Well, okay, maybe we did, but that wasn’t the Only action we were going to perpetrate against them for violating the ancient Code of Satire.

So let us clarify, since there seems to have been a slight misunderstanding when we were communicating our threat. In retaliation against the Daily’s creation of a “satire” section, we have a strict four-point plan that we may or may not carry out in the near future that aims to cripple the paper from the outside in.

It begins with subtle reconnaissance, where we will have our own staff writers pose as Daily writers, making use of copious amounts of Daily swag, Treehouse meals, and tortoiseshell reading glasses. This reconnaissance will largely serve to figure out where their building is, because we genuinely haven’t the slightest clue. After we locate the structure, we will begin a 72-hour reenactment of Martin Luther’s famous hammering of the 95-Theses on the doors of Castle Church, complete with the hammering of our publication on every known window, door, and entrance to the building, subsequently launching the “Satirical Reformation.”

After this, we will make use of our extensive staff (definitely larger than the Daily’s, no doubt) to go to every Daily news stand, and begin a laborious blackout poetry session where we will blackout every copy of the daily so the only visible letters spell “Boyz rule, girls drool,” thereby breeding the idea that the Daily is an inherently sexist publication. At this point the internal hierarchy of the paper will begin to crumble and we will saunter inside with relative ease under the guise of friendly, neighborhood journalists.

The final step in our plan is Arson, but not the burning of the building; no, we want to eradicate any possibility of the paper being resurrected, so we will “forget” to reapply for funding and watch them crash and burn in the fiery inferno of bankruptcy.

This may or may not be our plan, and it may or may not be executed in the coming days, so be scared and prepared, Daily satire section. We approach on padded feet, and we hunt at the scent of mediocre satire.

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