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