Fifty Shades of Thrifty (a Parody) Read Online Free

not a big deal.
    Of course, the
first time Harry called me Cupcake the Human Resources troll happened to be
within earshot and her harassment sniffing dogs confirmed that this improper
term of endearment was, in fact, being used by men in the newsroom. I explained
to her that it originated in The Post ,
we all thought it was funny (as well as dead-on appropriate), I actually liked
the nickname and considered it a compliment. The troll, a two hundred pound
fireplug, actually typed up a release form which I had to sign saying I
approved of the term and would not sue the station nor hold anyone accountable
should I suddenly decide to become offended. That night after the troll went
home, one of our photographers went down to her office with a chisel and added
the prefix "In" to the "Human Resources" nameplate outside
her door. Now she had the nickname "Inhuman Resources" which spread
through the station like wildfire and stuck like superglue.
    Back to the
original comment, in which Harry highlighted the fact that I "nailed"
the Senator. While this might have meant something sexual had I been a
Washington, DC intern in a blue dress, the term "nailed" in the news
business meant that I exposed some serious shit about a politician, in this
case, a New York State Senator.
    And you have to
understand where Harry's coming from. He broke into the business in the
dinosaur age, when smoke filled newsrooms were populated by nothing but men and
the only women in the building were secretaries. When the women's movement was
making inroads into the biz, the men lived by the mantra "keep the broads
out of broadcasting" as they fought an unsuccessful battle. Harry is still
old school on the subject of equality in the television news industry, thinking
most women are simply eye candy, but he loves me because he says I'm "one
of the guys."
    You beginning to
see my problem?
    Harry just turned
sixty, and doesn't look a day over seventy-five. The shock of white hair and
the closely cropped matching beard doesn't help. His gray eyes are framed by a
flock of crows feet. He's short and stocky, maybe five-six, with a bay window
from too many trips to the tavern across the street for a cold one after the
newscast. The trademark red suspenders harken back to a bygone era. He paced
around the glassed-in conference room channeling DeNiro with that baseball bat
in The Untouchables , whacking a ruler
into his hand as he recapped the previous newscast. "Yessir, damn fine
reporting." Tap, tap, tap. He stopped behind the reporter who would be
this morning's victim, fortyish general assignment reporter Bob Evanson, then
rested the ruler on the man's shoulder like he was knighting the guy. "She
woulda done a better job on your piece last night."
    Evanson looked
over his shoulder as fear crept into his dark eyes. (Evanson, it should be
noted, is a product of Catholic school and therefore has an genetic fear of
rulers.) "All the facts checked out, Harry. What was wrong with it?"
he asked, voice cracking a bit.
    "Oh, nothing
was wrong with it," said Harry,
continuing his parade around the room. "You didn't go for the kill shot.
You had the guy and you let him off with a slap on the wrist. Softball
questions." Tap, tap, tap. "Just lob the damn things over the plate
like it's a beer league."
    "I thought
my questions were valid."
    "Yeah, they
were valid, but soft. The Cupcake woulda nailed his ass to the wall and lit up
a cigarette afterwards on the set." (Interesting visual that would no
doubt land me on the front page of The Post .)
He stopped, then turned to face the reporter. "You know the difference
between you and her, Bob?" He pointed the ruler at Bob, then me.
    Evanson rolled
his eyes and exhaled audibly. "No, Harry. What?"
    "You're too
nice. You never go for the jugular. What makes her a great reporter is that
she's a bulldog with absolutely no social skills."
    My head jerked
back like I was hit with a blow dart.
    "Ouch,"
said feature reporter Stan Harvey, who