My scapegoat ate my column

Itís always nice to have a scapegoat. You know, someone you can blame if you donít want to do something or didnít do something the way someone wanted you to. Iíve always been a terrible liar, and even little white lies about whoís to blame for a certain situation never came easy to me, but now that I work at The Evening Sun, I can have a scapegoat for any situation without even trying.

In high school, my mother was always the scapegoat, and she was perfectly willing to fill that role. If I didnít want to go to a party in the middle of someoneís corn field in November or if I really didnít want to go to the movies with that creepy, but very nice, kid from homeroom, I would always just blame my mom. ďThat sucks,Ē I would say. ďI really wanted to go to that freezing cold corn field and stay for several hours, but Mom said I canít go.Ē

When I thought my friends might be catching on, I even had fake telephone conversations with my mother, during which I would plead my case for the benefit of whoever was in the room with me.

Now that Iím a little older, I have much less need for that particular kind of scapegoat. First of all, my friends and I are all now old enough to drink beer inside, but Iíve also discovered that the world wonít end if I tell someone I donít want to do something.

Having reached that decision several years ago, I didnít really think I would need to play this particular blame game again, but I was wrong.

Ever since I started working at the newspaper, I have heard people discuss what goes on here, and after conversations with several individuals, I discovered that I had a scapegoat that I didnít even need to make up, because someone already did it for me.

I canít count the number of times people have told me they know about the inner-workings here at the newspaper, and how Iím being silenced by my boss. If someone gives me a tip that doesnít amount to much or if an explanation makes something seem less important than it originally appeared, the blame immediately falls on the head of the almighty editor. I could argue and offer explanations until Iím blue in the face, but it would do no good, because they already ďknowĒ how it works.

So now that youíve read this, you have two options, you can believe that the higher-ups here at the paper let me write about what I want, or you can assume that theyíve forced me to say all of this, so they wonít hold the blame. The choice is yours.

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