The stench of the crap left behind by the media’s complete and utter failure on this story
For a writer, much goes into the work that eventually people’s eyes come to view. It’s different, of course, depending on the writer and what it is they’re writing about. In my case, I write political articles. Often, my work involves checking and verifying, researching, and, of course, giving myself over to the hypnotic process of letting the words flow freely.
But this article needed little research. This article is about what I witnessed from our “journalists” — or the things that call themselves journalists. For they were not journalists on Thursday night. What they were is vultures.
As Bill Palmer told you, President Biden was cleared of all wrongdoing. He committed no crime. Unlike Donald Trump , Biden gave back any classified documents. And that is what the report said.
But because — because, my friends, this report was written by a Trump sycophant, a vulgar and garish creature, with little morality and few sensitivity chips in that twisted thing that passes for a soul, this Special Prosecutor whose name will not drop from my lips nor from my pen, decided to try to smear the reputation of our wonderful President.
He spoke about Biden’s memory. He said that President Biden did not remember when his own son died! This disgusting, cowardly, pathetic hit job was so obviously and nakedly partisan that had it been I , I’d have torn the words to pieces.
President Biden knew he had to make a statement. So he called a press conference. Biden gave a beautiful response. “How dare he,” Biden said about the man whose name I will never utter. HOW DARE HE.
Anyone human would have seen President Biden was hurting. Anyone could see the love that blazed into the evening, a father’s love for his son. Then Biden took questions. And so it began. Have you ever seen the film The Birds? Because I have. And this is what the scene resembled.
The people POSING as journalists morphed into vultures, exultation shining from their beaks as they pressed forward, turning into one whirling dervish of gleeful, snarling beast, the pouches in their throats moving as they all shouted the same questions, which were not really questions, more like monstrous words sputtered out by creatures of the night that I’d be thrilled never to see again.
Are you senile, Mr. President? Do you know when your son died? Mr President? MR. PRESIDENT, MR PRESIDENT, MR PRESIDENT! This story (non-story) will be gone soon. I know this to be true. But the stench of the crap left behind will linger.
We MUST do something about the media. Let me share what I do. I email them. I tweet at them. I encourage friends and family to refrain from watching them. I am only one person. All of us together, however, can make a difference, put a dent in the utter incompetence of the people who, for all intents and purposes, are nothing more than vultures in the night.
