as you can see, sometimes y'can't get away. i'm tert x. card, the bloody so-called managing editor, copyeditor, rewrite man, mechanicals, ad makeup department, mail and distribution chief, and snow shoveler.
and you are either a big advertiser come to buy a four-page spread to push your warehouse of left-footed japanese boots. or. you. are the breathlessly-awaited quoyle.
have to do without the ultimate cheese, y'will. himself, mr. jack buggit, is up at the house having charms said over his scrawny chest to clear out that impressive accumulation of phlegm he's been hawking all week.
now, there's billy pretty. he's something of a landmark and an old fish dog.
billy does the home news page. poems, baby photos, household tips, and a gossip column, under the byline of junior sugg, that is pretty much straight libel.
in short. he writes the only stuff anybody actually reads.
now this miserable ugly brit, is b. beaufield nutbeem. imagines he's the foreign news chief. steals every story off that foul shortwave radio and rewrites it in limey prose.
it's shorter, and i got tokyo right.
now what's funnier, quoyle? my writing style, or the fantasy that any newfie would read that moosepuckey in the first pia.
there's your miserable desk, quoyle. we've got no idea what yer s'posed to do. but mr. jack buggit will drop by someday and enlighten us all. til then.
hold onto yer danglies, little sister.
that's yer boat.
one question remains. why. is that. yer boat?
it's a shit boat. best thing, get rid of it some dark night.
what in th' furry pit of newfie hell. is this!?
hitler's barge?
what about the car accident?
so you didn't do the one jack told yer to do, and you did one he don't know yer did!
this copy. is worse. than yer boat.
jack even sniffs this, he cuts you up fer lobster bait. i've half a mind to run it.
did ya see the hitler's barge piece, jocko?
y'know none a that impresses jack buggit. he's not one fer blatant ambition.
weren't even double if yer figger it right. point is. a real reporter woulda
yer aunt, ya thick statie lardface dumbass!
she gets stiffed by the guy, after basin' her new shop on that revenue. and she ain't one ta fool with. capable a anything, that woman!
okay, where's this week's shipping news? or you gonna rest on yer crisco-coated laurels.
uh-oh. the way he's chewin', he ain't a fat boy t'be trifled with!
hope fer ya yet. now that's news, the mcgonigle oil field. petrodollars, a golden flood a jobs. that's th'future a this god-forsaken ice rock. civilization!
that's why those with half a brain already put our money where our mouths is!
oh, i'll run it. just easier t'copy edit. when yer can move th'pieces around.
how does this suit yer, quoyle? i'll do my job. you do yers, which means a four-vehicle pile-up south a killick-claw. and don't ferget the camera.
i fergot somethin'.
you pinko greepeace sack a quivering pigfat.
did i leave out moosebutt-ugly? you may go.
s'tell me. yer fancy it?
yer column's front page stuff. only now, it's more like a caption, is all.
spelled everthin' perfect. so as not t'embarrass yer.
even put yer name on it.
man a yer principles. i unnerstan' resignation is th'only honorable course.
if yer off to see jack buggit, yer'll hafta swim some.
yer can whine an' beg t'him. but i
an' if yer think he's gonna choose you over fishin'. yer not as smart as even you look!
me an' jack. has a sym-bi-otic relationship. yer can look that up.
i'll tell jack yer said so!
so. this is what jack and i think.
we wanna run quoyle's oil spill piece b'cause controversy sells papers and papers sells ads.
and we're gonna let quoyle have his head on these columns, up to 500 words. so he'll get his confidence up.
but we wanna expand his responsi- bilities to boat crashes. there's maybe four a week.
and. the oil tanker picture. stays!
one more thing.