Dykes on Bikes: Episode 1: The Massacre of The New York Times

Headquarters of The New York Times

229 West 43rd Street, New York, NY 10036

August 30, 2007

12:34 P.M. Eastern Standard Time

(The following events take place in the office of John H. Powers, Executive President and Chairman of the company.)

Secretary: Sir! I just received word from our men in the lobby. The message is as follows: “Their numbers are growing. They’re using rams to break down the doors.”

Powers: Show me the video surveillance feed! (feed comes through) Oh my God! Is that Fred? Those aren’t rams, you idiot! They’re using the head of our mailman on the door.

Secretary: Sir! They’ve broken through the side entrance! I’m patching you through to David Peters on the ground floor.

(Garbled, hysterical voice): Oh GOD! Oh GOD! They’re eating me, they’re eating me alive! No! God no!! Please don’t! No-gargag (gurgling).

Secretary: Our men are falling back to the main lobby.

Powers: How can this be happening, Mark? What has our world come to?

Secretary: I’m not sure, sir, but if I may speak freely, I think it has something to do with the editorial we released this morning.

Powers: I know that, you idiot! How was I supposed to know that one joke about Hillary Clinton would send every woman in this city up in arms? Look outside the window, Mark. It’s a solid sea of estrogen down there. And there’s no help in sight. Every man and child has locked themselves in their homes; no one wants to get involved.

Secretary: Sir, I just got off the phone with the President. He says he doesn’t want to get involved.

Powers: Quickly, Mark, contact my friend Sam. He’s on the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Secretary: I’ve already tried that, sir. Same story. He wants to help, but he’s afraid of his wife—she said that if he gets involved, she would release statements about the size of his tiny penis. That can destroy a man’s career, sir.

Powers: Then contact—Christ, is that Jim Ericson on Screen One?

Secretary: Ericson, our Independent Sales Consultant? Yes sir, it looks like him.

Powers: What are they doing to him?

Secretary: It looks like they’re pouring boiling coffee down his throat, sir.

Powers: But he had nothing to do with today’s article!

Secretary: I don’t think it matters much anymore, sir. By the looks of those flags, the Cleveland Butches are here. We wrote a story on them last year, remember—they’re the ones who think the devil lives in our cocks.

Powers: Yes, yes, I remember. Get our men to the back of the lobby. Have them take up defenses at the stairwell barricade.

Secretary: Is it wise to leave the elevators unguarded?

Powers: Didn’t you watch Oprah last week, you damn fool? Elevators are a cardinal sin for losing weight. No… they’ll take the stairs. And we’ll be waiting there for them. Actually…that just gave me a great idea.

Secretary: To arm our men with clubs and iron bars?

Powers: No, you fucking idiot! Don’t you know that you can’t hit a woman?

Secretary: I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that…we’re running out of Macy’s coupons and free subscriptions to Cosmopolitan. And they…well, they have knives, guns, and a hunger for man-flesh. Look on screen 4—Wes Thorpe is getting a can of pepper spray in each eye.

Powers: That’s monstrous! That’s inhuman!

Secretary: Take a look at who’s doing it, sir. Julia Roberts. She’s eating his balls.

Powers: Get me that black bitch on the line!

Secretary: Julia Roberts? She’s not—

Powers: OPRAH, YOU MORON!

Secretary: Yes sir! One moment, sir…

Powers: Oh God, this isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. I had it all. I was president of The New York Times. But my pride and arrogance has cost me my empire, and most likely, my life. I should have known better…I should have known better…

Secretary: Sir, Oprah said that she read the editorial this morning, and she’s too angry to talk to you.

Powers: That fucking COW! If it hadn’t been for me thirty years ago, she’d be giving blow jobs in Mississippi for ten bucks a piece!

Secretary: With all due respect, sir, she probably wasn’t the best choice for an ally against a mob of feminists.

Powers: You’re right, Mark. How about that gay bar down the street—The Wrinkled Charley. We did a good article for them ten years ago.

