Ghost Troop Home Page April Fools Part 2
I’m glad your receptionist put me right through to you when I said I had a big story. You and I got off to a rough start, though, because you were miffed that I didn’t know you, the editor of The Houston Press, the weekly magazine for the in-town illuminati. I apologized for my ignorance.
You told that not knowing you meant I didn’t know shit as a journalist. I took a couple of deep breaths, I must admit, before I turned the other cheek again, then I apologized again and said that the message was important even if the messenger wasn’t.
You told me to go ahead.
I briefly explained my background in the military/media/intelligence communities, then explained just how the lapdog national media had covered up the Battle of Baghdad. You listened seriously. You asked me why the Chronicle wasn’t taking the story, and I told you it was because they were chicken, just like The Press has been saying for years. You said your mind was blown and you needed a minute to think, then you put me on hold while you did a gut check. A couple of minutes later you were OK again. “If it’s a national conspiracy then it’s a national story,” you said, “and The Press doesn’t do national stories.”
You were never more right in your life, bless your
heart, and not just for your measly rag.
Every once in a while a real story comes to bite you on the ass, the kind
of story you used to dream about when you still had it – if you ever did. But now you’re a chicken shit and a bully who
gets to lord it over folks trying to hustle their petty angles. You aren’t a journalist at all. You just hide behind a nameplate on your desk
that says “editor” and pride yourself for covering the crooked side of
I’ve written for everyone from Colin Powell, the now-secretary of state, to Bishop Joseph Fiorenza, the erstwhile president of the National Council of Bishops. I’ve worked with everyone from NBC to the NSA. I’ve been called a top-end writer from the Wall Street Journal to the Houston Chronicle – and I’ve never taken the trouble to publish a piece in my life for the Houston Press. I’ve even warned clients like “Mattress Mack,” king of the hustlers, to stay the hell away from you. You see, I thought you guys were real watch dogs because you always growled at the Chronicle as a big-paper lapdog. Well, I was wrong: The Press is just a lapdog, too, and it’s the runt of the litter at that.
And you told me I wasn’t a real journalist? Walk the walk before you talk the talk. You were out of line, bitch.
Captain May
PS: I told you that you’d be in the book. Call me back – personally – if you want to play journalists. If not, just pitch this letter. You’ll read it again in hardcover. Frank Michel over at the Chronicle says he thinks I’m right, and predicts it will be a best seller. You do know who Frank Michel is, don’t you?