* Last night was the NBC employee holiday party. I’d have gone, but I forget what holiday takes place on January 16. Also, no one on the morning shift said they were going. Did I really want to show up to a restaurant full of people who only vaguely know I exist? I get in to work after they leave and I leave before they get in. I’m like the cobbler’s fabled elves.
* Today, our writer Theresa made us cupcakes. I prefer it when she makes cookies, but cupcakes are nice. I just dislike how you can’t eat a cupcake without frosting ending up on your fingers or face. Maybe I need a bigger mouth, a la Steven Tyler. Also, the minute you take the paper off, chunks of cupcake just start tumbling into your lap. Granted, Theresa’s cupcakes were moist and delicious… but that’s a lot of work for food. I’m basically looking for someone to cut up my food and feed it to me… preferably while making airplane noises.
* Apparently journalists are prime candidates for burnout. Just because I haven’t seen sunshine or laughter in the last six years doesn’t mean I’m burned out. It just means I’m hollow inside. And a hollow man can work for years and years… until he dies alone in his one-bedroom apartment, a neglected house plant the only witness to his demise.
* This story about the kid charged with reckless conduct makes me want to punch someone in the face. So the kid brings the equivalent of a mini Swiss Army knife to school and suddenly he’s Osama bin Laden. Here’s a question: do you think those “zero tolerance” policies have ever stopped a hell-bent school shooter? Think the Columbine kids or the Virginia Tech guy paused before their rampages to consider the consequences?
Perhaps the only thing worse are those schools that have banned “tag” at recess.
Let me make one thing clear: school should be a Thunderdome. If your child survives, he is ready for the real world.
* Our first Father of the Year finalist for 2008 is Matthew Kowald of Portage, Wisconsin.
Upset that his 7-year-old son wouldn’t wear a Packers jersey during the team’s playoff victory Sunday, Kowald taped the jersey to his son, then taped his son to a chair for an hour.
Now if he made him wear a Rex Grossman jersey, that would be child abuse.
* For $149, a U.S. biotech firm can test your saliva and tell you if you’ll go bald. Or, for zero dollars, you can just wait.
* Executive Producer Wendy had the quote of the day today. “The law is so retarded.” Amen, sister.
* One thing I didn’t comment on a few days ago: Drew Peterson hired a publicist. Classy. I hope one day when my hypothetical wife goes missing, I also skip the search parties and try to sell my story to the highest bidder.
In other Peterson news, missing wife Stacy allegedly received the following text message on September 20: “You my love are the hottest b—- in the world. Thanks for ridding [sic] me like a bucking bronco last night.”
Aha! That explains why she hasn’t contacted her family or been seen by a living soul since October.
And that also explains why a coroner thinks Peterson’s third wife’s murder was covered up.
* Thanks to our automated control room (which I will hereby dub “Robosaur,” because of its destructive tendencies and large, robotic nature), several tapes didn’t air today. At one point, I was told the system wouldn’t let me air the tape about cold medicines next to the tape about the South Side fire. Say what now? Robosaur is now making production decisions. Pretty soon, I’ll just walk into the control room and ask HAL-9000 what stories it wants to run. (Okay, now “HAL-9000” seems like a better nickname for our control room, but I already committed to the “Robosaur” thing and I’m feeling too lazy to backspace. “Robosaur” it is.)
* Executive Producer Wendy sprang for pizza tomorrow, so you can expect spirits to be high. Given how slow the news has been lately, our lead story may be “Mmmmm… Pizza.” We can do a phone interview with me about how much I love pizza, and how I should probably just quit my job to work in a pizza parlor. Shoot, if I could work at Lou Malnati’s, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, my bachelor’s degree in journalism isn’t qualification enough to work at a pizza parlor. I use the diploma as a handkerchief. Even at that, it fails. Useless.