B.G.

P.S. This memo from Enders is a joke, isn't it? A cruel joke.

P.P.S. When does Riddley get back from Alabama?

i n t e r o f f i c e m e m o

TO: Roger FROM: Herb Porter RE: Possible Bestseller

The idea of this place producing one bestseller, let alone three, is ludicrous. Having said that, I have a wacky idea, and you can shoot it down if you want, but here goes. Let's get Olive Barker-still our best ghost writer, in my estimation-to write a quickie bio of Iron-Guts Hecksler, concentrating on his final rampage. Now that the guy is dead, we've got the whole tale- beginning, middle, fiery climax. I could even kick in a chapter about what went on here, maybe juice it up a little. What do you think?

Herb

P.S. I think you should hunt Enders down and kill him just for calling you "babes." Bad news is bad enough. The man is patronizing.

P.P.S. Has anyone heard from our mailroom and janitorial staff? Riddley, in other words. Went by his cubby today. Something in there smells really good. Sort of like hot toast and jam.

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TO: Roger Wade FROM: SANDRA JACKSON.

RE: Totally silly request

Roger (or should I call you "Babes"?),

Zenith House has never published a bestseller and never WILL publish a bestseller. But I DO have a rather nutty idea. It has to do with Anthony L.K. Las...o...b..a, our Nasty Creatures from h.e.l.l writer. People have apparently been sending Tony jokes. F jokes. For example: "What do you call 5 million marching Brazilian fire-ants?" Answer: Lunchtime in Rio. Or: "How many babies does it take to satisfy a pack of rampaging scorpions?" Answer: How many have you got? These may not strike you funny, but I laughed my b.u.t.t off, and several people I've told them to have also laughed (some against their will, from the look on their faces). Why not let him loose on this? It can't hurt. He wants to call it Jokes from h.e.l.l. He insists it's a new kind of joke, he calls it the "Sick Joke."

What do you think?

Sandi

P.S. When does Riddley get back? My wastebasket is absolutely overflowing overflowing! I peeped my head in his cubby today, and do you know what? It smells good. good. Sort of the way my grandmother's kitchen used to smell when she was baking cookies. Maybe I'm losing it. Sort of the way my grandmother's kitchen used to smell when she was baking cookies. Maybe I'm losing it.

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TO: Roger FROM: John RE: Insane request RE: Responses from Bill, Herb, and Sandra

Herb said it best, babes-the idea is ludicrous. Nevertheless, I keep working my way through the old ma.n.u.scripts. Nothing even close so far, and I'm down to the last two shelves. If nothing else, we can all go on unemployment knowing that the mailroom is clean for the next company that moves in.

Having said that, let me tell you that I feel depressed (more than usual, that is) to realize I must count myself, along with Bill, among the goats instead of the sheep. I mean, Herb and Sandra at least came up with ideas, didn't they? Which leads me to the real purpose of this memo. You're the boss, not me, but I actually think both ideas have merit. A book about the General would sell, especially if we really hustled it out there. I know that we don't have the ability to produce an "instant book" like the ones which followed the release of the Watergate tapes, but Olive could work fast, especially if Herb worked on it with her. I'm sure he'd give himself a starring role, but even that might work.

The joke-book idea is more nebulous, but I have to tell you that when I read that, I felt some obscure circuit (probably one I should feel ashamed of) go hot. Possibly we could widen the scope, i.e. sick jokes on every subject? And stick a funny name on the author, something like Ima Sicko or I.B. Ill? I know how it sounds-in a word, sub-juvenile-and yet it seems to me something might be there.

My first reaction was I wish I'd thought of that. A sick joke in itself. Clearly we have reached the bottom of the barrel, but I think you shouldgive it a shot. Meanwhile, I'll continue with the last of the unreturned scripts. I'm in too deep to back out now.

John

P.S. A book of jokes would be an even faster turn than a factoid book on old Iron-Guts. Like a week. All we have to do is put our heads together and come up with the most scabrous jokes we can remember. Q. What do you call a kid with no arms and legs? A. Second base.

P.P.S. I really was president of the Literary Society at Brown, although all that seems like a dream to me now. In fact, this whole year seems like a dream.

P.P.S.S. Why is everyone so worried about Riddley? What's this about good smells coming from his closet? The last time I was down there in smelled like mold and Lysol. I might have to check this out. Also, I'm tempted to tell Sandra I know exactly where she can put her wastebasket. I'd be glad to help with the insertion procedure, too.

P.P.S.S.S. When does Riddley get back? I sho does miss dat man! Ya.s.suh!

from the office of the editor-in-chief

TO: Herb DATE: 3/30/81

MESSAGE: The book about Hecksler is green-lit. Tentative t.i.tle: The The Devil's General Devil's General. Talk to Olive Barker at once. You're authorized to offer her $2,500 plus expenses up to $150 a week for four weeks. If we're going out, we might as well go out spending Apex's money just as hard and fast as we can. We'll want photos for a middle-of-thebook section. You'll be working on her every step of the way, Herb. Tell her she's off downers for the duration.

Uppers are fine.

Roger

from the office of the editor-in-chief

TO: Sandra DATE: 3/30/81.

MESSAGE: The joke book is green-lit, but forget Las...o...b..a; let him concentrate on his wasps and flies. The five of us are going to write this scabrous little tome ourselves. Tentative t.i.tle: World's Sickest Jokes Jokes. We'll have our first editorial session on this project this afternoon, at Flaherty's Pub down the street. This is the closest thing we've got to a winner, so let's take it seriously. We need to think about whether or not we want (or dare) to go ethnic, as in "How many Poles does it take" and "How many Mexicans does it take." My feeling is if we're going to go sewer-diving, we might as well go all the way to the bottom. And don't you or anyone else talk to me about sharing royalties on a book of jokes about dead babies and sodomy. We're saving our jobs here, or trying to.

Perhaps we should invite Riddley into our little brain-trust. He'll be back next week, and I hope you'll pa.s.s that along to your colleagues. We're dying here, and all anyone seems to care about is the G.o.dd.a.m.ned janitor.

Roger