The wicked games the New York Times play are looking more desperate by the minute. Just this article alone sets off alarm bells:
Five Novelists Imagine Trump’s Next Chapter
When a newspaper has fiction of this nature where it should have news, you know there is serious editorial fragmentation going on. You have to stoop to employing some mediocre hacks who have to stoop to shock and unoriginal ideas to do what? Throw a hissy fit in soiled diapers?
But when one of the stories has the current president assassinated, there is no more pretence of objectivity. That ship has sailed.
This is war propaganda. It is agitprop.
And it’s just sick.
Let go, spoiled brats.
And then, when some loon sends badly-constructed explosive devises to various Lefties, the New York Times has a meltdown and blames the man they envisioned in public getting assassinated.
He called you bunch of liars. He did not write fiction imagining how to kill you.
But you did that to him.
And you published that snuff fantasy before everything sort of broke loose.
Whatever happened to being the Paper of Record?
Now it’s just the Paper of Garbage.
All you ever had to do was finds facts. That’s it. That is not much to ask.
And perhaps that was the problem all along: no one made real demands of you. They let you get away with bragging and crowing for too long, and then when you thought you were innately all-powerful, but the reality set in, you all just snapped.
It’s been two years now. Get over it. Grow up. Try adulting.
And not being so hateful and sanctimonious with your hypocrisy…