he last issue of (a University of Utah partially funded) RED Magazine loomed ever closer. Along with the mag’s imminent swan song came the potential public relations nightmare of RED staff members plummeting to their deaths off the giant hillside U planted to the northeast of campus. The Chronicle’s crisis team sprang into action.

“My word! They could land upon high-income housing,” said Ûber-Editor Sheena McFarland.

In an effort to divert RED’s attention from the fact that it was ending in a “six-page whimper” and not the “hot, steaming bang” so many envisioned, The Chronicle enacted one-of-them-there emergency plans.

“Alarm, AAALARM!” McFarland shouted as her U-boat charged beneath murky, green water. “We need a motivational speaker, mach schnell!”

Gone were free CDs and cocaine-fueled movie reviews. Gone were the heady days of swine and roses that alleviated the daily doldrums of the 27 official RED loyalists. (The 28th major RED fan recently passed away after a long and courageous battle with clumsiness. Hope there’s no 20-foot drops in heaven, Babs.) In an effort to “invigorate the troops and get them goose-stepping with gas,” McFarland said while accentuating the “s” in gas with a prankish pucker, decided it was time for professional help. “Fetch hither Skip Campington.”

Campington, long known for invigorating the masses by high-fiving audience members and inspiring legions of cell-phone salesmen, reigns king among motivational speakers.

“Who do YOU want to BE, RED? How HIGH can you FLY?” Campington bellowed while traipsing into The Chronicle’s squalish newsroom.

“A stiletto doused in regret, fie my incandescent brain, you bitch!” chimed staffer and poet Jordan Scrivner.

“An ostentatious viola runs the gamut of an unkempt tempo, so egregious,” lauded RED Classical music whiz Christian Gentry.

“Miami!” said “writer” Eryn Green.

A voice of reason stepped forward. “Are you the two o’clock?” queried Jeremy Mathews, spiritual leader and current owner of wristwatch.

RED met its maker and its destroyer and its teeth were ridiculously white.

“Let’s get busy, people, join hands,” Campington yelled.

The groans from the RED staff were interrupted by the sharp report of a starter pistol. “People!” Ûber-Editor McFarland blew the smoke from the muzzle of her pistol, “I think that it’s important for everyone to hear Skip’s philosophy, to feel his energy.”

McFarland hired Campington to teach his philosophy of “loving your co-worker, hugging your co-worker, cooperating with your co-worker and doing as you’re told,” McFarland said.

Gentry soon regretted making any challenge to the motivating session. “What logic might management employ in order to spend enough money for me to review five performances merely to motivate the writing of one more issue of the magazine?” Gentry said.

“Yeah, we could print more issues with the money we’re spending on Mr. Glow-teeth,” Assistant Editor Jamie Gadette scowled.

“This is hardly the time for mutinous insubordination,” McFarland responded.

Interestingly, everybody in any work place who has ever challenged the Campington doctrine has been “disappeared” within three days. Campington’s popular motivational tape, “Fear Equals Funds,” has influenced management trends in at least 22 powerhouse companies, three Banana Republics and the Vatican.

RED’s mascot, Cool-Lookin’ Ken, had been nowhere to be found to be informed of this monumental event in his beloved magazine’s history. On April 15, Ken checked himself out of the psych ward of the New York-Presbyterian Hospital and began riding the rails toward Salt Lake City.

After losing his hiking boots to a knife-wielding drifter, Ken put on the shoes he stole from Donny Osmond and jumped off the train near the Salt Flats. He stole an abandoned rocket motorcycle that had just failed to break the land-speed record. He eventually stopped the brakeless vehicle by crashing into the Dream House he lost to Barbie during their messy breakup. RED scooped The New York Times with the story years before, but now the couple’s uncoupling was front-page fodder. Ken had only been to the broken Dream House once in the past two years. Barbie was off with her new biracial boy doll getting her breast size reduced, so Ken watched Jenny Jones on the TV and ate some raw cookie dough.

“The phone rang, and I was feeling sick from the raw eggs in the cookie dough, not the booze,” Ken said for no reason because he was alone, although it filled you, the reader, in on the plot. “The Chronicle called and asked if I wanted to be the food-taster for the new A & E editor. There’s trouble afoot.” Ken finished the mixture of peach schnapps and absinthe he was nursing and then stumbled down the street as a bus almost hit him.

“If they’re getting rid of RED, whose mascot am I going to be? The Memphis Grizzlies? I hope there’s free food.”

Campington was dead. All the smile-practicing in the mirror and pretending to be enthused about cell-phone sales couldn’t save him. That was the basic flaw in his philosophy.

At least, everyone assumed he was dead. He actually disappeared in a cloud during the punch, cookie and 10-foot sandwich “conversational communication and sayin’ ‘hi’ in a high-pitched squeal period.” Sixteen people stood in line for food; 15 emerged with plates and plastic cups. Prior to the vanishing, the motivating had been progressing with a certain degree of difficulty. After all, editor Mathews can belch on command. Campington’s last words were, “Let’s mingle.” Also, for some reason, Cool-Lookin’ Ken weighed an extra 185 pounds after lunch. Meanwhile, Campington Industries was screwing business manager Adam Ward out of the guaranteed 10 percent return for an unfinished seminar. What funds would he launder money from to pay for those snowshoes he ordered online yesterday, he wondered. “At least those artsy-fartsy folks are out of my hair,” he added.
craig@red-mag.com
jeremy@red-mag.com