Friday, February 17, 2017

February 17, 2017

Dear Diary,

Spent most of the morning binging and purging.  Dr. Morell says it's not a great habit, but it's the only exercise I can do in bed to strengthen my abs, so I'm going with it for now.  I usually do it after breakfast, because it can help with my weight issues, too. It's easy enough to stick my finger down my throat to get things going, but a girl has to be careful:  Last week, it lodged against my uvula and Bessie had to call 911.  All's good now, though, and I'm down to 180! Yay me!

I guess if Carrot Head has proven anything, it's that when it comes to press relations, it's a whole new ball game out there.  Today, he bitch-slapped reporters for over an hour, and unless I was hallucinating (because sometimes the meds can interact and make you think you can fly and stuff), about a hundred media people got taken to the wood shed in no uncertain terms! It was like watching pigs to the slaughter and I have to admit, I got pretty worked up watching them bleed.

I know it's not terribly lady-like, but some of those reporters really did have it coming.  They treated me terribly during the you-know-what, mostly with what Carrot Head likes to call "fake news."  Of course, my fake news was nothing like his fake news.  My fake news was stuff they'd report even after I told them repeatedly not to report it. Podesta's old, arthritic hands practically froze stiff from the number of checks bribes e-mails he wrote to keep the Benghazi thing under wraps. But did it stay quiet?  No way José.  I got fried for that shit.  Those people showed me no mercy.  Same thing with the e-mail servers.  And deplaning under fire in Yugoslavia.  And the old "Clinton Murder List" story.  All fake.

Well, most of the list is.  I'm pretty sure. Whatever.

Carrot Head and I may not agree on everything, but one thing for sure is that you can never trust a reporter.  Not Brian Williams.  Not Matt Lauer.  Not even Katie Couric.  None of them are interested in news. All they want is to promote their own careers and books so that one day they can host "60 Minutes" or one of those agonizingly boring morning shows that are really just infomercials with weather reports thrown in.  That's how Dan Rather got his start, you know. He was just another Texas moron with a microphone in 1963 when he just blurted out on camera that John F. Kennedy was deader than a fish market flounder.  No facts.  No sources.  Just a dead Democrat in the back of a Lincoln with his head splattered all over the back seat.  What kind of verification is that?

He scooped everyone on live TV that day and next thing he knew, the southern drawl was gone and he was anchoring the CBS News from New York, wearing a thousand dollar suit after a lifetime of overalls and tending goats in the barn.  He was SUCH a fake, crying crocodile tears when the space shuttle went flambée and "going undercover in Afghanistan," like that's some big deal.  Let's face it, running around unshaven in a burka doesn't exactly take balls of steel when a hundred member crew and a security crew are just out of camera range.  They didn't nail his ass until he got the Bush military story wrong, and then they turned on him like sharks.  These days, Rather shuffles around in his bath robe, muttering breaking stories like, "Hey, the toast is ready!" and "I have it on good authority we're out of milk!"

It's really kind of sad.  But he was always kind of an asshole, so fuck him and the cow he rode in on.


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