Bill Green Should Clear His Damn Throat Already
By Don Carrigan
My colleague at WCSH in Portland, Bill Green, was recently inducted into the Maine Broadcasting Hall of fame. As a veteran of the business, I can tell you that it may be easy to become satisfied and complacent after such an honor, but it is important to stay hungry. There is always room for improvement, and Bill is certainly no exception. For starters, he should peel off that weak little fake mustache and maybe clear his goddamn throat once in a while.
That’s right. I went there.
That shiny-faced albino motherfucker has a voice that sounds like Chewbacca the Wookie in puberty. How in the hell did he get on TV in the first place?
Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of respect for what Bill has been able to accomplish in the broadcasting industry. He’s done it all – from signing off a broadcast from a kayak all the way to signing off a broadcast from a canoe. You can’t quibble with a résumé like that.
It’s no wonder that the Maine Association of Broadcasters considered him so deserving – unlike myself, a 40-year veteran of the industry who has interviewed statesmen, kings, and captains of industry.
It’s just that where I come from, we don’t put people like him on TV. Not unless they’re wearing an orange jumpsuit because they just got arrested for selling kiddie porn.
Here’s a word of advice for you aspiring young TV reporters out there: if you want to report on the outdoors, you need to pick a completely obvious pseudonym like “Bill Green” for your television personality. Even if you live in West Virginia or someplace, if you hear the words “Bill Green,” you automatically think of the dignified, expert outdoorsman; somebody who could survive in the bush for three weeks with nothing but a Leatherman, all the while remaining too dignified to poach.
Would it ruin his career if I told everyone his real name is Lester Plungy?
“Well, that’s it for this week. I’m Lester Plungy, signing off from yet another kayak again this week. See you next week for another edition of ‘Lester Plungy’s Maine.'”
- Yeah, that’s not a fake backdrop at all.
Don’t let him fool you, folks. He hates watercraft and cries every time he hears a gun fired.
Oh, and don’t get me started on his “mustache.” I guess if you’re going to fake being an outdoor reporter in a place like Maine, you’d better tape something to your upper lip, but did he have to make it so obvious? It goes without saying that it’s not a mustache that one brings to an interview with Bill Cohen or John Baldacci. Mine is the classic Maine “soup-strainer,” thick enough to imbue my face with unsurpassed levels of masculine credibility.
That’s right, Bill. There’s only room for one mustache on this channel, and yours, seeing that it cannot possibly measure up, has got to go.
In closing, I’d just like to say that I look forward to many more years of working alongside Lester (uh, I mean Bill), so long as he doesn’t get in the way of the big boy journalism the rest of us are doing.
Nothing Can Stop Us Now!
By Chris Galgay, President of the Maine Education Association
All across America, teachers are under attack.
Fox News pundits paint us as overpaid fat cats. Blog pundits paint us as even more overpaid fat cats.
Governor LePage wants us to balance the budget by taking a vacuum cleaner to our paychecks, a vacuum cleaner plugged into the wall outlet of public frustration over high taxes and stupid children.
Well, as leader of Maine’s most powerful teacher’s union, I’m here to assure you that, notwithstanding all the hubbub, our dedicated professionals remain focused on providing ourselves with complete control over all the wealth in American society.
What, you thought we were in it for the children? Please. If your kids were so great, you’d be spending time with them instead of farting around online. And you thought getting summers off was worth it for us? Come on. Everyone knows that 180 days of dealing with other people’s brats is worth about 500 days of doing practically anything else.
Sorry to burst your bubble, but we are not merely, ahem, “public servants.” We are a political and economic machine that will soon cause governments and corporations worldwide to cower at our feet in fear.
Go ahead and laugh. Laugh, and ignore the obvious signs of progress for our illustrious profession.
You thought we were going to stop there? You silly, naive little taxpayer. Don’t you realize that your children are under control, and as soon as our evil brainwashing scheme is complete, they will be prepared to serve us for the rest of their lives?
Why am I telling you of our evil plan? Because you can do nothing to stop it. You do not understand your children. Only we understand them. Only we can train them to do things you would think are impossible. How did they become able to send 800 text messages in a single day? We did that. We are teachers. We can do anything.
Including turning your own children against you so that we may rule the entire globe!
What, you doubt our power? Just look at our ostentatious displays of wealth. How dare you not properly admire our diamond earrings and gold-studded wristwatches? Is the reason you cannot see the 60-foot statue of me in Monument Square because the glare is too powerful from my steely forehead?
Fools! Have you not noticed that we have the political clout to put a pro-MEA candidate into any political office we desire? Yes, we endorsed a candidate for governor who ended up getting only 19% of the vote; that was all part of our plan, to trick you into underestimating us. It worked, didn’t it?
Yes, it seems the bloggers and the Fox News pundits are the only ones who have a proper respect for our power. They have seen our vast cash and ammunition reserves and they impishly and try to warn the ignorant populace. How amusing that they think anyone will listen.
It’s too late, anyway. We’re ninjas in the night, we teachers’ unions. By the time you awaken to our presence, we’ve already made off with your money and your woman and your extensive child pornography collection, leaving you with nothing but a pit of despair and loss in your gut, deepened by some vague memory of a happier time, a time when you had not yet known our wrath and our power.
You’d better get used to it. Nothing can stop us now!