In today’s paper, using too many words, the Globe threw the Fat Man overboard. It took awhile to get to the conclusion of the editorial but the true meaning was threaded throughout the entirety of their declaration of… not now.
Does this mean the walls are closing in around the fat man? He just lost a major initiative to ram an unproven technology down the throats of North Iowa, and now that reporter, who will remain nameless, the one who often met with the fat man in his office with the door closed has politely threw his fat ass off the ship. The paper, one of his most ardent supporters, has fired a shot over his bow warning him in the most public of ways to slow down.
This is the way it happens; those who clung to you, those who followed you through thick and thin, those who pledged undying allegiance to you are starting to think twice about drinking the Kool-Aid. To wit; John Lee publicly states he wants a referendum on the Taj Mahal… Kuhn concurs with Lee. This then was the first visible crack in the wall. CES fails in the face of inept efforts by Willett, now the old schooner, the once flagship of this city, the one that now lies listless off Washington Avenue, has punched your ticket. They are throwing you out with the rest of the bilge water. You have suddenly become toxic… infectious.
Its over for you fat man, those who followed you unfailing into the darkness have seen the light that creeps into the room from under the door, and in that scant light of day they don’t like what they see, when your ship goes down, you and Solberg will be alone, Solberg will be the last to go because she sees you as a source of writing insurance premiums. Turncoat is already looking around with ways to divorce you and Marinos will have left before this dance is over. You’ll be alone when your little boat sinks.