By Johnny Bananas
Though my specialty is fake news, or what I prefer to call “enhanced journalism”, one thing that is certainly true for us all – it’s important to have dreams. Not because it indicates proper sleep cycles, but because without dreams we wouldn’t have things like seven dollar coffee drinks with paper straws and fancy names, or eighteen dollar domestic beers for watching millionaires chase after a ball, or guillotines. Just imagine a world without them? It’s not easy.
Becoming a fake news reporter is a calling as much as it is a career. You might say, one is born this way. At the deepest core of one’s being there is a desire, nay, an impulse, to engage in the art of tomfoolery. Before my first steps, I’m told, I would cry out for my mother’s nurturing bosom with a twinkle in my eye that let her know it wasn’t warm milk that I lacked, but integrity.
Gifted, I was able to read the classics at the tender age of 11 months, preferring Shakespeare to Dr. Seuss and Maimonides to a Mrs. Butterworth’s label. My naptimes were preceded by dissecting philosophical reviews of ancient Greek literature and my bed time stories included Beowolf, the Wealth of Nations, or A Brief History of Time when I was feeling lazy. My digestion for ideas was stronger than it was for whirled peas.
By the age of three I could speak seventeen languages fluidly, including the one for death people. This led to my being ostracized by my freshman classmates that first year at academy. Alone and without human contact I turned to cheap novels. It was then I found the book that would change me forever –The Little Boy Who Cried Wolf Blitzer. The pages practically turned themselves.
My sophomore year, at the age of four, I was asked to write a thousand word essay, as bad lucky charms would have it, on the metaphorical metamorphosis of Pinocchio as an allegory for human redemption. Try as might I could only come up with these ten words: Clearly this peace of crap story was a tragedy. As you can imagine I got a D-. The teacher said I misspelled peace. I beg to defer.
Upon graduation I matriculated to Harvard (my safety) where I was accepted into their honors program and heavily recruited by both the Gazette and the Lampoon. I was able to, as the saying goes, pork my chops writing for both. Though the Gazette never published any of my work (they said it lacked “veritas” – which apparently is Latino for “difficult to understand”) the experience I got handling rejection was a real character builder. It may be more appropriate to say one does not build character so much as acquires it.
After an almost entirely legal name change, I left school early, like my good friend Bill Gates, and blew that popsicle stand for the big time – Vermont! Though this was my first time in the Green New Mountain Deal state I knew I had found a home. Clearly a state full of dairy farms and Bernie Sanders supporters would hardly notice a little more bovine pucky.
My time had come, I had gone pro.
Johnny Bananas is the nom de plume of a ‘fake news’ reporter from eastern Vermont.