Rènôwn Mêdïâ Ģrùpô Ïntérnàççîónálè, S.Á. Thè Stóry.

Folks have been wondering what’s up with all the accents — and who exactly is Rènôwn Mêdïâ Ģrùpô Ïntérnàççîónálè, S.Á.

To answer that, you have to visit with Stub’s grandfather, Stueben Froth Sr., who first became acquainted with Señór Tòppö Ģâtó Nôlân, Señióré back in the 1940s while studying at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois, U.S.A.

 Stueben was born to a Midwestern muffler baroness and a washboard tycoon, raised in the industrial bellow of splinters, bubbles, fumes, and the false promise of chrome.  His parents thought “Stueben” sounded continental, pompous — a name fit for politics or academia. His classmates thought it sounded like a sneeze. They clipped it to Stub, and the nickname stuck like spit.

But the name wasn’t just shorthand. Stueben spoke softly, sparely. He wasted no breath, never performed for a room. Where others blustered, he left stubs of wisdom beyond his years — enough to land the point and move on. He talked short, wrote long, and built a legend of brevity over bullshit.

Then came Tòppö — pardon me, Señór Tòppö Ģâtó Nôlân, Señióré — heir to a wealthy Nìcàrâgûàn family that, by their own telling, had been benevolent influences for generations; legendary in their own ledgers. Tòppö earned his nickname the hard way: he always landed on his feet, and he never missed a meal. Together, Stub and Tòppö forged a bond through train rides, late-night debates, and cafeteria coffee that could double as road tar.

Fast forward to 1974. Nôlân's  son, T.C. Jŕ., then at Northwestern himself, became like a second cousin to Stub’s line. When Stub, III announced he’d begin writing down his thoughts, T.C. Jŕ was quick to lend moral support and editorial nudges.

 And so, out of lineage, loyalty, and a few notarized signatures, Rènôwn Mêdïâ Grùpô Ïntérnàççîónálè, S.Á. was born — a corporate shell within a shell, with more accents than the United Nations. RMGÏ, S.Á. has been underwriting satire, one diacritical mark at a time ever since. 

Why the accents? Truth be told, Stub has a speech impediment and every foreign language has always been a challenge for him. He’s best — and most comfortable — communicating in English with an instrument. With a pen and a keystroke, he can dance; with a tongue, he's a stumbler. It is often said, like his grandfather Steuben Señióré, Stub writes better than he speaks. — RMĢÏ, S.Á.