the editor of the newspaper calls me into his bullet and creative proof office.

I expect another lecture on needing to write on a sixth grade level

or my disrespectful  behavior when I cover stories.

to my great surprise, the editor praises me:

“I like your writing Runfola. It is different from the writing of the other reporters, you take chances and

have style. You fight my editors and sometimes make fun or insult advertisers and city leaders but you have balls. That’s hard to find in big city newspapers. Any reporter you look up to?”

I stare at the editor scratching his balls, which he always does to the disgust of the reporters,

especially the female reporters who he sometimes does the double trick to by scratching while farting.

 “I know you have balls too,” I solemnly say. “So you can stop scratching your balls.” which he pretends

not to hear so I speak an octave or three louder,

 “First, do me a favor stop scratching your balls when I come into your office.  I do not look
     
up to any reporter except Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. He is the only writer worth a damn in America.”

the editor takes his hands out of his pants and screams,” Hunter Thompson. Get the fuck out of my office.”
 
Things at the newspaper are never quite the same for me after that meeting.