I’ve heard of these brave Americans who are rushing to the Great Northern territories in search of Yukon gold. Many of them are abandoning their families and their jobs and their churches in the remote hope of striking it rich in the Klondike.

Well, friends, I’ve never been to the Yukon Territory, nor do I ever hope to be. You see, I’ve already struck gold—in newspapers.

There’s no gold in the paper stock. There’s no gold to be sifted through down in the press room. But there’s gold to be had. In the dissemination of news. In providing for the people a vessel through which—

Damn. I just wet the bed. But I’m not certain. I have no feeling below my hips. Where is my maidservant?

These brave men have been charged by Roosevelt himself of their rightful manifest destiny. Make the savage Indian heel! Bring the mighty buffalo to its knees! Bring back the gold, boys!

But make no mistake, friends, mining in the Klondike is no quick, fast buck. Many men work an entire lifetime, only to have their claim taken from under their noses by crooked local officials.

We’ve got to run an exposé on the Yukon rush! Call the press foreman! Men are selling all their belongings for a pack of mules and a stack of tin pans, only to be hornswaggled by shysters and con men.

We’ve got to warn these well-intentioned young men before it’s too late! Hold the front page! Call President Roosevelt! Stop the presses!

I do believe I have now shat my pants.

Nurse! My bedpan must be emptied! Where is that evil woman?

I’m just an old newspaperman, and many people say I’ve lost the ability to write coherently, but I declare that news is one of the key ingredients to a healthy civilization. And until my dying breath I will work to give the people the truth, provided it does not conflict with the wishes of any major advertiser.

Sink the Potemkin! Alton B. Parker in ’04!