1. TEDITORIAL: Who Shot Me?

    Words: Ted Bawno
    Originally published in ego trip #13, 1998

    By now, my children, I’m sure you’ve read the news today… oh, boy. I’ve been shot. I still can’t believe it. I’ve been shot! Do you remember where you were when it happened? I do. I was on my fucking backside!

    Anyways, like those historical ladies-men legends, J.F.K., J.R. Ewing and J.J. Evans, I caught a heavy bullet experience with my name, address and cell phone number on it. Whoa, baby! I still remember it like it happened yesterday. Come to think of it – it did happen yesterday. (Oh, shit, I’m a resilient old fuck!)

    This is how it happened: I was golfing with O.J. and M.J., when some James Earl Ray-wannabe, as the kids say, “rolled on us.” This sniper, hyper off the ginseng brew, fingered me for a patsy and filled me with holes on the 18th hole. Needless to say, I blacked out like the Big Apple in the summer of ’77. First my boy “Ol’ Blue Eyes” goes down, then my buff buddy Junkyard Dog, now this.

    When I came to, my chief surgeon, Dr. Quinn Heathcliff Huxtable, was massaging my shoulders and assuring me that everything was going to be A-okay. He gave me the thumbs-up sign and took two and passed it. I haven’t smoked reefer since my wild Hollywood swingin’ bashes with that interracial love duo, Richard “Black Superman” Pryor and Margot “Lois Lane” Kidder. (I wish you love rats could have worked it out.)

    But I’ve got to come clean like Felix Unger and the great conscious rapper, Jesus the Damaged One. My impending hiatus already has my publishing province, ego trip, in a state of shock that even Mick Jagger or Rod Stewart couldn’t swallow. (Pump your stomach and your fist and keep checking for this well-seasoned coot. I’m not done yet!) Without my hidden hand to guide, ride and deride my Benetton-rainbow coalition (a/k/a my 31-flavored-colored staff), the et Minnow could be lost. This Titanic-al development hasn’t helped the already shaky state of affairs that’s plagued my critical circular for the last few months.

    Yeah, the rumors are true. ego trip is broke. The magazine’s un-trusty investment bro-ker, Dirk “No Diggity” Davenport, had been robbing me blind. I found this out thanks to my cell block convo with Death Row’s big dog, Marion “Suge” Knight. (Hey, what happened to the Pips? Ha-ha!) Just kidding, big guy. I still remember your gridiron glory days when you crushed more than Big Pun and Deacon Jones put together. Sugar Bear’s insight has given me some food for thought. (By the way, this hospital gruel ain’t exactly 21 – or Sizzler.)

    I’ve never been one for bullshit, so let’s cut to the chase. I’ll be damned if I sacrifice my lifestyle and shell out any more Susan B. Anthonys, Tommy Jeffersons or Tommy Davidsons for this editorial orphanage. Never a moneymaker in its 27-year-existence, et has been a fiscal boil on my empire’s butt. With dissension at an all-time high, I’m ready to let these would-be air traffic controllers walk on by like my dear friend Dionne “Eyes of Laura Mars” Warwick. Special big ’em up shout-outs to my Vegas “posse” pack who sent me flowers: Buddy Hackett Jr. (your father was one funny sonofabitch), Don Rickles, Dyan Cannon, Larry Flynt, Larry King, Michael Wolfe, and the still incredible Cathy Lee Crosby.

    But don’t cry for me, Argentina (or Gina, my buxom nurse/publicist – sponge bath me, baby). I know this rich Nigerian, powerful American that’s proud to be an African, who gave me the skinny on who might have pulled the trigger. I heard the culprit’s one the run eating – and ducking my bloodthirsty bounty killers, and I wanna be there when they nab him. In the meantime, my fair-skinned first born, Gaelen, will act as interim publisher-über-captain for this sinking ship in its last days. What he chooses to do with this staff of ingrates is anyone’s guess. Personally, I couldn’t give two shits (and that has nothing to do with my present physical restrictions). I hear those jerks wanna explore “other mediums.” Explore the unemployment line, suckers.

    I’m setting these Black people free. (There’s always more! Ha-ha!) Until next time, see ya in the funny pages.


    Theodore Aloysius Bawno,

    Ted’s final ted-itorial was written under heavy sedation, but it’s all pretty much true.

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