Whistling Dixie

I’m not a journalist. Not anymore.
I was trained as a journalist. I have a degree in it. I worked in the field for a number of years — mostly magazines and tech news, but still. A journalist. Writing real stories about real people with real quotes and real facts. It’s still a large part of who I am. The ethics of it are still firmly engrained in how I write anything. Ask me to rip off someone else’s blog post or put a name on it for someone who didn’t write it or change a quote…not gonna happen. I’ve ripped into PR reps who’ve tried to tell me “their client wouldn’t have said it like that.” No. Do not mess with journalism ethics.

So to hear my president attack journalism so venomously is personal for me. Oh, look. Not only does this man hate me because I’m a woman…he hates my profession. He hates my skill set. My line of work. He hates me because I’m not willing to let him lie.

And now, after he’s called journalists the enemy of America, after he’s attacked their ethics with accusations of fake news, when he is the worst propagator of “alternate facts,” this little man is shying away from the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. Wow. Incredible that a man with such notoriously thin skin can’t suck it up for a fundraiser. Yeah, the last president who couldn’t make it? It was Reagan, and he was literally recovering from a failed assassination.

But Trump isn’t showing up because the jokes will probably hurt. (Yo, the next person who wants to tell a woman she can’t take a joke had better back their ass up and give their president a long, hard look.) Of course the jokes will be vicious this year. They’ll be delivered by a group of people he’s disrespected from the moment his ass started to campaign.

There are really no words to describe how repulsive this man is to me, nor how repulsive is the rhetoric that put him in the White House.