Sammy's Back, Jack

The woman who said change is a good thing should be shot...

...If she hasn’t been already.

The TRIBUNE has gotten a facelift and along with the new look, Merritt has hired some new office drones. The trouble is, I hate breaking in new help.

They have a nasty habit of actually passing along Merritt’s memos around the office, and worse, to concession stands at every stop. Why do these fools do Merritt’s bidding and keep me sober every telecast? Because it’s the moral thing to do? No.

I’m sober because the Mexican help Chad hires, when not driving through school zones in green cars, are cowering in all corners of CS Towers genuinely fearful that Merritt will fire them at the drop of a hat. If you do not appease the angry God, you’ll be the ones stepping off into a hungry volcano. A lot of these men and women are still virgins, and ripe for being the ones to ensure the village lives on for another hundred years.

It’s a trick Merritt performs whenever he hires a new staff. He’ll fire a group of veterans strictly for show. An intern on her second day, a single mother who’s been there for five years, or as mostly is the case an openly gay senior officer a week away from a ten percent pay increase. He fires these people to keep law. And because these idiots actually think Merritt runs a tight ship, I’m sobered up and on step seven of the famous twelve. Hey chicos, look at me, I’ve been here fourteen years, often piss drunk. You think I’ve survived because of my wit? I’m letting the cat out of the bag -- Chad doesn’t know any better.

Yet here I am being pestered about providing material. Leave me alone you heathens! I have more important items on my list to sort through, such as pouring through my unchecked penis enlargement emails.

Richard Simmons is on a soft serve ice cream binge again which means he’s not currently able to help the percent of American women that are hideously obese. What does this mean for you and me? That’s right, FISH FUND XIII: Baby Has Too Much Back.

I thought the last event came to a fitting end. Sure, the place was blown to microscopic pieces, but poetry is often found in the darkest places.

They’ve built a new park in place of the old one. So much for the plans to build a memorial where the rubble once laid. If there had to be construction, why not a mini-mall or a Starbucks? I’m sure Lyle Tallman’s mistress wouldn’t have a problem taking his five kids to the site.

“See where that man is standing making Mommy’s mocha frappacino? That’s where Daddy is buried.”

Kids are smart. They’ll understand.

But no, the circus has been invited back into town. One day when I meet God, don’t think for a second I’m not asking him what all this means.