The staff of Glossy news is busy licking their wounds today after a fierce word-lashing by a number of drive-by commentator fan(atic)s of the NRA. While a few commenters stand out in the article, the sum of their words was what really drew us to introspection.
John Woodie (we suspect this is an alias either to impress the ladies or because he works in the porn industry) laid the heavy gauge verbal ammo on the entire Glossy crew after becoming pestilently peeved by an article by alleged writer Rfreed entitled ‘Obama Let’s His Bad Self Out All Over The NRA’s LaPierre‘.
Mr. Woodie (no relation to the ‘Toy Story’ character, who even as a toy, still knew compassion), finding the admittedly obnoxious article to severely contradict his own thoroughly thought out and scientifically studied beliefs promptly fired off eviscerating email salvos intended to shred any self worth the normally passive and sheep like Glossy staff might have.
The effects of them were devastating to the sensitive and delicate natures of the shocked Glossy caretakers.
Publisher Brian White, awakening at last at 4 PM from an meth and krokodil stupor upon his harem-sized waterbed in the $10 million dollar Glossy Penthouse atop the Chrysler Building shook off the last of his dreams of having shared the watery love platform with both a naked Miley Cyrus and Sophia Vergara.
He tied his Kimono tighter around his waste and proceeded down the circular stairs to his suede-drenched office, having to push aside the empty bottles of Citron Platinum (non-circulating) littering the landing left over from the staff meeting/orgy from that afternoon. Yes, meetings in our office more than well attended, they’re also well attended.
White had the breath knocked out of him upon reading Mr. Woodies bombast, so caustic it started to melt even the specialized megapixel scene of the super Apple on his beta iPhone7. It was so shocking even he, hardened by many years in the satire field, could only emit a muted gasp. Kind of a gulp gasp, but you get the idea.
From the other side of the office he heard a whimper. There he found his faithful apprentice, Donald Trump, (yes, the same one. This job is the real secret of him making his millions,) curled up in a fetal position behind the life-size Che Guevara statue in the corner, softly sobbing, sobbing softly, and sobbing softly like an SOB.
“I take it you read the missive.” White asked of the faux-billionaire. “Oh God! …Yes!” gasped the orange husk of a man, his normally carefully plastered hair a tangled mess of orange mesh fur skewering out in all directions.) “It …was… so mean!” He then went in to an uncontrollable fit of hysterical tears, which is normally for him three to four times each day.
“Has Becky seen this?” White asked.
“Yes,” answered Trump between mad gasps of air.
“Sorry you had to read this Becky,” said White. “God!” thought White, “They are dropping like flies around here.”
An operative from inside the White House working at Glossy News headquarters known only as “J. Robinette B.” said, “They done gave us a good ass-whuppin, Delaware style!” adding, “Now I know what he meant by being butt-hurt. These NRA boys, man, they can give you an enema with astro-turfed words alone, and I do mean ass…tro-turfed. Get it?”
By the next morning, nearly all of Glossy’s 132 employees had quit or called in sick, all mauled by the savage beating they took from the viciously vocal Mr. Woody et al. Mr. White, his empire in alleged, supposed tatters, had to raise the red white and blue flag of surrender (the French one, not the US flag) and enter into negotiations to sell his website to FOX News owner Rupert Murdoch, for pennies on the dime.
Editors addendum- Midway through this fray, the purveyor of the original article, Rfreed wandered in from the street wearing his usual pink, overly tight hot pants and leather thigh high black lace up boots with stiletto heels, his white see-though halter top tied at the bottom and exposing the amazing cleavage he didn’t have, whining his eyes out. He threw himself limply upon the over-sized, overstuffed leopard skin couch and sobbed into a pillow.
“Oh God!” he whined, “that bastard implied that I was gay!”
Nothing we said would console him, and we even said we’d take him to Barney’s.
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