A Note From the Publisher of the Denver Post

RIP Woody Paige, 1946-2012

It is with a mixture of indifference, resignation, and meh that this newspaper must report the untimely demise of one of its own, our (until recently) intrepid sportswriter Woodrow Wilson “Woody” Paige.

A sad but well-known fact in the world of publishing is that modern sportswriters have a shelf life only slightly longer than those of the athletes whose irrelevant manipulations of a leather ball so captivate this nation of troglodytes (with the able assistance of the printed word, of course).  No, sports reporters just can’t hack it once the game no longer resembles the subject of their ancient cub reporting. I’ve seen it for decades and it’s almost unavoidable.

Some lucky ones manage to hang on and troll the electronic pages of the national sportsmagazines for cheap pageviews despite an almost total absence of thoughtful content. Look at Peter King and Rick Reilly… just, wow.

Some talented ones break the mold and write about matters more important than sporting soap operas but, to put it diplomatically, not all sportswriters are cut from the same cloth as Hunter Thompson.

Some cynical people, most notably the editors of that vulgar upstart The Daily Dickpunch, will say that Woody’s creative bankruptcy was a perfect complement to the broader insolvency of the Denver Post. Well those guys are just assholes, especially Magic Sam.

Subscribers and advertisers, let me assure you that despite much evidence to the contrary I do read my own newspaper. I read every word of Mike Rosen and Vincent Carroll’s sanctimonious, bloviating fuckery. I personally took that dipshit David Harsanyi to the woodshed and now he’s Glenn Beck’s little bitch, ha ha. But you must understand, like all other large organizations there are certain internal bureaucratic politics in newsrooms and even I cannot just run the place like Mussolini.

I have to pick and choose my battles like everyone else. Recently, this has been limited to shitcanning Harsanyi and publishing front page editorial rants against the unions because motherFUCK the unions.

It therefore concerned me greatly when Woody became fixated on Timothy Richard Tebow, the young fullback for the Denver Broncos Football Club. It reminded me of when Peter King started writing about Amtrak and never stopped. This is the death of a sportswriter; it’s as if they blow a gasket in their little brains and keep making the same involuntary motion until the neural electricity mercifully gives out.

Woody’s column speculating on a Tim Tebow presidency in 2024 was the final straw. I was fine with the Tebow fluffery during the Broncos’ remarkable string of lucky victories; let’s face it, we need the pageviews. But you can only go to the well so many times, and this well is dry.

Hoping against hope that this was just laziness rather than terminal creative decline, I informed Woody that he would need to, y’know, start contributing original content with perspective and angles and other lovely journalistic qualities. He seemed to take it OK, but I was worried when for just a moment an empty, forlorn stare betrayed his brave exterior. Unlike Brett Favre, Randy Moss, or Manny Ramirez, Woody knew he was done.

I was informed at 4:15 this morning by the head of security for the Denver Newspaper Agency that Woody Paige was found with his head in the 4th floor office kitchen’s oven (the same one I use to bake cookies for young strikebreakers), wearing a University of Florida Tim Tebow #15 jersey, a cock sock, and nothing else. I clearly did not comprehend Woody’s fragile mental state, and I would apologize if I was capable of human emotions like remorse, regret, or shame.

I will always remember the good times with Woody, like when he ate dog food on live national television and… and that’s about it.

The thoughts of the entire Denver Post organization are with the Paige family at this difficult time.

Dinky Singleton, Publisher, The Denver Post

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