Stop knocking journalists; they are the only truth tellers we have

I’m aggravated. Because I rarely reread what I’ve already finished, written, edited, suffered, submitted, and argued to defend, I’m usually half-capable of surviving my annoyances.

But there comes a sudden attempt to bully news people. The writers, journalists, news fillers, commentators, perpetually blonde TV presenters with their long hair down to their short hair and field reporters who mispronounce the names Kabul and Iran – both places I have lived. Why?

Why are street vendors who deal in month-old hot dogs and can’t even read the advertisements plastered on their rented carts suddenly turning to this profession?

Count words

When the deadline is reached, my immediate reaction is the throbbing of a day-long headache. Then the mail comes in, which was supposed to arrive last week, so if there’s a check in there, you open it first. They are overdue bills, which I probably paid in the first place. The next thing is often a torn page that a fan thinks I should deal with. Some days it’s so inconvenient that I even answer my housekeeper’s mail – and hers is from Guyana.

Okay, so we’re not all Ernest Hemingway, but he probably couldn’t have created a masterpiece while suffering from a computer dying, a phone being disconnected, an event happening while he was on deadline, a Verizon disrupting wires, plus making perfect three-minute eggs, plus silencing my dog, plus working on the spelling of the Ukrainian townships of Dnistrovsky and Bklshivtsi. I mean, forget Podilski and Shpola.

Then there’s the exact moment when people call me back. Friends, enemies, strangers I know won’t even let a phone ring. With a bit of luck, your life can last a whole day.

Meanwhile, WABC radio, which I’m on, needs a quote. Right now, in the middle of my disintegration, they would like to take about six minutes to talk about Tesla. Tesla? Until 20 minutes ago I thought this was only on P. Diddy. Tesla? Then along comes a top-notch magazine asking my opinion about Russia, China and Iran’s interference in these elections. I tell them what’s disrupting this election, Washington DC. They then call me “stupid” and hang up.

Well sourced

Grumpy, I do the intelligent thing. Hurry to sharpen pencils – which I no longer need. To gain knowledge due to some important political issues, I call my brilliant friend. He’s very smart. However, he is also very unemployed, so he hangs up. The next intelligent thing is to decline a sandwich. After all these necessary preparations, I am exhausted. Since the weather has turned chilly, I also have to go for a sweater.

Our building inspector suddenly shoots up steam in a frenzied burst of energy. I then have to fly around, open windows and put weights on all my actual papers. There’s nothing on there, but I don’t want them to disappear – just in case. And because they contain valuable information about Napoleon – just in case I am suddenly questioned about his linen thread count on Elba.

What small print

Theoretically, top journalists lead a migratory life. Possibly because slick magazines and unemployed writers think reporters are for the birds. But mostly, these slick magazines peeing on us just want to know whose sheets J.Lo is under this week or which Krapdashian just opened a new bra lift.

Then why are there new news stories about how useless reporters are and why do we need these people in the field so we know who is doing what and how often they are doing it? If we want to know who is doing what to whom and how often, we just have to ask the spies from Russia, China, Iran, Palestine and the Democratic headquarters. Better they have microphones, detectives, talking parrots, landline phones, smart earphones and lip readers to tell civilization what’s going on in the White House. Because she know.

Slide AI. Today’s eyes are slit devices.