I’m a newspaper guy
I’m a “newspaper guy.” I didn’t say I was a good “newspaper guy,” just a “newspaper guy.” There is a guy like me in every newspaper office in the world. I think you know why this is true but I’ll go ahead and explain anyway.
OK, say there is a guy out there in “publicland” who wants to sue the paper for like $10 million for damages, either real or imagined. This is where the “newspaper guy” comes in. “Newspaper guy” is just slang for “defendant.”
Attorneys that represent newspapers, by precedent, will always name the local “newspaper guy” as the defendant in any civil action against any newspaper. Neither the newspaper nor the editor will ever be named as a defendant in a lawsuit, nor have they ever been. Newspaper editors are above the law; it’s as simple as that. Of course when the “newspaper guy” finds out about this, it is too late, his name is already on the court documents.
There’s a lot of things I didn’t know when I took this “newspaper guy” job. Well it’s not really a job since I don’t get paid. There’s a saying somewhere that says, “With great responsibility comes no money!” I wasn’t told that, as a “newspaper guy,” my sole purpose in life is to be named defendant of any suit filed against my newspaper. As a matter of fact, there are a number of things I can or can’t do as a “newspaper guy.”
• I can never write anything that is meaningful or logical.
• I can lie as often as I want to in everything I write because my name is always on court documents anyway and everybody already knows I’m a liar. I’m lying right now.
• Nothing I have ever written has ever made any sense at all but when I send it to the editor, it magically becomes newspaper worthy and readable, capable of winning some big award from somebody noteworthy like the NBA or some other organization that I must have forgotten.
• I can’t think of anything else right now, but the three things above are enough because only a dummy would read my column anyway, right?
There are some instances of abuse, both physical and mental that “newspaper guys” suffer at the hands of their editors. At first I wasn’t afraid of my editor and I thought I could take her if it came down to fisticuffs. How was I to know that such a little woman could be so brutally proficient at the pugilistic art? The pain would have been unbearable if it weren’t for the coma I slipped into. If I hadn’t played dead she would have gutted me like a fish. Oh, I felt like a little girl getting a spanking. It was awful.
So, what am I gonna do now? I can’t run because she will catch me. I can’t hide because she will find me. She will corner me and say, “Why are you shaking Don, are you cold?” I’ll shake my head and tell her that I have cerebral palsy. But, like I say, she knows I’m a liar. She will laugh with a menacing grin!
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
I have to do what I have always done. I’ll wear two socks that are different colors and play like I’m deaf with a learning disability. Oh, and I can always fake the coma thingy again.