What, No Staples!?!

In July of 2011, I was approached by a major manufacturer of staples (for discretion’s sake, let’s call the company “Shwingline”). Shwingline inquired about supplying staples for issue stitching (as it’s known in the business). Before I had a chance to bring their offer to Publisher Nick Barbaro and Editor Louis Black, I also received a call from a leading pet supply manufacturer (let’s call them “PetShmart”). PetShmart had somehow found out about Shwingline’s move, and wanted to see if “there was anything they could do to make sure the Chronicle would never have staples,” as a large portion of their customer base used the paper as cage lining. I did not take this information to Nick and Louis. I did not even consider the fact that staples would clearly be better for our readers, making the paper easier to read, and keeping racks neat. Instead, I started a bidding war between the staple and pet supply lobbies.

What followed was two weeks of wining and dining, clandestine meetings in border towns, drugs, women – my greed had consumed any rational action, and I fell head first into a whirlpool of bribery and embezzling. By the beginning of August, I had worked out deals with both companies that would net me several hundred dollars over the next 10 years.

Eventually the tables turned. PetShmart could tell I was leaning toward a deal with Shwingline. After a sordid night at a local gentlemen’s club, I was approached in the parking lot by a PetShmart thug, and told at gunpoint that I should end my negotiations with Shwingline. I was terrified. My shame is such that I will admit to you now that I evacuated.

Then it was Shwingline’s turn. The following morning as I left the house, there was an image of my family, a large “X” drawn over them – stapled to my front door.

Finally it dawned on me how low I had fallen. Only a month ago, I was simply the art director, celebrated throughout my chair. Now, I was a white-collar criminal fearing for my family’s safety. I have since confessed all of this to Nick and Louis. They listened patiently and took notes, gathering details and information about my contacts. I did notice a long, awkward glance between the two of them, but I can only assume that was a shared disappointment in my behavior, and my hubris in thinking that the Chronicle would ever change its long-standing tradition of printing loose papers that leave local coffeehouses strewn with crumpled piles of newsprint. I apologize to you, the reader, for all the confusion this has caused; the Chronicle has never been stapled, never should have been, and never will be again. If you ever pick up an issue with staples, well … there’s no telling how high this goes.]