I really hate the media.
Sure, you might say, “But BQB, hate is a strong word.” To that, I’d say, “Yes, but I’m using the word ‘hate’ just as you might say, ‘I hate licorice flavored jelly beans.” I mean, I hate licorice flavored jelly beans, but not so much that I’d want to purge all licorice flavored jelly beans from the face of the Earth. I realize other people like licorice flavored jelly beans and the world doesn’t revolve around me. Hell, once in a blue moon I might eat a licorice flavored jelly bean just to remind myself why I don’t like them.
Now that we’ve gotten that distinction out of the way, allow me to reiterate that I hate the media. They’re smarmy. Arrogant. Self-absorbed. We, the people, rely on them to report the news but the field of journalism has become so dominated by pompous, preening jackasses that they want to become the news rather than report it.
Never is this fact more on display than when there is a massive storm. At the time of this writing, it is August 25, 2017 and Hurricane Harvey is about to make the Lone Star State its bitch, which is no easy feet, because even General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna and an army filled with the most advanced, highly trained soldiers of the early 1800s wasn’t able to stop Texans from breaking off and forming their own republic.
Take this brief excerpt from the historical record:
SANTA ANNA: Hey! All you gringo dong sniffers in the Alamo! Put your hands up! There’s like a zillion of us and like a hundred something of you!
TEXANS: East a dick!
Pretty sure it was Davy Crockett who told Santa Anna to eat a dick but as you can imagine, historical scholars have been known to disagree on the subject.
Where was I? Oh right. Reporters are terrible and are even worse during major storms. As I write this, I’m flipping through the news channels and even though everyone watching at home is fully capable of imagining what a storm looks like, there’s still some damn doofus with a microphone on screen who was sent out in a rain coat being blown around by gale force winds as rain drops pelt him in the face.
I shouldn’t be sexist. Sometimes they throw women out there in the middle of Mother Nature’s temper tantrums as well.
Case in point:
ANCHORMAN: Holy shit, everyone! There’s a big ass hurricane that’s about to butt rape Texas! Our own intrepid report Joe Schmoe is on the scene. Joe, how’s it going down there?
(Cue reporter using a death grip to hold onto a lamp post as the wind blows him to and fro and rain pelts him.)
JOE THE REPORTER: It sucks really bad! I think we all might be fucked! And, oh shit, a tractor trailer just blew five feet over my head but that’s cool, it’s really important that all the dipshits at home see how bad things are here so I’ll keep risking my life!
ANCHORMAN: I’m awfully worried about you, Joe. Please come inside.
JOE THE REPORTER: Yeah, yeah. Keep saying that to make people at home think you care. We all know I’ll get fired if I let go of this lamp post! Whoa! Look a bus full of nuns just fell out of the sky and crashed into an orphanage! Back to you!
Yeah. And that’s when the equipment is working. Usually, the storm makes on location reporting difficult. Consider:
ANCHORMAN: A fat ass hurricane is about to destroy Texas. Here to report is our own Sally Schmally. Sally are you there?
SALLY THE REPORTER: When am I going on?
ANCHORMAN: You’re on Sally.
SALLY THE REPORTER: Can we get out of here quick? I want to get out of here before the looters come out during the eye of the hurricane and try to have their way with me.
ANCHORMAN: Sally, is your earpiece working?
SALLY THE REPORTER: I’m serious. I’m strapped to the gills and I will pop a cap in all of those futhermuckers I don’t even care.
ANCHORMAN: Sally, can you hear me?
SALLY THE REPORTER: Jesus, I guess I have to wait all day getting rained on before they have me on. Son of a bitch.
Oh well. That’s my big complaint about reporters during storms. It sucks they get put into danger. Yet, somehow, whenever there’s a storm, I can’t look away. I just pop a big bowl of popcorn and watch at all the reporters in raincoats holding onto lampposts for dear life as they get pelted with rain and whatever blunt objects the wind picked up and wonder how the world got this way.
What do you wonder about, noble reader?