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BONG Bull No. 670 happy valentine's
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Charles Stough
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Feb 08, 2006 12:17 PST
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The Burned-Out Newspapercreatures Guild's World-Famous Encyclical
BONG Bull
No. 670
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For Feb. 8, 2006. Well, you're certainly the week's leader in comics
circulation builders, Jyllands-Posten of Denmark, and may you display
similar resolve when the Wehrmacht takes another liking to your mothers'
farm. First runner-up: Congratulations Tehran's Hamshahri and by the
way, since the mobs are so willing to kill for holiness, when will they
march against marketplace bombings, asks the Burned-Out
Newspapercreatures Guild, and this is BONG Bull No. 670.
WEAR AND TEAR. Canon says it has refitted office copiers with thicker
glass. They got the idea when repairing machines with broken glasses and
jammed copies of somebody's bare butt. See Cnet's report:
http://news.com.com/Confessions+of+a+photocopier+repairman/2100-1041_3-5969203.html?part=rss&tag=5969203&subj=news
SPEAKING OF PLACES TO CLICK. Here are two recent artworks by the Chief
Copyboy. They can be downloaded from the site and used as cubicle arts
or screen savers. Yahoo will even make prints and send them to you. The
Committee for Short Agendas and Quickies is testing this sort of remote
art delivery for future editions.
Where to go:
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/copyboy@sbcglobal.net/album?.dir=/e24f
HOW IT WORKS. A city editor gathered her staff for the regular Tuesday
meeting but before the session could start, a gorgeous young man swung
into the meeting room, tenderly stroked the editor's hair and planted a
great carnivorous swallow of a kiss on her lips. And then he left.
"Who was that?" a reporter asked.
"That," the city editor said, "is my new boy-toy. He will hold a
phantom reporting job, never go after a story in rain or snow, share a
byline on every major story, have an assigned staff car, be the
automatic head of every project committee and get automatic semiannual
raises. And by the way, he gets your desk by the window."
"Well that sucks," the reporter said.
"Tough," the editor said. "Deal with it or you're fired."
As the meeting began, another gorgeous young man entered the room,
picked up a copy of the agenda and left wordlessly.
"Who was that?" the reporter asked.
"That was the features editor's boy-toy," the city editor said.
"Ours is taller," the reporter said.
ALL NAMES CQ. These are names of happy couples from legitimate wedding
notices:
Busch-Graber, Fears-Johnson, Pullen-Wood, Kuntz-Dick, Aikin-Johnson,
Weener-Whipple, Peters-Rising, Butts-McCracken, Dunnam-Favors,
Drinkwine-Layer, Gowen-Geter, Wendt-Attaway, King-Woody, Wacker-Dailey,
Fillinger-Goode, MacDonald-Berger, Filler-Quick.
REALITY CHECK. Don Balduf, BONG Correspondent at a Major Midwestern Font
of Knowledge, relates the refurbishing saga of the paper's ancient
building. A long side of the building has ornate columns, carved
limestone accents and old-technology windows. It was all brought up to
date.
Everything went well until the painters applied a coat of primer to
the windows and trim. It was a sickly pink, eventually to be concealed
under a brick red paint. But it was pink for days. And that was enough
time for the editor and publisher to become enraged by all these
contractors who alter and deface grand historic buildings. And that's
what he fumed in his column.
Reading the morning paper, the maintenance director phoned the editor
to compliment him on his writing, and to ask, "You do know that's just a
primer coat, don't you?"
Several seconds of silence ensued.
"How the fuck was I supposed to know that?" the editor asked.
"Well, you could have asked," the maintenance boss replied. And he
says he still thinks it was a fine column even though it wasn't true.
And he outlasted the editor and publisher at the paper, as well as the
paper itself, for decades. And yes, the paint has been updated. That
brick red looked like hell, frankly.
OCCULT HAND. The Los Angeles Times reviewed an Israeli movie called
“Ushpizin.” The review ran in the number one position on the first page
of the Calendar section, says our reporter Richard A. Sherer. right two
columns immediately below the mast. And the headline was, no josh: “As
if guided by an unseen hand.” Unfortunately, it didn’t reach the Web
page. "Some anonymous copy editor goes to the head of the class!" says
Sherer, formerly a copyreader (as they were called in those days) at the
late and scarcely lamented Los Angeles Herald Examiner.
AND SOME OF THEM ARE APPLYING TO J-SCHOOL. Floating all over the Net are
these entries of horrid metaphors by high school kids. May half of them
be on purpose:
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides
gently compressed by a Thigh Master. His thoughts tumbled in his head,
making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling
Free. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like
a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of
those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country
speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse
without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
Also, she grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was
room-temperature Canadian beef. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh,
like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up. Her vocabulary was
as bad as, like, whatever. He was as tall as a 6-foot-3-inch tree. The
revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of
his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a
formerly surcharge-free ATM.
Also, the little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way
a bowling ball wouldn't. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement
like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup. From the attic came an
unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when
you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m.
instead of 7:30.
Also, her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry
them in hot grease. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed
lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight
trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the
other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph. They lived in a
typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy
Kerrigan's teeth.
Also, John and Mary had never met; they were like two hummingbirds
who had also never met. He fell for her like his heart was a mob
informant and she was the East River. Even in his last years, Grandpappy
had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long,
it had rusted shut. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do. The plan
was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil; but unlike Phil, this plan just
might work.
Also, the young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not
eating for a while. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame
duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from
stepping on a land mine or something. The ballerina rose gracefully en
pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire
hydrant. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids
around with power tools. He was deeply in love; when she spoke, he
thought
COMIX SECTION. The Further Adventures of Herman "Speed" Graphic, Ace
Photographer for the Chagrin Falls Commercial Scimitar, and his Faithful
Companion, Typo the Wonder Pig.
PANEL ONE: A man approaches a lone drinker at the bar and relates,
"Pardon me, but I can't shake the feeling that I know you for
somewhere."
The lone drinker responds, "Well, perhaps! I used to be a newsman!"
PANEL TWO: The first gentleman enquires, "A newsman? Why, I used to
be a newsman too! Bartender, another round here! Where did you work?"
The man on the stool answers, "At the Times!"
PANEL THREE: The first man gasps, "The Times! Me too! What a
coincidence! Bartender, make that a pitcher! So, where did you work at
the Times?"
The man on the stool declares, "National desk! And let me buy this
round!"
PANEL FOUR: Gleefully, the first man cheers, taking a stool, "My
word! I knew lots of guys at the National Desk. Drink up! Bartender,
once again! When were you ... ?"
INTERPANEL SILHOUETTE: In the back booth, Typo mutters, "Hey Boss, we
better tell Floyd the Barmaid that this is going to be a hard night!"
PANEL FIVE: Speed, adjusting his trenchcoat, a deathbed gift from an
ancient mystic wire service executive editor on a fog-shrouded eastern
island, queries, "A hard night? Why do you say that, Typo?"
Typo explicates, "Because Jayson Blair and Howell Raines are partying
again, Boss!"
BONG Bull is the product of Charley Stough and has been since 1988
when reporters were reporters, editors used neckties (especially other
people's) for napkins and the New York Times was buying the trenchcoats.
Contact at bongs-@yahoo.com for any reason.
=-=-=-=-=-=-THE REAL BONG CONTENT STARTS HERE =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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