Dear concerned readers,

Having received numerous unsolicited letters about my newspaper’s wage structure, I feel I have no choice but to address your concerns.

First of all, yes, reporters are paid in cigarettes and gum. Anyone who has been on the beat understands these are far more valuable to journalists than tosh like money or health insurance. When reporters are working 78 hour weeks what need do they have for money anyway?

Now of course we would love to pay our reporters a living wage — or any wage for that matter — but we in management have to make tough choices. That’s what we’re paid so well for.

Rest assured we greatly value our staff; we just don’t show it in our salaries, culture, or opportunities for career advancement. It’s a matter of the heart. I hope you can respect that.

Get off my back,

Blythe Corker

Walker,

You goddamn son of a bitch. Where do you get off thinking you can get away with stealing my rolodex — again.

I can’t find you, because you have my rolodex, but when we cross paths I will end you. Count on it.

Warmest regards,

Blythe Corker

Dear Jezza,

I’ve given this a great deal of thought since our altercation the other day and I remain adamant that Die Hard 4.0 is a perfectly good action film and a worthy member of the Die Hard franchise.

Yes it’s a little rusty, but it wears its agedness on its sleeve. Bruce Willis is a dinosaur totally unsuited to the task at hand — that’s funny. Justin Long is super savvy and knows all about the techy razmataz of modern life, but measured against a lantern-jawed New York cop is a bit of a dweeb. Again, funny. Long is no Samuel L. Jackson I’ll grant you that, but he and Willis have something going on.

Are the action set pieces excessive? Probably. Does the villain (appropriately I forget his name) hold a candle to Alan Rickman or Jeremy Irons? No.

Still, I like it, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise. Just name the time and place.

With affection,

Blythe Corker

Dearest Edna,

I am just mortified about how we left things last week. Or rather, how you left me alone with my pants literally around my ankles in the Mission Street K-Mart. You haven't seen fit to answer my calls, my emails, or my incessant knocking on your front door, but I know deep down how you feel.

Come back to me darling. We can make it work. I can change.

Kindest regards,

Blythe Corker