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Icepeople staff confesses to mass corruption

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We have robbed the fine people of Svalbard and beyond. But we’re really, really sorry.

Our hypothetical readers may have noticed there wasn’t anything to notice during the past week in print (and shamefully little here at the website). While some might shrug and figure it’s our typical casual atittude toward deadlines, the truth is much more sinister.

We were writing the second-to-last article of another giant issue, with just an in-house ad pleading shamelessly for donations during our “telethon” to do beyond that, when suddenly the whole thing crashed and burned. Somehow a gremlin found its way into our file and nothing could be saved or edited.

So all of you were robbed of a precious asset. But it’s not like we were cackling and counting our heist. We’ll spare you our sob stories about how crime doesn’t pay (especially since there’s no witnesses to what our lunatic editor murdered in an act of passion). Instead, we’re devoting our weary selves to getting everything on the website and updated.

Our cheapo Indie Software desktop publisher has done this only one other time in the history of this sad publication, but since we’ve got an actually legitimate copy of InDesign we’re planning to switch to that sooner rather than later. We’re also hoping that for the price tag it has some kind of Photoshop-like “unsharp mask” equivalent that auto-converts our incoherent tirades into quality writing, sort of as a way of paying our debt to society.

 

About Post Author

Mark Sabbatini

I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.
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