Secretary: I’ve called them half an hour ago, sir. They weren’t very happy with the subtle gay references you insisted on keeping in that article. In particular, the opening line: How many gays can you fit on a barstool? If you look at your monitors, I think you can see that they’ve actually joined the feminists. That’s Larry “Gaggins” prying Tony’s fingernails off, see?

Powers: Those traitorous fagots.

Secretary: Sir, they’ve breached the stairwell. They should be up here in less than ten minutes.

Powers: Someone’s got to be able to help us. They can’t let them get away with this; it’s murder! It’s unhuman, ungodly, un-American.

Secretary: It’s women, sir. Like retards or Jews, this is not something people want to get involved in.

Powers: Mark…it’s…it’s over, then. Get me my wife on the line. I’d like to tell her goodbye before…before…well, I think it’s best that we take our own lives.

Secretary: ….um…I’m with you on the wife thing, sir, but what was that second part?

Powers: We’ve got to do it, Mark. We cannot be conquered by these savage beasts of prey and their deceptive but admirable breasts and their sensual lips and their orgasmic groans and their thrusting hips and their-

Secretary: Sir! Your wife’s on the line. She …well…goodluck…

Wife: (angrily) John? What was that I just heard about breasts and orgasms? Who have you got up there with you?

Powers: I was only rambling, Marybeth. Listen to me, I don’t have much time, and there are a couple of things I want to tell you before I die.

Wife: Are you about to confess the thing with the Japanese whore, John? Because I already know about that, and I’ve been waiting a long time to hear it from you.

Powers: What? No I-

Wife: You think I didn’t know? You men think you’re so clever, do you? Think that just because you’re fifteen thousand miles away, I won’t know each and every one of your moves? Think that I have better things to do in my free time than stalk my own husband?

Powers: Marybeth, shut up and listen to me for—

Wife: No, John! This time, you shut up! I’m sick of this, John. I can’t handle it any more. I went downtown to see Howard yesterday and arrange the papers for our divorce. I’m taking the kids with me.

Powers: What the hell? You bitch! You know what? I did fuck that Japanese girl. She was only 14, but she was a thousand times better in bed than you ever were!

Secretary: Sir, if I can cut in for a moment, the mob is less than a minute away and-

Wife: She was only fourteen John! Fourteen! Your goddamn daughter is fourteen; do you want to fuck her too?

Powers: Don’t you say that to me, you bitch. I love Audrey with all my heart-

Wife: Well, you sure as hell haven’t shown it the past ten years. God! Even Howard remembered her birthday.

Powers: Howard? Why the hell would-

Wife: Because he cares! He took our family to Hawaii last summer while you were in Europe hunting for twelve year olds.

Secretary: Mr. Powers, sir! If I can just—

Powers: Howard did that? HOWARD? He’s my goddamn LAWYER! I’m going to-

Wife: You’re going to what, John? What are you going to do? Sounds like you’re moments away from having your—

Powers: I’m going to put a hit on you, you bitch! That’s what I’m going to do. Mark, get me Dirty Eddy on the line. (pause) Mark! Answer me, you Aryan bastard. MARK!

(Pounding on the office doors)

Butch: Open the fucking door, Powers! We got eight centuries of oppression to shove up your ass!

Powers: (backing up against his desk) IT WAS JUST AN EDITORIAL, YOU CRAZY FUCKING WHORES!

Butch: Who you calling a whore, boy? I’mma make you the bitch when I come in there!

Powers: Wait, wait, I’ll give you money! (doors smash open) Twenty million dollars! Twenty million—Jesus Christ you are one…big…bitch!

( On August 30, 2007, the New York Times released an editorial that brought into question Hillary Clinton’s abilities as a politicians and the questionable nature of her womanhood. In less than four hours after the paper was released, every single employee stationed in the headquarters of the New York Times was massacred by an unholy horde of frenzied feminists. Among the dead was John H. Powers, Executive President and Chairman of the Times, who was found in his office with a 6 foot Anarcha-Feminist flag lodged deeply in his anus. Hillary Clinton refuses to comment.)