In a world where reality feels like a badly written soap opera, it’s no wonder trust in the media has plummeted faster than a lead balloon. The latest Gallup poll has given the news industry a resounding thumbs down, with a solid 68% of Americans thinking journalists have become less trustworthy than a shady car salesman trying to offload a lemon. Yet, there remains an 11% of Republicans who might have confused news anchors with fictional heroes or perhaps found something redeeming in legal drama reruns.
As the elite of the media world gather their wits, the White House Correspondents’ Association, or as some may prefer, the White House Correspondents Sad Hearts Club Band, decided it’s time for a shake-up. Cue the arrival of Carolyn Levit, the new face of no-nonsense journalism, declaring that legacy reporters can practice their questioning skills by standing in time-out. Rumor has it, even the persistent admirer, Mr. Schmuckface McLife, longed for a mere acknowledging scent of her hair. His antics, however, did earn him a colorful “Get lost, you creep,” which in fairness, put a spring in his step. It seems the thrill of being noticed by a media darling added a little joy to his otherwise tumultuous day.
In an unexpected and bewildering turn, journalists have now enlisted Swami Origami Umami, a hypnotist with a questionable past, to charm the nation back into trust. Swami, fresh from his street side gigs, is eager to convince the public that the state is sound—with a mere snap of his fingers. Anyone under his spell might believe that Jake Tapper’s book confirms truth-telling, rather than question if it belongs in the realm of great fiction.
Yet, as the comedic farce continues, it becomes impossible to ignore past blunders like the Russian collusion hoax or the questionable COVID coverage. These gaffes are treated with more spins than an Olympic gymnast, leaving the audience dizzy and disoriented. The awards bestowed upon media outlets by those prestigious prize-giving committees begin to seem about as genuine as a knock-off designer handbag.
Finally, with Swami’s watch swinging in a hypnotic dance, one is supposed to succumb to the belief that maybe, just maybe, the media isn’t as misleading as it seems. Perhaps the key to ending this tragicomedy lies in relaxing, surrendering freedoms, and, as Swami cheekily suggests, quacking like a duck. If this absurdity hasn’t yet swayed the skeptics, it may at least have provided an unwittingly comedic subplot. As readers ponder the chaos and confusion presented by our modern media landscape, perhaps the greatest lesson of all is that sometimes laughter truly is the best response.
