Joe Garden Guest Editorial: Is This Thing Still Around?

Story by Joe Garden 

| Published Sep 8, 2009

Early last year, an earnest lad named Carson Vaguahghaun did the unthinkable. He approached me to ask a favor. Would I, he asked in his most humble and groveling voice, would I write some sort of essay for his brand new humor publication?

As a world-famous editor for the most important satirical publication of all time and place, I have to have standards. I said I would do it on two conditions. The first is that I would be paid $25,000, and that money should come out of the student segregated fees. Specifically, it should come out of some sort of diversity program. Not that I am against diversity, but I enjoy being evil wherever possible. Secondly, I wanted to receive a special commendation for Most Fantastic Writing of 2008 in the Satirical, Dramatic, or Religious category by the Lincoln Arts Council.

While I did not attend the ceremony, I have been assured that I did indeed receive said award, and the event was quite a touching memorial to me and my piece. Mr. Vagoogun assured me this would be no problem and would readily capitulate to my demands if I would agree to write a follow-up piece in 18 months. Well, of course I hastily agreed to that. I didn’t expect the Daily Nebraskaner to be around more than three issues, particularly at the fee I was commanding. Deals were struck, papers were signed, and I walked away with money that had been slated to bring Amiri Baraka to the UN campus.

I wrote my piece and time passed. On occasion, I would get uninvited missives
from Vogon saying “Paper’s going great!” and “We’re really picking up steam!” They were the kind of messages that I couldn’t read without hearing an enthusiastic Kermit The Frog voice in my head. I wasn’t worried. But then, after the 12th month, silence. Nothing. No more updates. I assumed I had been correct, and that I could rest easily knowing that the paper had folded and my obligation was done.

Seventeen months and two weeks after our initial contact, my telephone rang. I thought it strange, since I don’t give my number out to anyone save certain A-list celebrities and Henry Kissinger. I was a little drunk, so I answered it without looking at the caller ID.

It took me a little while to recognize the voice on the other end. It was him. Carson Vaughan. Gone was the youthful enthusiasm, love of comedy, and deference that was so tolerable when we first met. Now his voice was hard, icy, business-like. He’d clearly been taught a few harsh lessons by the business of publishing.

“You owe me another piece, Garden,” the voice said. “Six hundred words of quality, hard-hitting satire.” “I’m afraid the party you are trying to reach is dead,” I said in a desperate bid to avoid any
more work. Would he buy it?

Of course he would. He was half a country away. “Dead? The fuck you say,”
Vaughan said. “But you will be if you don’t sit right down at the computer and start on my piece.” As he said this the bright red pinpoint of a laser sight crossed the wall and slid across my chest before it settled over my heart. Months of staring down deadlines with four pages to fill and a last-minute advertiser pull-out had given him the upper hand. For now. I swallowed hard and sat down in front of my laptop.

“Good. Make sure to throw in threat of violence, but it doesn’t necessarily have to deliver on it,” Vaughan said. “And before I go, let’s put you on the hook for another piece down the road, should we? Time of delivery and length of article to be determined. Or do you want to leave an epitaph of blood all over your walls right now?”

Wordlessly, I hung up the phone and began typing. Anyway, a begrudging “Best of luck” to this publication and its editor. You may have won this round, but this is only the beginning. I won’t be fooled again.