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In This Issue

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Dean and Briley Make Things More Interesting

Love And Hate Mail

Words of the Week

Off Limits

The Spirits Are Willing Are real ghosts spooking workers at a fake haunted house?

Suspect Behavior

Ding Dong The shake-up at 1100 Broadway creates an unsympathetic casualty and leaves newsroom staffers elated

Hell's Bell

 

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7:45 a.m.—Realize you’ve overslept because the volume knob on your GE clock radio is screwed up and the radio didn’t come on loud enough to wake you up. Make note to call GE and threaten to sue.

8:15 a.m.—The milk for your Cheerios has gone bad, despite the fact that the expiration date is still two days away. Those bastards at Publix are going to pay for this.

9:23 a.m.—Still stuck in traffic, even though that traffic guy on the radio said there were no backups on I-40. No backups? What do you call this bumper-to-bumper traffic, jerkhole? Are you freaking BLIND?  You can bet you’re going to hear from my lawyer. Maybe you can get your seeing-eye dog to read you the lawsuit.

11 a.m.—Go to the DMV to get your driver’s license renewed. The line is out the door. Swear to God, you’re going to sue Phil Bredesen.

1:17 p.m.—Call to get tickets to a play at TPAC. Those Ticketmaster crooks stick a “convenience charge” of 12 bucks on the order. That can’t be legal. It’s probably some kind of discrimination. Your only recourse is to sue.

3:36 p.m.—All you want to do is read your email, and your mother-freakin’ Comcast service is down. This always happens to you, and it can’t be a coincidence. But you’ll bet the service is working like a CHARM in Belle Meade. Oh, yes, over there in Belle Meade they’re reading their emails from their stockbrokers and giving their butlers high-fives. You’d send your lawyer an email and ask about suing Comcast—IF THE M-----F------ EMAIL SERVICE WAS WORKING.

5:15 p.m.—Stop by a place for a drink after work and after you push up between the rows of people packing the bar it takes the bartender a good 10 minutes to even notice you’re there. You’re sick of this shit. What are you, INVISIBLE?  You’d call your lawyer, if he hadn’t probably already left for the day.

10:34 p.m.—Can’t sleep. Those sleeping pills that quack doctor of yours prescribed suck. They’re probably not even sleeping pills. They’re probably Mexican vitamins that the drugstore is charging you an arm and a leg for. But you can bet on this: when you get up tomorrow you’re going to sue, sue, sue.