Here’s what happens when the food critic writes a crime story for the newspaper. First, the story has to happen. In this case, it’s a bunch of hillbillies who build a meth lab and the cops bust them, and it.
Next the cops send a fax to the local paper, the Dogpatch Daily Dispatch.
No one’s around the newsroom to go out and sniff around. The one remaining staff reporter is getting winded between stops on his daily rounds which include but are not limited to: the college football team, the opening of a new restaurant, the closing of an old restaurant. The closing of every road everywhere for construction.
Sounds like a busy schedule. But today is a relatively light day because
--The congressman’s office is closed for memorial day.
--The county government leaders are away at a “conference.”
--Most of the cops are on DWI patrol even though it’s ten in the morning.
--The Mega Mart is closed because they couldn’t get enough temps to staff the place.
--All roads are subject to periodic closure due to construction.
So the paper calls on the restaurant critic, Lori Fresser, who happens to live next door to the meth lab and has a house covered roof-to-foundation in asbestos blankets and has the largest sprinkler system on the planet, just in case.
She ventures out of her asbestos-blanketed front door and rolls over to the neighbors who she does not know very well because they keep to themselves. Perfect people about whom you can always later say “they were quiet. Kept to themselves. Never bothered anyone.”
Inside the home are the few cops who aren’t patrolling the roads no one can use, about four of them. And there -- in all its glory -- stands the unexploded meth lab.
The reporter writes a note to herself “reminder: call some asbestos removal guys. I won’t be needing those fireproof blankets anymore.”
None of the perps are talking. Fine. They have a right to remain silent. So Ms. Fresser (the name means “eater” in Pennsylvania Deutsch, German and Yiddish.) So Ms. Fresser does what a food critic and recipe maven always does. She lists the ingredients.
And she writes her story. And she submits her story to the editor who is located four states away and is responsible for ten of the publisher’s dailies.
And the editor is distracted and doesn’t pay much attention to the story below the first paragraph which starts out “It was a dark and stormy lunchtime…”
The recipe gets printed. All the ingredients you need to make a dangerous, addictive and illegal substance.
And now, the paper’s readers, all three of them, know how to make methamphetamines for fun and profit.
Next day, the publisher who is located three thousand miles west marvels at the amazing circulation bump for the Dogpatch Dispatch.
Word travels fast. The locals have crowdfunded the sticker price and circulation has risen from three to 42,558.
Maybe Ms. Fresser should rethink calling the asbestos removal folks.
Questions on the trump-Kim cancellation:
-What happens to all those medallions commemorating the meeting?
-What will trump do with the replica Nobel Peace Prize he ordered from Trophydepot.com?
-Will Kim rebuild the nuclear test site he destroyed on the eve of trump’s pull out?
-How will not meeting help the fetal peace process?
-Is Russian president Putrid involved somehow, and if so, how?
“The dangerous thing about Trump’s fantasy world is not when it dissolves into nothing; it’s when he seduces the rest of us to move into it.” --David Brooks, New York Times columnist.
I’m Wes Richards. My opinions are my own but you’re welcome to them. ®
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