So… as of last week, we’re getting the Boston Globe.
If you’ve been hanging around here for a while — loitering and leaving cigar butts on the floor, no doubt — then you know already how I feel about the Globe. If not, then feel free to read all about it.
And, partly to save you the trouble of clicking through — but mostly because I have a lot of space to take up here — I’ll rerun the poem from that post, which I wrote e-double-specially for the Boston Globe:
I will not read the Boston Globe
I will not read it in my robe
I will not read it in my boxers
I do not think your paper r0x0rs.
Please do not call me again
To cluck out your offer like a hen
Update your fucking database
Before I break-a you your face
I will not read it on the sofa
I will not read it in my loafers
I do not want to hear your pitch
Get off my phone, you fucking bitch!
Your rag used to come to my front door
On Sundays, for six months or more
But I rarely found the time to read it
So this time I find I do not need it
I will not read it while I sit
Or use it for my doggy’s shit
I will not read it on the can
I will not read it, paper man
I hate to be a diatriber
But I will not be a Globe subscriber
Find the bitch who calls and promptly fire her
Or I’ll take up reading the Enquirer
I will not read your inky daily
I will not read your Beetle Bailey
Nor Dilbert, nor Prince Val-i-ant
I won’t, I don’t, I can’t, I shan’t!
So I hope you get me, loud and clear
I will not read your paper, hear?
And if you call me just once more
I’ll hang right up, you paper whore!
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not the paper’s politics that bothers me — honestly, I couldn’t tell you whether the Globe leans left, right, or falls over trying to touch its toes. Don’t know, don’t care. And it’s not the coverage, or the size, or the font — but oooooh, that Helvetica just burns me up! ‘Nother story.
Anyway, the point is, I’m sure the Boston Globe is a fine paper, really. We even subscribed to it for a few months way back when — which is why I know I don’t need it again, fine though it may be. You see, I’m not really a ‘paper kind of guy. Why get my news after the fact, when I’m shackled to the internet for fourteen hours a day, anyway? It’s eleven o’clock tonight, and I already know the Sox won, the shuttle’s coming home, the latest in the terror probes, and it’s going to be frigging hot tomorrow. Why the hell would I need a newspaper?
And don’t even talk about the local news. If I wanted the scoop on things around here, I’d watch the six o’clock news. And I don’t want it — honestly.
Here, I’ll even do you a favor — here’s a summary of the local newscast for your area, every day for the rest of your life. Any time you feel like tuning in, just reread this:
Anyway, back to the Globe. All I’m saying is that I’ve got no need. And I wrote my little ditty to try to get that across to the persistent bitches who called the house every six hours or so, trying to get me to subscribe. Obviously, it didn’t work. Maybe I should have shown the poem to my wife.
For, you see, it was she who relented — hopefully not to one of the phone-phreaks, but I’m afraid to ask — and now, once again, we get the Globe. So far, we’ve gotten nine or so. At last count, there was one on the steps, two on the porch, two on the dining room table, and four in the trash. All still in the plastic wrappers, if I’m not mistaken. But I can’t be positive; the Globe isn’t really my thing. I don’t get involved. Lord knows I don’t want to write another fricking poem. Now there’s a headline for ya. Stop the presses, bitches.Permalink | No Comments