BRAD DOHERTY

Brad Doherty stopped by The McHale Report's office to pay his respects. He hadn't eaten in three days. Sports Editor Max Maxwell discovered half a sandwich the janitor had left the previous night. He reheated the morning coffee and served Doherty.

"I haven't tasted food this sumptuous in months," confessed the emaciated Doherty, a tear running down the side of his face, a heartrending testimony to his poverty.

The man is a Vincent Van Gogh. He once thought of cutting off his penis in order to better understand the life of a eunuch, but he couldn't find a knife sharp enough to cut through the leathery appendage. Doherty lives an abject existence as a result of enduring his newspaper's slave wages.

"I'm hopeful for the future," sighed the sheepish Doherty. "There is a rumor running wild around the newsroom that our new publisher is promising us a $50 bonus next Christmas. I can almost smell the turkey."

Called the "Splendid Splinter" in honor of his hero Ted Williams, Doherty has elected to remain in the bush leagues rather than chase fame in the big cities.

"When we artists overshadow our art, we become more important than our product and our art suffers," he explained. "I may suffer, but I suffer joyfully."

Doherty shakily regained his feet and emitted a barely audible fart.

"That felt good," he gushed. "Life is getting better. The Herald pays me today. I'm already savoring my tortilla with beans."