An addled and agitated New Yorker is seeking legal restitution for succumbing to false representation for decades. Blink Missett has been a loyal subscriber of the New York Times since he has been able to read. The 59 year old states “I’ve been getting The Times for the past 35 years, and with every passing issue I give them another chance to do what’s right and they never have. Well that’s it, this time I’m finally saying enough is enough and I’m gonna do what countless articles have taught me to do and I’m gonna sue ‘em!” Mr. Missett’s disgruntled state is that of a patient man. The man has been wrong times and times again. Any supporter of a business spending their hard earned cents can empathize with Missett’s woes. “My wish isn’t even that crazy,” the aggrieved New Yorker pleads, “I just want the New York Times to do as they say, tell me the time in New York. Is that too much to ask?”
Jargon certainly doesn’t think so. As a matter of fact the time is always conveniently displayed by us at the top of your computer or smart phone, even if we had paper issues we would certainly devise a way to offer you your local time, unlike certain newspapers that promote themselves as time bearers but are nothing more than time ne’ers.
“I have flipped through every single page of every New York Times issue every day since a long time ago and not once has there been a mention of the current time, a place to go to find it, or even an apology for the lack of a clock.” Speaking with Mr. Missett I could not have been more intrigued with his plight and story, but I had to do my journalistic diligence and give the other side a fair chance. I asked Blink, “Do you believe that ‘Times’ could be meant as a more fluid state of being, as in these are the times of New York and what has occurred in them, not necessarily a paper dedicated to telling you the exact time with every page you turn?” “I’m not an idiot.” He responded. I’m just trying to make some money, I got in touch with a lawyer and he said we have case and he thinks he can prove that there is a reasonable expectation for me to believe that the time should be shown to me. We could make a boat load of dough!” “Oh, wow” I said in recoil, “If I print this story and get the word out we could probably get some serious support. Do you think you could cut me in for a piece of that?” “Yeah, why don’t you get me your information and I’ll talk to my lawyer.” I vigorously agreed so that I could finally quit this lousy journalism job and pursue my ambition to be Meghan Trainor’s personal trainer.
Blink finally got back to me after I started reading about the progression of the lawsuit in all of the other papers. He asked to meet in a neutral location and I saw him with a thick clap envelope. I assumed this concealed my money and along with it my dreams. He asked me to introduce myself, which admittedly was strange seeing as I thought we were well along with our budding friendship, and handed me the envelope. Inside, contrarily, was a bundle of nightmares. I was served a subpoena. Due to the great success of Blink Missetts litigation he decided to sue me and Jargon for causing him a week of distress convincing him that his “jar” of peanut butter was “gon”(e).
I am unsure of what will happen to me. At the time of writing this I am simultaneously writing Meghan Trainor hoping she can use her powerful connections to get me out of this tangled web in which I partially wove.
