Mr. Newspaper

I wrote this last night, fully intending to send it to a newspaper today. What was I thinking?

Dear Mr. Newspaper,

In the name of the Good and the Holy, Mr. Newspaper, I suggest you print this article as soon as possible, tomorrow in fact, before time runs out and I blog this instead. See, I request no payment for my writing, only the dwindling notoriety of seeing my name in print. To witness the ink from my name rub off on my thumb, you know, the stuff dreams are all about. The stuff dreams used to be about, at least. Now my brain is filled with www.mynamehere.com, and a Tumbler with a Google Analytics reading of more than one hundred hits a day. What dreams are these Mr. Newspaper?

But look who I’m talking to. You, Mr. Newspaper, you know pain more than anyone. You watched your sturdy stature shrink to nothing. You watched colored pages and investigative reports disappear. You watched your insides poisoned with fluff hardly worthy of high school quarterlies. You heard talk of advertisements on your front page. You sir, know the disease of the internet all too well. How can I complain about the lack of newsprint on my thumb when you, Mr. Newspaper, are the new California Condor? Wait, no, that’s not right, their population is on the rise.

You have fought a valiant battle. Your odds were slim; slimmer with passing days, but you fought anyway. And now it’s over. It’s clear who has one. Let us not forget the better times. When Dial-up was the norm and domain names were still ripe for the taking. The Lewinski days, Mr. Newspaper. The better times. When people sat in a chair to read, not behind an electric box.

So print this while you can, Mr. Newspaper. For I want to see my name rub off on my thumb.

Always yours,

Brett