When good newspapers go bad.

So I had this dream last night.

I dreamt I was at work.

There was this guy, who was a cross between Albert Brooks in Broadcast News and Moe from The Simpsons, who was our weatherman. For some reason, the weather station was in a bar. Every time he got halfway through his report, he gave up and instead hit on the women in the bar. [One of his lines: “Can I watch you chew these caramels?” Yowsa.]

My best friend, Mandy, was one of the targets of his affection. She and I were then driving along in a Buick late at night, trying to think of ways to get this guy to leave her alone.

Just then, a freak hurricane/blizzard hit the town. Mandy disappeared, and I was suddenly lost and trying to find my way to work.

When I arrived, the newsroom was in shambles. Papers were everywhere; people were hiding under desks, nursing wounds. It was like that scene from “The Crimson Permanent Assurance,” in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, when the old accountant guys are under siege.

Turns out my news organization had just been the victim of a violent, bloody coup — a hostile takeover — staged by a crazy, sadistic ex-army guy — you know, the kind who still wears a flat-top and plays homicidal war games for fun.

He had just swept in, mowed down some reporters, and set up shop, leaving a bloody trail of editors and writers in his wake. People grabbed their stylebooks and ran for cover.

Scary Murder Man chose me and Joan Cusack [?!] to be his “secretaries,” which meant we had to sit in his office, knitting and smiling politely, as he directed air traffic for the fighter jets taking aim at the building. We weren’t allowed to react to the screams of agony coming from outside the glass-paneled door — just kept knitting, staring straight ahead.

Finally, I was released for the day. One person told me, as I was leaving, tears of fear and horror streaming down my face, that “the hard part of the job” was over — meaning, that I landed a cushy gig as right-hand man to the psycho in charge.

They obviously never spent eight hours in close quarters with the criminally insane.

And fortunately, neither had I! I realized this with great relief upon waking. It was then that I vowed to never let a military occupation destroy my place of employment.

And to this day, I never have!

This bizarre reconnaissance of my subconscious brought to you by: Fred Jones Part 2 from the album “Rockin’ The Suburbs” by Ben Folds.

December 22, 2003 | Filed Under neuroses

Comments

2 Responses to “When good newspapers go bad.”

Dan on December 23rd, 2003 1:37 am

Jeez MB, you gotta lay off the pipe before bedtime. Whoooo!
Kenney on December 23rd, 2003 7:17 pm

“Life barrels on like a runaway train
where the passengers change,
they don’t change anything
you get off,
someone else can get on.”

I was listening to that song all last week. It’s quite depressing, really. Especially for journalist-types.

Nice banner.