Could it happen here?

It’s the hackneyed tease line to every bad TV story.

“Rabid marmoset hijacks bus load of school children. Could it happen here?”

“Mother Theresa dies. Could it happen here?”

“My toe feels funny. Could it happen here?”

But, a good friend in New York sent me a clip from the New York Times about a Houston Chronicle reporter who lost his job for operating an anonymous blog. Steve Olafson used the pseudonym “Banjo Jones.” He’d been with the Chronicle for seven years. He had a little fun with his local politicoes, but it wasn’t like he was operating BoyThisIsSomeGoodPorn.com. Fired. Kaput.

The paraonoid part of me hastens to ask, “Hey, Otis? Could it happen here?”

I work for an organization that encourages creativity, but frowns on public displays that could damage my reputation and my company’s reputation as a result. My boss has even asked for the link to Rapid Eye Reality. As far as I know he doesn’t have it yet. He hasn’t mentioned it if he does.

So, paranoia sets in. I steal looks over my shoulder even as I pound out this missive. Do my boring stories of public drunkeness, sloppy politics, and useless nostalgia rate getting canned?

Here we go…the gauntlet.

I don’t care. Fire me. This has been my one true creative outlet for 13 months and I’m not about to stop.

I almost want to get caught. Life gets a little boring sometimes and it would add some punch to an otherwise hum-drum day.

So, this is me saying, “Hey, look at me” (wildly waving limp arms above my head) “I’m your poster boy for irresponsiblity” (still waving the arms and now dancing a jig) “I’m the guy who once spent an entire post defining the word ‘Wootler.'”

Does anyone have the number for FEMA? I could be asking for a disaster here.