Oddly Enough Blog
News, but not the serious kind
Lamar, get in my office!
What’s up, Boss?
Look, you’ve had enough time! I told you if you want to make it in journalism, you need to hack into some voice messages, and I want to see what you’ve got. We’re on deadline!
I think you’ll be pretty happy, Boss. Look at this one. “It’s me. Pick up tuna fish and vodka on the way home.”
That’s not very much to go with, Lamar.
Oh, I’ve got more, Boss. “This is Mom, why don’t you ever call?”
I guess that’s a little better. What else?
“I know you’re there, I just saw your schnauzer take a dump in my driveway!”
Mr. Blog Guy, let me say we appreciate you cooperating with this Senate investigation into journalistic practices. I know you’re a busy blogger.
Anything I can do to help Senator. I’m happy to testify.
Now, during your years as a wire service reporter, can you give us an idea what your daily expenses were like? Remember, you are under oath.
Boy, I did not see this one coming.
Who would have guessed you could lose, selling stories like “Angelina, Jennifer Catfight at Arby’s,” “The Chocolate Mousse Diet,” and “Homeless Oprah Lives in Packard” to a captive audience in supermarket checkout lines?
Sure, there were signs the tabloids were heading in an odd direction when some of their scoops started having some truth in them. I’m talking about you, John Edwards and Tiger Woods.
Johnson, get your butt in my office! You call yourself a news photographer?
What is it this time, Boss?
I sent you out to get a simple headshot of someone and here is your full, uncropped photo… I’m not making this up.
See, in journalism, headshot refers to the WHOLE head. Your photo makes her look like one of those “Kilroy Was Here” cartoons American soldiers used to draw.
Considering what they say, that you can’t choose your own family, I guess I’ve been pretty lucky with mine.
I’m talking about my blog family, the coterie of far-flung readers who have grown close around my Oddly Enough Blog over the past three years.
Okay gang, we’ve gotta find a way to distinguish our brand of coffee from all the others. You know, like it’s grown on misty Blue Mountain, or in the intoxicating sea breezes of Hawaii, or some poetry like that.
Boss, why don’t we go more in the direction those guys in Asia took? You know, “We make our coffee from half-digested cherries found in the poop of wild civets.”