Thursday, March 19, 2009

My Editor

Today started off as any other day… I ran four miles down my hill wearing a mesh t-shirt and tight track pants, fought a series of deadly ninjas, and treated myself to a snow cone at Dairy Queen (I usually try to get there before they open, as to avoid payment). When I got home, ready to wash the sweat, syrup, and ninja blood off of my glistening body, my phone suddenly rang. I answered, checking out my bulging biceps as I held the phone to my ear,


“Mr. Johnson, this is Mr. Hibbs’s assistant. He needs you to come to his office right away.”

I groaned as I dropped the phone to my side. Mr. Hibbs, also known as Robert Hibbs, Agent Hibbs, or just plain old Hibbs, is the self proclaimed editor of my blog…the very blog you are now reading. I hate going to Hibbs’s office because he is located in South Carolina. I put the phone back to my ear, “Couldn’t I just talk to him over the phone? I really don’t feel like driving to South Carolina today.”

“No sir, he’s very insistent that you come in. He’s not in a very good mood.” In the background I could hear the sound of a man fighting either a lion or some kind of Yeti. I realized I should probably get going.

I arrived roughly 13 hours later in my trusty gold Cobalt named Jeff. Diego, Hibbs’s assistant, was waiting for me at the front door with a wet nap and a vial of his blood, as was his custom. He led me down a long hallway adorned with pictures of Hibbs fighting various predatory animals. The door to the office was a large stone wall with hieroglyphics carved into it. Diego said the incantation and we proceeded inside.

I'm still not sure how he became my editor...I created the blog and he doesn't pay me.

Perched atop a stuffed Pterodactyl (his desk chair) was my editor, violently banging the casket of Josef Stalin (his desk) with a machete (his “decision maker”). I could tell he was upset…he was wearing his blue ski pants. He only wears his blue ski pants when he anticipates blood spatter.

Needless to say I’ve only seen him in the blue ski pants.

“Johnson,” he said, pulling off his Ray-Ban aviators for dramatic effect, “what is this bullshit you posted yesterday?”
I looked at his computer, adorned with She-Ra stickers, and saw my latest blog on the screen.

“That’s my latest entry. I’ll be honest I thought it was pretty weak.”

Hibbs rubbed some olive oil into his beard before he continued, “You’re God damn right it’s weak…it’s a fucking disaster. You know how many subscribers we lost due to this piece of shit?”

“We have subscribers?”

“Fuck yeah we do,” he said as he lifted his golden Thundercats goblet to his lips. “People pay big dollars to read that blog. We are starting to get a following on this blog Johnson, it’s time we stop fucking around and get serious.”

“Why haven’t I seen any money from these subscribers?”

Hibbs adjusted his snake skin Jonas Brothers head band, “That’s not important. What is important though is that The JohnsoNation needs to retool. We are shutting down for a week.”

“But, I was already gone for a week. I was in Disney World.”

He stared at me in confusion as he put out lit cigarettes on my arm.

“You filled in, so did DeLung. You both covered for me.”

“I think I would remember doing something like that,” he said as he snorted a line of cocaine off of Halle Berry’s ass.

He also uses her butt to lay out finger foods at parties.

“Look, I’m not shutting down the blog; I’ll just come up with better material.”

Hibbs pulls up his socks to reveal roller blades made of solid concrete, “Good idea, what if you did a weekly entry on how much you hate Michael Bay?”

“I’m pretty sure I said everything I had to on the subject.”

Hibbs took off his hat with the swastika button and scratched his head, “What about if we had DeLung write a blog about his racist attitude toward the Chinese?”

“He did write an article but it was a social commentary on the Chinese in America. You and you’re “editing” changed it to compare the Chinese to Gremlins. He’s been getting pipe bombs left in his mailbox.”

“Look here Johnson,” Hibbs says as he holds his machete next to my throat, “I’m tired of your pussy articles about how you love Natalie Portman, your love of gays, and how much you like toilet paper. I want an article that’s going to blow the balls off everyone who reads it. I want something that will make your fucking eye balls pop out of your head, because they recognize that they have just read the best article of all time. Can you deliver that to me?”

This is how he motivates me...fear.

“Hibbs,” I said while urine ran down my leg, "I really don't think I can live up to something like that."

He lowered his weapon, gazing at me with his purple demon eyes, “Well what can you give me?”

“Pretty much the same thing I’ve been doing; only I could curse more and do more lists.”

“That’s good,” he said as he wrapped his cybernetic arm around me. “I got an idea for an article…it’s called Famous People Who Should Have Been Aborted…”

As I left Hibbs’s office feeling less secure about my writing abilities, I reflected on how I didn’t even notice him stealing my wallet or my car keys. If you ever get an editor, make sure he’s actually an editor, not just some dude who talks to his beard. That’s all I have to say.