But if that's what everybody wants, fine. You want to know about me? Goodie. Sit down, shut up, and pay attention. And no dozing off.
My name is G. Gordon Godwin. Want to know what the "G" stands for? Tough. I was born...ha! Like I'm telling you people how old I am. Our family was poor. My father worked four jobs just so we could call ourselves poor. We ate dirt and liked it. In fact, I still eat dirt, though my wife calls it meat loaf.
I found that I loved to dig up dirt on people. Not to eat it, just to dig it up. Affairs, scandals, murders, you name it, I found out everything about it. Of course, no one listens to you when you're a kid, so a lot of that stuff stayed covered up. But I got a lot of free candy and magazines to keep me quiet. So I learned early on about the awesome power of bribery.
Worked my way through college and hated every minute of it. That's the way it is when you're smarter than everyone else, including the teachers. Genius is never appreciated. Probably why they failed me miserably every chance they had.
After college, I went to work for a major metropolitan paper. I won't say which one, but it wasn't a rag like this. It had "the" and "times" in the title, and that's all you get. I worked my way up from the mail room, where I swept up after the lowlifes who sorted the mail. Anything I could do to get ahead, I did. I was determined to be able to pay for my own hot water.
I'd been with the paper for about ten years when I met a woman in the cafeteria. She served the pudding and Jell-O, though she said it was soup and lunchmeat. Our eyes locked, and we knew it was lust at first sight. Then more things locked, and the next thing you know, we're getting hitched in Vegas over the weekend while praying her father didn't find the pregnancy test she used.
After a few more years as a beat reporter, I happened on an ad for managing editor at the Chronicle. The pay wasn't any better and the journalism was sketchy at best. Stories about vampires and werewolves and things that go bump in the night. Goodie. But the former owner was a notorious drunk, so I just scribbled down the ingredients from a box of Bisquick and handed that in as my resume. I got the job.
About six weeks after that, he died. His kidneys were failing, his liver was the size of a shriveled fig, and he had more cholesterol than a bucket of lard. He was killed by a runaway bus down by the docks. We got pictures. In his will, he left the Chronicle to his secretary, but she'd been dead for seventeen years. A little white-out later, I was owner and managing editor. I gave myself a raise.
What you were expecting some gooey self-help happy ending? Get outta here. Show's over. Get back to work!