The Buyout of the Bemidji Bugle
Penny's hometown paper and its path to Perdition
with Penny Nickels,
Editor, photographer, opinion and advice columnist, local, national, and international news, art director, astrologer, cartoonist, legal notices and obituaries, sports page, business section, advertising sales, distribution, accounting, and custodian of the Bemidji Bugle
Hi friends! I know, I know. It’s been a hot minute since last I connected with you. If you could see what has transpired since last we chatted, you would totally understand why I’ve been in hiding.
Practically overnight, I went from being the already very busy editor of the Bemidji Bugle to taking on the roles and responsibilities of the other 17 people in our office — the literati of Bemidji, the pros, my best friends. They are now GONE, as in vamoosed, from the Bemidji Bugle.
On Monday of last week, the new owners of the Bugle, Dotty, and Zacharias Nachtnebel, drove up from Tennessee to ever-so-politely tell us (in their syrupy Southern drawls) that they had decided to downsize the newspaper’s staff, and what with all the great technology out there and AI, they had come to the conclusion (with Jesus’ guidance, of course) that they really only needed one person to run the whole shebang: me. Upon arriving at our (now-theirs) newsroom, they discreetly handed me an envelope with a new contract and suggested I head to my cubicle to give it a gander while they went from desk to desk, sacking each and every employee. The fuckers.
My new contract was simple, the stated goal being that the publication would go on as it always had. There would be no mention of a change of ownership, nor was there to be any indication that there was only one person running the show. I was given until week’s end to come up with 17 noms de plume for each of the sections previously belonging to my loyal and hardworking colleagues. Dotty and Zach’s art department in Tennessee would then create 17 AI-generated headshots to match up with the names given for the writers, along with brief faux credentials for each faux employee. It was then my responsibility/problem to create content for each section. As if.
Dotty expressed being supremely confident in my ability to create distinctive voices for each “writer” and to become an expert on their content. My biggest concern? How would I be able to walk across the stage in the Rotunda at Columbia University to receive my Pulitzer Prize for “Distinguished Commentary” when I’d done the writing under the nom de plume, Cedric Freeman? Would I have to hire an African-American man as my body double?
Zach, the financial wizard behind Eternal Word Publications, informed me that my remuneration for singlehandedly writing and producing the entire paper, in both print and digital formats, as well as vacuuming the office space and scrubbing toilets, would be an additional $500 per month. “Won’t that be a nice increase?" Dotty suggested. “Surely, that will go a long way in a small town like Bemidji,” she added enthusiastically, her silky, plumped lips curled into what looked like a post-mortem grimace unconvincingly imitating a smile.
Let’s do the math here… I was previously earning $56,000 per year as a full-time editor and was now expected to take on 17 other positions, each of which had an average salary of $34,000 per year. $34,000 x 17 + $56,000 = $634,000 in annual staffing cost pre-Nachtnebels. The company restructuring, even with my boost in salary, resulted in the new owners saving nearly $572,000 per year. And I was now going to be doing my usual 50-hour-per-week job, plus the work of 17 other full-time employees. Note: according to the 13th Amendment, indentured servitude is no longer legal in the U.S. (as of 1827). I’m guessing these constitutional changes still haven’t trickled down into the Deep South.
I have to admit, it was really hard to resist the Nachtnebel’s generous new contract, even as I watched my tearful colleagues head out the door. This new version of my job was looking to be almost as much fun as being employed by Jeff Bezos, whose Amazon work culture is described by Google’s AI Overview as "bruising" and "relentless." One can only imagine what it’s like for those poor writers at the Washington Post, especially now that Bezos is rimming Trump’s ass.
Damn, that sounded great, that extra $500 per month offered by Dotty and Zach… except for the bit about how many hours it was going to take to pull off this stunt of producing the entire paper by myself. I’d have to figure out a way to do interviews, investigative reporting, attend community events, and the like without letting it slip that I was the only one running the show — fuck. Even David Copperfield couldn’t pull this off. And were they going to provide me with an expense account for disguises? “Ah, no,” said Dotty, “But I’m sure you can scrabble together outfits from Twice But Nice for next to nothing, and that American Cancer Society shop has loads of wigs from people whose chemo and radiation didn’t go so well.”
