Word: blots
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Hell of a situation, thought the Blot. One man writes the whole magazine. Next year, he'll be a senior. And readership is low. His eyes rose up the thermometer, as if in silent hope. They reached eighty percent. "Damn CRIMSON," he muttered...
...Blot looked back at the galleys of the story, wondered if Neihbur was the right spelling, didn't know, decided to leave it. As he thumbed through the galleys, he noticed N. Pettit's name upside-down on the masthead, thought it would be a good gag to leave...
Then came the idea, hitting Blot like a thunderbolt. "You've got to write about what interests them," he said aloud. "No one cares about Kurds and gypsies, but almost everybody reads the CRIMSON. We'll write about them...
...minute, Blot had whipped off an editorial about the CRIMSON. Then a monstrosity cartoon, a "What the next President of the CRIMSON will look like." He was listing other topics for future issues when he heard the Jester coming down the stairs...
...Blot yelled something unprintable, and leaving the galley proofs on the table, ran upstairs to stop the movies and marshall the editors for the search...