gone awry. Simple greed, as drunk men attempted to steal money from an even drunker man’s cabin and ended up tossing a bloody corpse overboard to try to cover their tracks.
What I do not hear is the obvious answer. Think about it—who has been trying to nail down TV rights for her life story? Who has been prodding the networks to cough up even more dough? And what terrible act could she perpetrate to spice up her tale even more—and line her pockets even more deeply?
Coming this fall to a television near you: “The Runaway Bride: Murderess on the High Seas.”
And I’ll bet all the money in George Allen Smith’s cruise ship cabin that Jennifer Wilbanks’ ass-clown fiancée would STILL want to marry her.