I walk into her office, well-aware of the joyous news I am about to receive. I've put my heart and soul into every mundane and lame-ass story I have been assigned…turning each one into something that people could at least find some interest in. And that was no easy task. Now, all my hard work over the last ten years is finally going to pay off.

I take a seat in one of the two black leather chairs that flank the front of her desk and watch as Sherri finishes up her phone call…I’m guessing it’s with some "bigwig" from upstairs. Sherri is African-American, has black hair, brown eyes, is proudly overweight, and loves to wear anything with an animal print on it. Zebra is her favorite. She claims it helps her embrace her true heritage. And I love how her wacky and spontaneous personality complements my scheduled and uptight one so well. Everything fun I have done in my life has been because of this woman sitting in front of me. And that's why we are best friends.

I let my eyes wander around the room, allowing myself to imagine it becoming mine. That would be my desk, my lamp, my chairs, my window…God, how nice it would be to finally have a window that looked out on the world. Instead, I usually feel trapped inside this building with no connection to the outside world unless I'm on location, looking for the next boring story to try to make interesting.

Two months ago, Sherri filled me in that she was leaving the Daily Yorker Gazette, vacating her editing position. Starting that day, I went into overdrive, working fifteen hours a day, helping colleagues correct their grammatical errors in their stories, and even kissing every corporate suit’s ass. That's what Sherri and I call every bigwig in the business. Sherri was the first female editor of this paper, and I am hoping that I can gladly carry on her legacy by becoming the second in what will hopefully be a long line of female editors.

Sherri rolls her eyes before she hangs up the phone. As she stares at me, I can see her demeanor change from annoyance to frustration. That can't be good.

"Girl, I am so sorry," she hesitates. Assuming she is talking about the phone call, I chime in.

"No worries. Those suits can't wait."

She chuckles, then says, "No. They can wait; they just choose to be insufferable asses who don't want to wait." I nod in agreement.

"Well, the reason I called you in here today…I'm afraid I have some bad news. I have a direct order from the Big Suit himself. One that aggravates the hell out of me. But one I have to follow nonetheless." The Big Suit is Travis Matthews, the president and owner of the Daily Yorker Gazette. Now I have a bad feeling in my gut, causing my stomach to twist into knots.

"Just rip it off like a Band-Aid. I can't take the suspense."

"Okay then. The Dickweed wants me to promote Ben instead of you. I'm so sorry."

Fuck!

I try to conceal all my emotions: anger, frustration, disappointment, depression, confusion, hatred, and so-on. I prop my head up, placing my elbow on her desk. Sherri and I have become the best of friends over the past decade. And because of that, I know I can speak frankly and vulgarly when I am around her. In other words, I'm about to curse like a frickin’ trucker and a fucking sailor's devil-spawn child.

"What the fuck? Miller-the-Filler is getting the promotion instead of me? He literally does nothing around here but take up space! Is this because I don't have a fucking dick?" Sherri nods her head.

"Big Suit feels the paper has become too feminine. And he plans to rectify that. Since Ben is the only one here with a rod between his legs, he gets the promotion."

"This is complete bullshit! According to Tina, we all have heels bigger than his dick anyway! And I sure as hell have more balls than he does!"

"I know, honey. I know. Nobody deserves this spot more than you do. You worked your ass off. Hell, you put this paper on the map. Before I hired you, we weren’t even one of the top one-hundred papers in New York. Now, we’re number twenty-three. You made this paper, and I informed him of that. No luck getting through his male chauvinistic ego though."

"In my experience, that ego comes with the dick. They’re like a package deal. When does this take place? Is there nothing I can do?"

Sherri taps her pencil eraser on her chin, pondering my recently proposed question. After about twenty taps, her eyes bug out and a smile forms on her face.

"That's it! That's perfect!"

"What's perfect?"

"You ever heard of Aaron Hunter?"

"Of course. Who hasn't heard of the infamous King Philanderer himself? His rich ass practically runs New York City." God, Sherri and I sure do have a lot of nicknames for the people we hate.

"Well, I happen to know he plans to announce that he is going to be running for the Senate in the next couple of days."

"How do you know that?" Sherri is always well-informed on everything that's going on around town. She is my own personal TMZ.

"Does it matter? I have my sources. Anyway, I happen to know that the Dickweed loathes him. He hates Aaron so much that he would gladly promote anybody who manages to report a story destroying his chances of becoming a senator. That’s where you come in. Find some incriminating information on His Highness and you've got the job. I’m sure of it."

"If that’s what I must do, then I'm in. There's just one problem."

"What's that?"

"Hasn't this city been trying to take him down for years now? How the hell do you expect me to do it?"

"'Cuz you're crafty and sly. You’ll take him by the balls and chuck him out the window."

"Thanks for that visual," I laugh.

"You're welcome. You can do this. I know you can. The best way is to make him trust you. And the best way to do that is to get into his heart. To get to his heart, you must get through his pants. And I know a gorgeous woman like yourself will have no problem getting in his pants. Especially with knockers like those babies. It's becoming a regular in his life that is going to be the issue."

"This could be fun. Taking down one chauvinistic asshole, while making another one kiss my ass."

"My thoughts exactly." We both laugh uncontrollably for the next several minutes before we muster the strength to compose ourselves again.

"You have exactly three months before I'm gone and Filler gets the job. Make it count. Now, go kick him in the balls, and take out any heifer or bimbo that stands in your way."

With that being said, we both stand up, say our goodbyes, and I walk out of her office. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. If I am going to do this, I am going to need all the help I can get.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I must do this.

It is time for me to take matters into my own hands and show a city full of privileged, rich, male-chauvinistic, womanizer assholes that Nicole Parker doesn't have a dick, but she sure has balls!