RIVER CITY JOURNAL: IF YOU DON'T LIKE WHAT YOU'RE ABOUT TO READ, JUST FORGET IT

One of the things I like about my job is that I get lots of helpful advice about how to do it.

If I play my cards right, on any given day I don't have to make a single decision. Somebody else has already decided for me.

Sometimes these good and helpful folks have ideas that are so good they just can't wait until I get to work in the morning to share them with me. So they call me in the middle of the night.

"Why in the heck don't you stop using that itsy-bitsy type? Your old readers can't read it."

That call came late one night -- or early one morning. I can't remember which right now. That's because I'm old too. In addition to not being able to read itsy-bitsy type, I can't remember a lot of stuff that well-meaning individuals tell me. Except I do remember that this particular advice-giver didn't exactly say "heck." If you know what I mean.

Like all newspapers, the Southeast Missourian tries to strike a balance between the type in the pocket-sized Bible and the big-print edition of Reader's Digest.

I happen to know that a lot of readers who complain about how hard it is to read the newspaper need new glasses.

Or just glasses. I didn't know people who are as aged-advantaged as I am could be so vain.

Particularly men.

Fellas, let me let you in on a little secret. You wouldn't have to go to restaurants and eat food that you neither like nor can afford if you'd stop guessing what's on the menu and stop pointing at that blur over on the left-hand side every time someone takes your order.

Get glasses.

Believe me. I've been wearing them since I was 7 years old. They work.

"Why didn't you run a story about (fill in the organization and event)?"

Did you tell us about it?

I had an interesting phone call from the head of a rather prominent organization on the edge of our coverage area this week.

She said she couldn't understand why stories about her rather prominent organization weren't ever published in the Southeast Missourian.

I assured her that I couldn't understand it either.

She had quite a sob story to tell. I was beginning to feel sorry for her, but her whining went on just a tad too long. Out of patience, I told her the newsroom's fax number and asked her to send information to my attention.

She said she would do it right away. But she said it might take a while, because she had never used the fax machine before.

What?

I told this would-be publicist that, in truth, she had never sent me any stories, right?

Yes, she confessed.

Notice: Long noses are not a good way to make friends with the editor.

"How come you put all that stuff in there about my (murder spree, DWI arrest, drug bust, robbery -- pick one)? There wasn't any truth in that story at all."

You're right. We make up most of the news we print. We all gather around the coffee pot in the break room every morning and see who can dream up the most outlandish story for the next day's paper.

Sometimes we talk about the dream story, the one where a 2-year-old girl falls into an abandoned well and has to be saved by a sheriff's deputy after rescue workers feverishly drill a parallel shaft through solid granite just hours before the surgeon general of the United States says she surely would have perished.

And, in our coffee-room version, it's an exclusive.

Then we all remember somebody else already did that story somewhere.

So we all head for the fax machine or visit some elected official's office or interview the guy who raised a radish that looks like Robert Redford when he was a Cub Scout, because we know without the 2-year-old down the well, we still have to put out another paper.

When it comes to murders, DWI arrests, drug busts and robberies, there are times we would certainly like to liven up otherwise dull stories. But we don't. Most of us aren't that bright.

"Joe, you sound like you just ate a grapefruit." (Where have I heard that before?) "You got a burr on your you-know-what, or what?"

What's on my you-know-what is none of your business. Besides, I've never heard a single caller use that expression. So obviously someone -- maybe you-know-who -- just made it up.

But let me be perfectly honest with you for just a second.

I've been in a foul mood ever since 2 a.m. Sunday when the blasted time change went into effect.

Again.

And trust me on this. You've been pretty hinky yourself.

I can't remember a week when I've run across more unhappy, screeching people.

You know what?

I can't do anything for you.

And I'm sorry if that's too Dr. Laura for you.

But I plan on staying this way until 2 a.m. the first Sunday in April.

I'll stop being cranky when bureaucrats stop messing around with a perfectly good day.

In my opinion, God did a pretty good job with the 24 hours he had to work with.

Why isn't that good enough for everybody else?

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.