I’m a journalist. And this week, in the course of doing my work, I was told I was “deceitful” and that I was “posturing,” Two separate stories, one insult for each! In each case I responded, “I just ask questions.” Sounds like I’m doing my job. And I love my job. Because last year I worked for a pervert geneticist who stared at my boobs, talked about naked beaches in Argentina and told me about the women besides his wife he’d like to frack. When not being a pervert, he killed babies.
Let’s not forget the stint at a grocery store where I was told to clean up the mess caused by the screaming little frack frack in isle 4. This month I pressed the governor of this downtrodden-yet-marvelous state to explain herself, please. And I shoved my pocket digital camera in her face. That’s why I love being a journalist. Someone’s got to ask the questions.
