MILWAUKEE, WI- Being a reporter and maintaining ones journalistic integrity in Milwaukee is not an easy task. It’s easy to loose ones cool. So when The Wisconsin Broadcasters Association held it’s annual awards banquet this past weekend without us, it left us feeling as hot as a fresh-fucked fox in a forest fire. Are we not good enough for you?
First off we’d like to congratulate WISN 12 for winning “Station of the year”. Secondly here are the anchors this reporter thinks he could take in one on one combat.
Disclaimer: These are all hypothetical situations I imagined and do not and have not ever indented to cause physical harm to those listed. Anyways here’s who would get their shit rocked.
He approaches me in a dark alleyway. In a drunken stupor I reach with shaky hands for the pack of home-rolled cigarettes in my cargo shorts. I offer him one before we start but Gerron declined. Most likely because he knows smoking is the leading cause of lung cancer in adults. I take one last, long drag, knowing this would be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Gerron is much like a warm, cuddly, black marshmallow and this would ultimately bring me no joy. He makes the first move but unbeknownst to him, I was trained on the rough and tumble streets of West Allis, Wisconsin. In a flurry of scratches and bites, Garron goes down much like a gazelle being taken down by the mighty lion. Integrity intact, I stand up and congratulate him on his valiant effort. “Better luck next time” I whisper as I walk into the night.
At this time Toya had been a part of my life longer than my parents. Her stunning beauty graced my television everyday, making me feel safe as she talked of the days shootings. A seasoned veteran of the news team, I knew this wouldn’t be easy. I make the first move charging at her. Toya jukes to the left then throws her patented right hook. She clocks my jaw bad. I stumble back into the refreshments table, dazed. Reaching my hands back I feel around for anything that could help me. My hands firmly grasp the lemonade and with the speed of a cheetah I splash it into her face. Blinded by the citrusy drink, I throw her over my shoulders and begin to scale the studio lights. Beam after beam I shimmy my way to the top until suddenly, I drop her into the news desk much like in 1998 when the Undertaker threw Mankind off Hell in a Cell and plummeted 16 ft into an announcers table.
I was surrounded by a street gang in a rough part of Boston. It wasn’t a gang like today’s gangs, just a bunch of rowdy teens looking for violent entertainment. They surrounded me and began mocking my clothing with their ridiculous New Jersey accents. The leader coughed up a big wad of mucus in my face, it was Patrick. He stood there, with that smug smile he always has on his face. “Have at me!” I yell. He lunges at me with full force as his cronies stood and watched. Blow after blow Patrick wore me down with every hit. As a last resort, I pull out a picture of his childhood kitten Mr. Mittens who was tragically lost in a farming accident.
In a moment of humanity a single tear rolled down Patrick’s face. Distracted by grief and childhood trauma I knew my moment had come. Winding up my right hand much like in the cartoons, I land the final blow into Patrick’s family jewels rendering him immobile.
I had won, but a what cost? Maybe just invite us to the Gala next year as your plus one and I won’t have to write another one of these.