Saturday, November 30, 2013


A couple of historic firsts occurred with RW #11. The first first was that this was the first issue to contain an interview with a real live band. While the veracity of some of the Goblins' claims is hard to ascertain, they certainly did exist in a physical or "real" sense. Another first was the introduction of a heavier cover and in glorious color. Well, one color anyway. Pretty fancy! From RW #11, 1998:


It's judgment day here at the Reglar Wiglar, people. What we've always suspected has been confirmed by the Corporate Big Wigs: this magazine is a sinking ship and something had damn well better be done about it.

The word came down from the head office that somebody had to go. Somebody's head needed to be put up on the chopping block. We needed to 'down-size' and 'outsource' and in layman's terms, 'shit can' some poor sap. But who? None of these people around here actually deserve to be employed. These people are sick. They're degenerates. None of them has earned the right to keep their jobs or the money they're paid matter how meager their wages are.

This was all beside the point though--a decision had to be made and I had to make it. I was the one who had to flip the proverbial coin. Actually, I did flip a coin. After throwing two darts at the employee roster taped to the wall in my office, I came up with two potential scapegoats: P.C. Jones and Muggsy McMurphy. I quickly decided, heads McMurphy's out, tails McMurphy's out. The coin was tossed and landed perfectly on its side. Amazing, a tie! Thinking on my feet, I quickly made up a new rule: in the event of a tie, McMurphy, OUT!

I felt bad, don't get me wrong. I'm not quite as heartless as I come off in these Idiotorials. Pretty damn close, but I'm not as heartless.

I got good reason for not feeling too guilty about firing McMurphy though. I mean, this is a guy who wears nothing but a loin cloth around his apartment. I know this is none of my business but to me that's just weird. This is a guy who's best pick-up line is, "If you have a boyfriend, I'll kill myself." Not exactly a charming individual.

I'm kind of surprised that a lot of these winos around here have lasted as long as they have and the only reason they have lasted this long is due to my own compassion . . . or stupidity. I haven't decided. But I had to make an example of somebody. I call it a sacrificial firing, a friendly firing if you will. This zine business is war and in war different rules of conduct apply. Sometimes you have to execute a couple of your own soldiers just to show the others what happens to deserters, traitors, or just the shiftless and lazy.

To be honest, there was no rational behind Muggsy being put on the chopping block as opposed to say, a Joey Germ or a Malcolm Tent, I was just in one of those, "I'm going to fire the next sorry son of a bitch I see" mood when McMurphy happened to traipse through the door with a sack full of White Castle Sliders and the biggest tub of diet soda money can buy. He was twenty minutes late for the fifty kazillionth time in a row. I wasted no time.

"Clean out your desk, McMurphy."

He just snorted that little stoner laugh of his. He thinks he's so goddamn cute.

"There ain't no gettin' this desk clean," he said, nodding his head in the direction of the most unsightly and dirty, fly-infested piece of office furniture in journalism. "Ain't no way."

"I said, clean it out McMurphy, not clean it up. You're fired.

That snapped him out of his purple haze.

"Fired, man?"

"Yeah, McMurphy, fired. You're unemployed. Good luck elsewhere. You're done."

"Fired? Why man? What'd I do? I didn't do nuthin'."

"You're late for one thing."

"Yeah, but I'm always late."

He had me on that one, but I had plenty of ammo.

"Well, you smell like Cheech and Chong for another thing, you write record reviews like Beavis and Butthead, you have absolutely no respect for your coworkers who have absolutely no respect for you, themselves or each other. This is a sinking ship, McMurphy, and the rates are the first to go."

When McMurphy turned on the water works I gotta admit I got a little choked up myself. I'm a sucker for that shit, but once I had him physically removed from the premises by security, his sobs were barely audible.

I don't know, you'd think that maybe one of his so-called friends and allies here at the office would go to bat for him, stick up for the guy, but hell no, mums the word form those fickle bastards. They're just happy it's him and not them. They know there's nuthin' keepin' them from gettin' the ax. I tell yah the whole thing makes me a little sick to my stomach. Where's that frickin' whisky bottle? Shit! McMurphy, you son of a bitch!

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