most likely to hear in the newsroom (amended)

Many people think that deep, meaningful conversations about the economy or world politics are the only things that warrant spoken conversation in a newsroom. Probably with shiny, framed Georgetown and Harvard degrees hanging in heavy, expensive frames above desks, along with Pulitzer prizes, or photos of Pulitzer prize winners.

A lot of people also think that "news people" still wear fedoras, have secretaries who they can call "doll," keep oversized bottles of gin (whiskey, rum, etc.) in their desks and bang out the day's headline-making news on a rusty ol' typewriter, flinging the page at a green-visored typesetter named "Sam" and chomping on a cigar as they saunter over to the City Room.

One of my writers recently confessed that he doesn't even know what a fedora is, and had the blankest of expressions when I mentioned Humphrey Bogart or Frank Sinatra as examples of men who had frequently been seen in fedoras. I finally had to Google a picture of a fedora. Who'd have ever thought that "Google" and "fedora" would be in the same sentence ...?

No one really knows what a City Room is, or where one might be found -- and that includes me. Not a clue.

Since there's a city-wide smoking ban in all indoor places in Laramie, there is no haze of cigar smoke to be choked on in our newsroom; and the few people still dumb enough to smoke do so huddled on the sidewalk outside our building, just long enough to draw a few quick drags and come back to work, reeking of nicotine.

There are no typewriters or green visors to be found on the premises; all the work done on a new-fangled computer, and there isn't a solitary person named "Sam" in the building. And calling someone "doll" could land you in the middle of a sexual harassment suit these days, regardless of the romance of the era that might be associated with the title.

And while there are rumors that one reporter I used to know kept a Mini-Mart mug full of vodka on his desk, imbibing on the job is grounds for immediate release. Which doesn't convince me that there aren't a few little bottles of something special hidden around here ... but I don't know where they are. I wish I did some days.

And so I present to you the most common phrases and conversations you're likely to hear, should you be hanging around our dry, smokeless newsroom anytime close to deadline.
If you're offended by profanity, you should a) not read any further, and b) never work at a newspaper.

You've been warned.

*****

Of an evening at a newspaper, approaching deadline, with never enough done to make anyone comfortable (I should have mentioned before that most of these are in retaliation to computers which suddenly have no inclination to cooperate):

1. "Stupid ... piece of ... oh, crap."

2. "Oh, frack! Frickin', frackin' piece of ... oh HELL!"

3. "Oh, damn. Wait. Never mind. No ... oh DAMN!"

4. Son of a ... NO!

5. "No ... nonononono ... NOOOOO!!! It just crashed ... and I haven't saved anything for the last hour! (and insert any of the above phrases)"

6. "Your story's too long -- I have to cut it."

"You can't cut that part! That's the most important part ... not that part, either. Dammit! I spend hours writing this crap, and you guys just cut it out. Oh, hell! You may as well not run it if you're going to cut that! Dammit!" (followed by a foot-stomping pity party)