“I think that I think, therefore I think that I am.” – Ambrose Bierce

****

You know, Jennifer Lenhart of the Houston Chronicle is not the only newspaper person from which strongarm prosecutors are trying to get information. Why only last weekend my girlfriend and I were watching a riveting edition of “Biography”. You can tell the show is getting desperate for subjects when they present a retrospective on the life of “Doodles” Weaver. But I digress already.

Suddenly, the door to my apartment literally blew off its hinges and a gang of lawyers resembling the Ness bunch from “The Untouchables” rushed in with a battering ram.

Without hesitation I immediately galvanized myself into action. Like a cat I sprung from the sofa and dived to the carpet. I buried my face in my arms and screamed at the intruders, “Do anything you want to the girl but for the love of God don’t hurt ME!” Then I wept uncontrollably and tried to soil myself. Cleverly portraying a sniveling coward has gotten me out of lots of scrapes.

It didn’t work out so well this time though. Three of the five invaders had seen my carpet diving routine before and were not diverted from their sinister purpose.

“All right Richards, you know why we’re here. We want the files.”

“Which files?” I asked, the stench of fear filled my nostrils.

“Don’t play stupid.” Their leader snarled.

“He can’t help it.” My girlfriend uncharitably chimed in.

“Oh…yeah.” The leader admitted with disgust as I nodded enthusiastically.

“Besides, he doesn’t know anything important. He writes about his parakeet and whines about whatever occurs to him.” She continued.

“We have it on good authority that he knows more than he’s telling.” He grabbed me by my lapels and hoisted me to my feet. This was painful. I wasn’t wearing lapels. He shook me by them anyway and slapped me across the face. “Who are your sources?” He slapped me again and giggled, then passed me to the next guy.

It went on that way for a good while. They’d ask a question, then slap me.

“What happened to Amelia Earhart?” Slap.

“Why is the sky blue?” Slap.

“Who shot J.R?” Slap.

Another prosecutor stepped forward. “Let me try.”

“Who told you Gary Condit had an affair with Chandra Levy?” He demanded. Then he slapped me too.
“Pretty much everybody.” I said.

“Hmmm…good point,” he grudgingly admitted and passed me on. I was beginning to wish I’d warn those lapels.

The next guy said he didn’t really have a question but he slapped me anyway.

Sparked by cunning I grabbed myself by my own lapels and threw myself clear of the festivities.

“All right! All right! I’ll tell you what you want to know! Sure! I went to journalism school. I listened as the professors went into painstaking details about how to gather information, how to cross check my facts, how to confirm my sources!”

“Just as we thought.” The leader said.

“But I improved on that system!” I said. “And THAT is why I’ll never reveal my sources! Never do you hear me? Never!”

“Why?” They asked in unison, including my girlfriend.

I drew myself up to my most dignified height. “Because,” I announced, “I don’t have any files, notes or sources. I just make stuff up. It’s easier.”

They let themselves out, inlcuding my ex-girlfriend.