Most of us know that The Daily Free Press has experienced some financial hardships lately. Pages are being cut and articles condensed. When I first heard the news at a staff meeting last week, I couldn’t say I was surprised. “That’s what it gets for being a socialist pamphlet,” I muttered under my breath.

What do I care if the paper is gutted? Sure, some Japanese kids might get mad that they don’t have a Sudoku to do in math class, but other than that, no one would really care. The FreeP is a fairly large waste of space, present company excluded.

Plus, there are dozens of newspapers in the Boston area. Surely one of them would welcome my astute insights in its publication. So, upon learning of my current employer’s imminent demise, I contacted local editors and expressed my desire to abandon this crap rag of paper and team up with them instead.

I was overwhelmed with positive responses, but there was a slight problem: Every paper stipulated that I could only write for it if I refrained from making disparaging remarks about women, foreigners and homosexuals. “That’s gay,” I scoffed. If I couldn’t make fun of people who annoy me, what the hell could I possibly talk about?

It started to look like the FreeP was my only option. It may be a socialist pamphlet and a crap rag, but after all, it’s my socialist pamphlet crap rag. Who else would let me use words like “gay” and “crap rag” and pass it off as serious journalism? Despite all its crazy views on civil liberties and gender equality, I kind of have kind of a soft spot for it.

But because the FreeP staff is always busy covering useless stories and writing witty headlines for police reports, I realized it would be up to me to get out there and earn the cold, hard cash the paper so desperately needs.

Unfortunately, I don’t know the first thing about fundraising. And I’m too proud to dip to the level of the hippies out on the street with their stupid clipboards, begging for donations. No, I decided I’d save this paper the good old American way: with hard work.

My initial plan was to be a drug dealer. Quick income, a high-demand product and no taxes — the perfect capitalist venture. But after watching the first two seasons of Weeds on DVD as research, it seemed like a lot more trouble than it’s worth.

Besides, distributing narcotics isn’t really my kind of thing. I’m too much of a law-abiding citizen to partake in something like that. Not to mention I really suck at converting U.S. measurements into metric, which you have to do if you’re going to deal with those bastard Colombians.

I could tell this was going to be harder than I thought. Luckily, the perfect answer fell right into my lap: turkeys. Apparently, wild turkeys have been invading the area. All I had to do was kill a bunch of them, clean ’em and then sell them out in front of Trader Joe’s as “Naturally Raised.” People in these parts love that organic junk. Soon, I’d have every yuppie from here to Wellesley racing in his Volvo to stuff money in my pockets for these freshly slaughtered Thanksgiving treats.

To keep a low profile on my hunt, I decided to use a bow and arrow — silent, but deadly. Unfortunately, I mistook someone’s Pomeranian for a turkey. You should have heard the asinine argument that followed that little mishap. Listen, if you don’t want your dog to be shot by an arrow, perhaps you shouldn’t dress it up in a red and blue sweater. I swear, it’s as if I am living among a bunch of idiots.

After having it out with the owner of the dead dog, I retired the bow in favor of hand-to-hand combat. I heard these turkeys would walk right up to people, so I thought I’d use that to my advantage and just club them to death. At least that way, I’d be confident I was killing a delicious bird, and not someone’s pet.

I camped out in a bush with a bottle of whiskey for my weapon and a vile of urine to attract the bird. I looked a few bushes down, and there was another man reeking of piss, asleep in a bush, clutching an empty bottle. I figured he was out on the hunt too and must have fallen asleep.

After a few minutes I got bored and started drinking my whiskey. I don’t really remember what happened next, but I woke up in the morning slumped against a wall, with about $20 at my feet. Well, I must have done something right. I got up, collected my prize and proudly walked toward the FreeP office. But first, I bought another bottle of whiskey. I figured I deserved it.

Brian Fudge, a senior in the College of Communication, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at [email protected].