Whitman news since 1896

Whitman Wire

Vol. CLIV, Issue 6
Whitman news since 1896

Whitman Wire

Whitman news since 1896

Whitman Wire

A Day in the Life of a Backpager

Due to quick accessibility and numerous colorful illustrations, it has been noted that the Backpage of The Pioneer gets rather a lot of traffic. We in the humor department would like to thank you for flipping the paper over and critically perusing our attempts to be funny whilst occasionally quirking your lips in what MAY BE a hint of a smile. To show our appreciation, we’ve decided to give you a special sneak-peek, behind-the-scenes, once-in-a-lifetime, overly-hyphenated-adjective glimpse into the life of a backpage writer.

8:25 a.m.: Wake up suddenly from a horrible dream involving Jerry Seinfeld and two empty halves of coconuts asking, “Am I funny? AM I FUNNY??” Realize there are only five minutes until the alarm goes off. Use an obscure British cussword and just haul your corpse out of bed.

9 a.m.-2:30 p.m.: Various and sundry classes. Scribble down a couple of sex-related quotes from your professor for Overhead @ Whitman.

3 p.m.: Think about writing your article. Promptly forget about it when you see a squirrel flat-out sprinting across Ankeny. The long way. Go outside to cheer the audacious little bastard on.

4 p.m.: Okay, seriously writing your article now.

4:01 p.m.: LEVEL SEVEN APPRAISER ON BEJEWELED HELL YEAH.

4:38 p.m.: Focus. Psych yourself up to write your article. Stare at your face in the mirror trying out different kinds of laughs (the bark, the laugh that goes in instead of out, and my personal favorite: the nose laugh, also known as the Snot-Put).

5:15 p.m.: Sporadic sobbing of “I don’t know how to be funny!!” to friends who nod politely while rolling their eyes at the same time, talented Whitties that they are.

6:00 p.m.: Distract yourself with food. Pasta line for seconds. Homemade ice cream sandwich with cookies for dessert. ‘Nother one for the road. ‘Nother one for the destination. ‘Nother one for the food baby. He’s a growing boy.

7:00 p.m.: Finally write the thrice-blasted article, bleeding every word through your eyeballs, and turn it in. SUCK. CESS.

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