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New York Times Moves to Broadway

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New York Times Moves To Broadway

"Somewhere, there's a place for us,.."--
whispered the sleek blond Eastern intellectual in his Brooks Bros. uniform..
His raven-haired consort responded with a withering look that could melt mountains of mealy-mouthed journalistic wanna-be's.

{after eight years of avoiding the words "incomunicado" and "torture", the editors of the Times are faced with extinction. Now they are forbidden to say "gang-rape" and "Halliburton" in the same sentence.}

"Baby, they're firing the news department," he said, urgently.
"They haven't needed the news department since they began living in mortal fear of the Bush Family," she replied coldly.

"We're management, we gotta raise this quarter, we have nothing to fear," she continued, hoping against hope to bring him to his senses.
But he would not be denied. "With the news people gone, there's nothing left except the CIA plants and Herbert, Blow, Dowd, and Krugman," he insisted, trying to make her see that their fate was in the well-known wind blowing through Times Square. "What will we edit, what will we print now? The whole operation can be run out of Langley!"
She smoothed his ruffled blond locks. "I've been talking to Rosie O'Donnell," she confided. "We've come up with a plan for just this scenario."
"There's no hope," he cried, wiping his Countess Mara tie across his tear-stained and anxiety-ridden cheeks. "We're done for-- we'll have to stay in Connecticut, going to endless horse shows and drinking infinite Long Island Iced Teas. We're doomed, I tell you."
She took him by the short hairs at the back of his neck. "Listen to me. I have a way to make a killing on this deal. And I have the angels and backers to pull it off."
"What? Tell me, tell me. How can we reclaim our prestige, our charge account at the Plaza, our relationship with Gaddafi, our oil brokerage in Kuwait?"
She looked away from him, out the window over Central Park, with all the little taxpayers in their treacly existences. She knew the only way to snap him out of it was to ignore him-- insecure, self-absorbed little snot that he was.
He reached out, grabbed her by the neck, squeezed. She liked it when he did that.
Before she choked to death, she croaked, "We'll take this show on the road."
"What?," he cried incredulously, momentarily releasing his grip.
"Look," she said. Over there, where the lights glow in the gathering dusk."
"What? Have you completely lost it?," he said reaching for her again.
She looked up at the towering Empire State Building with fire in her eyes and said with passion, "New York Times, the Musical.--
Bush has nothing on us. We'll really knock 'em dead."

 

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Avid reader, jazz musician, philosopher, chef, stone mason, carpenter, writer, painter, poet,humanist, teacher, holistic ethicist who believes consciousness and love pervade the universe, except among self-obsessed humans. I perceive the (more...)
 
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