“I am flying high over Tupelo, Mississippi, with America’s hottest band, and we are all about to die.” That’s the opening line for a fictional Rolling Stone article in Cameron Crowe’s somewhat autobiographical rock journalism tribute, Almost Famous. It’s a great sentence, and it runs through my head every morning as I digest the latest mainstream news ramblings regarding the White House.
President Trump has been in office for a hundred days, and during each of those eventful days, a reporter representing the interests of the largest corporate newsrooms screams in print or on television some version of “I’m here at the White House, and we’re all about to die!” It never gets old.
Journalists’ endless hyperventilating about President Trump’s every move makes clear that he is unquestionably the lead singer of America’s hottest band. The same reporters who rage against the MAGA machine are White House groupies who can’t help but chase after the president to see what he’ll do next. (Before some WHPC noob says, “That’s our job,” I’ll point out that nobody was chasing down pretend “President” Biden when he managed to wander away from the West Wing’s assisted living facilities.)
President Trump is a rock star, and the funniest thing about this reality is that he’s still producing great hits at seventy-eight years young! There are a few octogenarian-ish rockers out there who continue to make music as well as anyone working today, but most of the great ones ran their engines a little too hot during their younger days and have long since run out of gas. Some abused their bodies so much that their skin suits now look like deflated tires. Then there’s Trump — a man who stays up late, gets up early, and takes a break only for a round of golf. He has no intention of getting off the stage because every day he’s releasing new live albums!
Today’s chart-topper might be about tariffs. Tomorrow’s might be about immigration. The day after that might be about disbanding the IRS. Next week, there might be a crowd-pleaser about justice coming for Adam Schiff, Nancy Pelosi, Liz Cheney, or Hillary Clinton. Next month, he might sing a ballad about the end of NPR and PBS. You never know what smash hit he’ll drop next!
That’s why the whole world has to tune in to see what happens. Russia, Ukraine, China, North Korea, Venezuela, the enslaved colonies of the European Union — every corner of the planet listens intently and wonders whether the American president will single out one of its leaders for a little impromptu duet. Invariably, after Trump bangs out a few chords and hits a set of drums with his fists, some propagandist posing as a professional reporter looks sternly into the cameras and declares, “I’m here at the White House, and we’re all about to die!” After some “serious” back-and-forth commentary with the corporate newsroom as to how President Trump will destroy the world today (just as they claimed he would do the day before), the rabid discussion usually breaks away for a batch of pharmaceutical commercials (somebody has to pay the bills!).
As it turns out, corporate news primarily consists of (1) screaming about President Trump and (2) selling legal drugs. When you accept that screaming about President Trump is its own kind of self-medication for millions of psychologically unhealthy people, a rational person might conclude that twenty-first century news cartels are really nothing more than roving gangs of drug-dealers! They got half the world stoned on Trump hate, and withdrawal symptoms are so painful that the afflicted flock to fake news for a quick fix.
Unfortunately for America, the news media cartels have forgotten the first rule of running a successful drug business: Never get hooked on your own product. Do you think the Fortune 500’s pharmaceutical giants encourage their chief executives to pop opioid tablets in the break room? Of course not; they need their moneymakers thinking clearly while churning out new dopeheads and flatlining rural America.
Modern journalists show no such restraint: They are most definitely hooked on their drug of choice. It’s just that most of today’s strung out newsies can’t admit to themselves that they are addicted to Donald Trump. They tell us he’s about to end the world, but they keep running after him for one more intoxicating hit before everything goes kablooey. President Trump even tried to detox the AP with a much deserved stint in rehab, but the Associated Propagandists sued the White House for a little more access to their favorite Trump drug. Come on, guys! The first step to a successful recovery is admitting you have a problem!
On Saturday, the annual White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner consisted mainly of Trump groupies getting up on a third-rate stage during open mic night to explain that they’re totally not obsessed with Donald Trump! All evidence to the contrary, groupies! You make up stories about him. (Russia collusion, anyone?) You spread silly gossip about him. (OMG, did you hear that the president wore a navy suit to the pope’s funeral? LOL!) You spend all day, every day writing long articles about his hair, how many Diet Cokes he’s had, how he pronounces Chi-na, and whether he means half the things he’s said. You rage-tweet about his penchant for commenting on sports, music, and cultural issues, but you also rage-tweet when he hasn’t yet commented on the pop culture issue of the day. You’re all just a bunch of pouty stalkers who vie for President Trump’s attention!
When normal people break up with someone and cease to care about that person’s opinion, they do not sulk on stage and whine to their ex, “What we are not is the opposition. What we are not is the enemy of the people. And what we are not is the enemy of the state.” Uh, sorry, girlfriend, I’ll be sure to let Donald know. Maybe I’ll pass him a note at recess that says the press corps is, like, so over him and whatevs. How very melodramatic of the Fourth Estate! Let’s be honest: If they didn’t obsess about President Trump 24/7, they’d never sell enough Big Pharma ads to pay for even half an estate. Sad trombone.
For those keeping score at home, real reporter Mollie Hemingway added some narration for Trump’s jilted exes bawling their eyes out during their annual group therapy session: “The propaganda press is, in fact, the enemy of the people. They maliciously lie and invent stories, such as the Russia collusion hoax and the Kavanaugh smear. They cover up important true stories, such as the Wuhan virus and the Biden family business. Enemies.” And, I might add, so obsessed with President Trump that they should be renamed the Fatal Attraction White House press corps.
Like any rock star destined for the Hall of Fame, Trump puts on a great show. In recognition of his administration’s many accomplishments during these first hundred days, the White House erected a hundred yard signs on the North Lawn with the mug shots of criminal illegal aliens who have been taken off America’s streets. If the press corps won’t produce shows describing the dangerous foreign nationals who have invaded the United States and caused Americans great harm, rock star Trump will bring the show to them.
One MSNBC reporter complained, “What’s particularly noteworthy about this location is it is right directly behind the positions where TV correspondents do their hits from the White House lawn.” Leave it to a bunch of Trump addicts to complain about having to do “hits” while the president trolls them from his driveway.
The first hundred days of the MAGA reunion tour have been legendary. President Trump, rock on!
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