Over at the Stuckeyville Progress, Mr. Dobbs is bitching that computers suck, and that in the old days, you used to type everything on typewriters, and when you were finished, you'd yank the paper out of the contraption and yell, "Copy!" and someone would snatch it out of your hands and then take it into a broom closet and pass it around a bunch of minimum-wage employees smoking weed who would then giggle and draw unicorns on it and scrawl notes like "I'm a gargantuan ass" before taking it to the press. Carol barely pays any attention to him. She wants to moderate a little bitch session of her own, about the stack of ideas he gave her; she says that they're not stories, and yanks one out as an example. A feature on Stuckeyville's tallest man...he's 6'4", which isn't really a story. She demands to cover an actual event, because real reporters get events. Instead of hurling an electric pencil sharpener at her mouth, the guy assigns her the plum story of the upcoming Stuckeyville bake-off. Kerrrist. My old boss would have drunkenly yanked his belt out of his pants and began whipping everything in sight if you dared to tell him what stories you wanted to cover. I worked at the paper for nine long years before I got to cover a local bake-off. Carol's dad must run the Stuckeyville mafia or something, because it seems everyone she comes in contact with gives her whatever she wants out of complete and utter fear. Either that, or they want a blowjob. I can't really decide which right now.