…if only Charles Pierce hadn’t gotten there first:
You work for the bilge pump of wingnut propaganda. The “professional thing” for you to do is to slink off and do five years penance reading the hog reports on a 300-watt station in west Texas before you’re allowed in respectable company again. The “professional thing” for journalists with any pride to do is to spit at the mention of your network’s name and to hang bells around the neck of you and all your colleagues so that we know when you’re coming and can clear the room. You’re lucky you have Jay Carney. Put me in that job and you’re doing your stand-ups from a chicken wagon halfway down the mall. Put me in that job and your picture is in every guard shack.
Your organization is a running sore on the profession. It’s what happens when a craft fails to keep its septic system up to date. You do not deserve the respect given to a schizophrenic in Lafayette Park who screams about the aliens from Zontar and the Rockefellers. I know people who staple their screeds to lamp posts in Central Square who are far more worthy of professional courtesy than you are. You work for a Chronic Ward of grifters, unemployables, and whatever else sticks to the bottom of journalism’s shoes on a hot summer’s day.