B&S Offices - Hello, it’s me. I was wondering if after all this time I should get out of my chair. Everyone is gone. I am all alone in the corner of this room. We have been on strike for six days now and things are looking down. There is nothing funny in the world. Nothing for me to write about. NOTHING. I am eating a dry bowl of broccoli. There is no ranch dressing. I haven’t left my seat since Monday. This chair is officially a bathroom now. I heard Valentine’s Day is coming up, maybe somebody can write something funny about that. It won’t be me though because my right hand has been stuck in a Pringle can since yesterday and my left hand is stuck in my pants. I hear Bon Iver music playing in the background faintly. It is so goddamn mellow my hair is uncurling. I need to write 500 words for this. Word count. How many is that? 174. Damnit. F%*#. I can’t write another Donald Trump or D-Hall joke. I tried to begin an article about walking through the socalled “cold door” in the Grill(e?!?) but as soon as I opened my pen, ten people came over screaming things like “You are worthless!” and “Think about everyone else!” and “This isn’t even a real publication for the sake of J. B. Grinnell and his fatal asthma stop spreading lies!!” At this point, I’m not even sure if the editors are alive. They are facedown in the corner under a pile of People Magazines and S&B issues. Violence broke out around six o’clock Sunday evening among the editors over dibs on an article after news broke that Ray Kay was seen leaving Kum and Go with four bags full of Hawkeye. After five minutes of wrestling and punching, they all ended up on the floor and have not yet found the motivation or energy to pick themselves up from the tear stained tissue covered floor. Some of them have begun to form puddles of drool around their faces. I don’t know how they’re still salivating if they’re unconscious. I haven’t seen them move in days. I would call an ambulance if my feet weren’t buried so deep under empty boxes of Lucky Charms and empty Capri Sun pouches. I consumed those this morning when I experienced a regression to the mindset of a ten year old. During that time I also ordered three pairs of Heelys and a Tamagotchi over the internet. Word count. 407. Delirium has set in. Did I just see all five members of Green Day run past the window? How has anyone ever been funny in this dark, cruel, humorless world. If I don’t reach the word count I will be more of a failure than I already am. I give up. Funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words funny words. I love you, Mom.
More funny words more funny words more funny words more funny words more funny words more funny words
Day 27 since the happening. I have befriended a colony of ants that is building a nest in the corner of the room. I am trying to train them to carry out SOS messages that I wrote on Twix wrappers. So far they are only interested in the crumbs of candy. I can relate to scrabbling for somebody else’s leftovers to sustain me in the world of journalism.
Or rather, the former world of journalism. I should have pursued my music career. I was a really good tenor. I even auditioned for American Idol and got to the second round. If Simon Cowell could see me now he would be sorry. YOU COULD HAVE PREVENTED THIS, SIMON!!