Journalists in this fascinating country and your fabulous new millennium are a bunch of milquetoast cowards. When there
is a name slapped onto something, it hardly matters one way or another, because they're all writing to the same stupid, empty ideal that is
objectivity, the existence of which is about as well proven as is God's. Even the ones who bother to present themselves with a little heat think it behooves them to say they're
fair and balanced, as though that were a thing any man's ever been since Adam started arbitrarily naming the animals, or the desperately vacant
place for politics. They're all chasing impartiality, which is like hunting unicorns, and all they're catching is weak, wishy-washy blandness.
What ever happened to Jacques Hébert? Shockingly little of his is left even on this great information swamp you've filled up. The only people who even come close to waving his banner appear to be
these charming people, whom I'll be making my sole source for domestic news from here on out. No one ever says anything that
means something, because of course nothing means anything, but at least these bastards say it with some spirit.
Here's how we used to write papers, you lily-livered navel-gazers. And we didn't try to hide them under the ridiculous title of 'op-ed,' or 'think piece.' English is a language so marvelously proficient in qualifiers. I love it, but by God, when we used to bullshit we did it with style, and your style seems to be 'dancing on eggshells,' which isn't one. Here, from the great Père Duchesne's "Against the fucking slanderers of the ladies of Les Halles and the flower sellers of the Palais Royal on the subject of the beautiful speech they made to the King:"
( Cut to accommodate the hot-house nature of the mordern 'man' )