The Reader, an alt-weekly newspaper from Duluth, MN that syndicates this column, has changed its layout. The local columnists have been shoved to the back, and a few nationally-syndicated ones have been given most of the coveted "front of the paper" spots. My column used to be on page 12, and now it's on page 51.
So "Ramblings" is now surrounded by personal ads for "trannies seeking curious males". Need to buy a bong? I'm sure it's in one of the ads near this column. How about a loveseat with unidentifiable stains all over it? There are probably at least three free ones in the nearby classifieds. I'm in the newspaper's equivalent of a trailer park.
The editor claims this is to bring readers to the back of the paper, but I know smoke when I see it blown up my backside. If getting people to the back of the paper is so important, why not put Molly Ivins' column there? She's an uberpopular national columnist. No, reader, my column has been backhandedly condemned as a cheap parlor trick that the owners of this rag would rather not have people read.
This means war.
The only thing I can do is attack the other columnists until there's no one left but me. Competing columnists, thou shalt not take my coveted spot in the front. But seriously, if the Reader Weekly wants more readers, they have to provide something different, and in plain view. With this redesign, the only thing potential readers will notice is a few back pages of classifieds to complement 50 pages of "I hate George W. Bush" columns. Oh goody. Because we don't have twenty versions of those in the paper every week. Wheeee! Monotony!
Variety is the key, no matter how different. God bless jokes about flatulence and poo and people going tinkle. Long live columns that rate local politicians based on attractiveness, and get the paper removed from a Hardee's restaurant because I used the terms "Jesus" and "hummer" in the same sentence. These are mature columns about hummers, and the dignity I've attained through such sophisticated, thoughtful writing should be worth its weight in iron ore.
Twelve dollars worth of iron ore to be exact, which in these parts seems to amount to roughly 60,000,000 pounds of it.
To get back the dignity and column location status I've worked so hard to achieve over these past few years, I have no choice but to do something brash. I don't deserve to be lumped with the ads where chronic masturbators place ads for "nude female model for art project". My actions may seem crazy, but it's a crazy world, baby. Let's get ready to rock.
Molly Ivins, I challenge you to a duel!
(Takes off glove, walks to Texas, slaps Ivins with it. Apologizes profusely. Cries when she threatens to call his parents.)
I like Ivins, but my honor has been . . . um . . . dishonored, so I have no choice but to challenge her to a duel. If she takes my column spot, then I must vanquish her forthwith. We will take ten paces, turn, and fire. I will cheat and take only eight paces, because I am a sad little man.
Granted, Ivins' column isn't on page 12, so my plan doesn't really make sense. The Northland Neo-Con has taken my spot, but frankly, I'm a little frightened of him. He is larger than me and has facial hair like Mark McGuire, so I'm going after Ivins instead. She is old and frail, and therefore more suited to my girlish fighting style.
Of course, it's not the Northland Neo-Con's fault either. It was publisher Bob Boone who thought up this newspaper redesign, and editor Richard Thomas who neglected to jab Bob in the crotch for thinking of it, but I'm scared of them, too. Newspaper editors and publishers are alcoholics. It's not a myth or a stereotype. It's true 100 percent of the time, and if I complain, they will abuse me both physically and mentally with their Boone's Farm induced rage.
I heard Paul Lundgren left because they tricked him into drinking Country Kwencher. I'm no Paul Lundgren, but that doesn't mean I'm going to drink Country Kwencher.
Everyone knows I only drink Arbor Mist Island Fruits Pinot Grigio.
What the heck was I talking about? Oh yes, my coveted page 12. If my column isn't back on twelfth page, or a more awesome page, by next week, I'm going to crap in a bag and send it to Molly Ivins. The accompanying card will say, "Bob Boone loves you and wishes to "caucus" with you, if you know what he means."
Goodbye national syndication to the Reader Weekly, hello Paul Ryan's mediocrity.
