The "Funny" Paper

For years I worked in an in-house advertising agency for a fairly large cable media company. Except for a three-year period when I was given the green light to hire and then fire a junior writer, I was the lone copywriting wolf in a department that grew from one to over half a dozen graphic designers.

Over time, the company itself went from being a very buttoned-up organization to loosening its power tie. “Casual Friday” was expanded to the whole week, so you could wear what you wanted, within reason. But give a creative type an inch and they’ll take a mile, especially the boys who dominated the design department, a large, one-room space that, by virtue of its poster-packed walls and Eau de Locker Room fragrance, I dubbed “The Frat House.”

Out of all the baggy pants wearing, baseball cap sporting yet brilliantly talented miscreants, one of them really pushed the sartorial envelope. Let’s call him Niles. On any fine summer’s day, Niles would come rolling into work around ten-ish, fresh off an early morning surfing stint, with shards of seaweed in his hair, a threadbare t-shirt on his back, ripped up jeans on his backside and a pair of flip-flops on his sand-encrusted feet. Niles took a runner on the department a couple of times, once to do a regional tour with his band, the second time to surf with his buddies in Baja for a month. Although my old boss swore he’d never hire Niles back after either of these “sabbaticals,” he always did. Talent will out.

One day, Niles did leave us for good and ended up taking a gig at, of all places, “The New York Times”! Every time I think of this hyper-creative wise-ass trading in his surfer dude duds for a collared shirt and Dockers, it cracks me up. Niles and “The Grey Lady.” Talk about your odd couples.

Now, if Niles really wanted to work at a paper that would reflect his freewheelin’ style, he should have applied at “The New York Post.” Yeah, yeah, I know. “The Times” is the “paper of record.” It oozes journalistic integrity. It’s what “intelligent” people read. And, it has absolutely no sense of humor. At all. (Also, no comics, and if you read my previous blog, you know this is considered infamia on my part.)

“The Post,” on the other hand, takes pride in publishing the most biased, politically incorrect and downright hilarious headlines I’ve ever laid eyes on. To wit:

Ike Turner dies: “Ike Beats Tina to Death”

Ken Lay is convicted: “Cheato Lay Goes to Jail”

Arafat’s widow grieves: “The Arafat Lady Sings”

Eliot Spitzer caught in a sex scandal: “Ho No!”

and the granddaddy of them all that needs no explanation:

“Headless Body In Topless Bar”

I used to fantasize that “The Post” had one dark-humored misanthrope on staff who was paid big bucks to conjure up these guffaw-inducing gems. Turns out they can come from anywhere – the editorial staff, the readers and, in the case of the infamous “Axis of Weasel” head, a 21-year-old copy boy who was immediately given a permanent cubicle.

Ah well. Guess there goes my dream job.