Yep, sonny, this is sure enough Tribune summer. Don’t know what that is, I reckon, do you? ’Cuz you only read the RedEye. Well, that’s when all the once-proud Chicago Tribune employees come back to collect their unemployment. You know, a long time ago, long afore potty-mouth’d Sam Zell took things over, there used to be heaps of real journalists ’round here—dozens—some Pulitzer Prize winners, I reckon, sure as Dewey defeat’d Truman. And the chiefs weren’t radio shock-jock types, neither—but reg’lar sure ’nough newspaper folk with their own honest-to-goodness journalism degrees an’ drinkin’ problems. Yes, the journalists wuz all around—right here where yer standin’. An’ they hain’t never offer’d $100 to see yer titties, neither.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
See off yonder, see that tower? It kind o’ looks like a mighty tall corn shock from here, but that’s Tribune Tower, sacred tepee of the great warrior Colonel Robert R. McCormick. Smell that smoky sort o’ smell? Lots o’ people say it’s jest leaves burnin’, but it ain’t. It’s management smokin’ cigars an’ playin’ poker in ol’ Colonel McCormick’s wood-paneled inner sanctum, all laughin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ tellin’ dirty jokes, then havin’ nekkid sex on the balconies, plain as kin be.