It was clear. I would not have a single day off, ever. And holidays would be the opposite of a holiday for me. I’d be looking at doing double-time with all the additional ads that needed copy and layout. Dotty knew this. And she didn’t care. Compassion and evangelical Christianity, not fellow travelers in this world. Dotty also knew I was single, had no pets, and that all that remained of my immediate family was my sister, who lived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. She had done her research. Because of what she and Zach perceived to be my vulnerabilities, the Nachtnebels felt strongly that my new contract’s compensation was “fair,” and they were firm in this. It was a take-it-or-leave-it situation. My pilled acrylic sweater from Target and vegan suede Sketchers had told them all they needed to know.
Holy shit, did Dotty pick the wrong lady to fuck with. In all her infinite hubris, she had missed every subtle hint. Like female birds, I might be less colorful, less overtly confident, and thus less visible to predators, but what Dotty failed to see, even after her LASIK surgery, was that I am a BITCH. A brilliant, snarky, conniving, secretive, sarcastic, uppity, elitist, atheist cunt from hell. And I love my community, my neighbors, the kids that toilet paper the principal’s house, and my work peeps. Fiercely.
By the time I’d finished reading the Nachtnebels’ 5-point religious manifesto and their two-page business plan with a single chart, which indicated their expectation that ad sales would double in the first quarter, I had hatched a plan. This was a plan I could not, would not share with anyone. Only I could pull this off and with more confidence than Dotty could ever muster (or imagine), even in her state of hyper-religious exuberance. I was absolutely, 100% positive of this. Every single mistake I’d made in my lifetime, and every hardship I’d overcome had prepared me for this moment.
Dotty announced that all staff were to leave within the hour and that the first five out the door would get a Ben Franklin along with their last paycheck and a month’s severance. The writers and other staff quickly began grabbing the boxes stacked next to the front windows, and set to work packing up their personal belongings. Grumbling, swearing, and knocking things about ensued, culminating in our political columnist’s “Do Not Disturb” mug hitting the back wall with a loud thud, then splintering into a million pieces on the linoleum floor. Amidst all this chaos, Lana, our social media maven, loudly announced she had just posted about the buyout and staff layouts on Facebook and IG and had asked people to cancel their subscriptions.
At the front of the newsroom, Dotty could be seen quickly and deliberately thumbing through the stack of termination and severance paychecks. She then pulled two envelopes (both likely bearing Landa’s name) and dramatically ripped them in half, manicured pinkies delicately positioned for high tea, mink-lashed eyes gazing dully toward the back wall, chicly dismissive of her audience of pissed-off writers. Holding up the ripped envelopes in both hands, Dotty delicately released them into the corroded wire waste basket at her stiletto-heeled feet. She then scanned the room, briefly focusing her hateful gaze on each and every writer, challenging them to commit the next act of rebellion.
And thus ended our first day of fascist rule at the former free press of the Bemidji Bugle.
Can't wait for Penny to hatch her plan. The nom de plume choices for each section - priceless! 🤩 I fear this is not far from the mark in what will almost certainly happen in the publishing world.
Penny Nickels: Welcome back, it is so very good to see you again!
What a challenge! Filling 17 positions.
One position that I would rather not think too much about was Bezos rimming Trump.
I would rather not have that image too vivid in my mind. Ahem!
Ahem!
I think Bezos shares this job with House Speaker Michael Johnson.
But of the 17 noms de plume, my favorite name, which I cannot pronounce: "Martina Brzęczyszczykiewicz”
I really, really like the Cross you selected for the office.
It was a wait, but you made it worth it. No WONDER it has been a while. Writing for 17 persons!
Keep sharing!