Well, now it’s CBS News and 60 Minutes.
At Last: Someone Takes a Closer Look at Ronan Farrow’s Journalistic Credibility
Stop everything you’re doing, all the research and investigation and interviews, travel, exploration, documentation and exposure– stop it all and resign and crawl into a hole, because Ronan Farrow has managed to find some former female employees and associates who didn’t like the way you hit on them. No matter how long ago, or how disputed, or how misinterpreted or misjudged, or how marginal it is to whatever it is you do with your life, you must now resign, because the almighty, pitiless, puritanical Inquisitor Ronan Farrow, son of Frank or Woody– we don’t know– has deemed you to be shriek-worthy and foul and you must be replaced by some woman or transgender woman or man or gay man or gay woman or black transgender gay indigenous being, because he or she or it is really just as talented and hardworking as you, but you, oppressor, bully, monster!— kept him, her, or it from fulfilling the great destiny worthy of his, her, or it’s talents, by kissing without permission, by expressing your desire for him, her, or it, by leaning too close, by initiating sex with her, him, or it while he, her, or it was asleep.
By not asking politely, in writing, before hand, if you could say to them, “you are hot– I’d like to have sex with you.”
Let us gather a red cloak for Ronan Farrow and begin the purge of our libraries and museums and art galleries, and let us expunge all the works, the films, the books, the paintings, the sculptures, the music, the podcasts, the radio programs, by all the horrible men who made them, who created the models we use today, who inspired generations of other artists, who moved us, who wrought the world of culture– let us take all their works and burn them. For it doesn’t matter and never mattered that you actually built or created or invented or led or organized or directed– it never mattered at all. It doesn’t matter that you saw beauty or truth in a gesture, an expression, a conversation, a shape, a way of describing a scene. None of your acts of compassion or generosity, or wit, or improvisation, or imagination can now be countenanced: you must be expelled from human society!
The only thing that mattered, ever, is that in one of the millions of small moments of your life, you offended one of God’s dainty little angels who, though gentle and delicate and innocent, and helpless, when roused, is mighty and bold and courageous and will now speak out and tell her story! On Oprah, if possible, or Jerry Springer, if necessary! Now that it is safe to do so. That is enough. It erases everything else you were or could be. And it makes a monument of courage and genius of the accuser, who never had any such courage or genius when it was all that would have been required for her, to turn around and spit in your face and say “no” and leave.
Let’s replace them all with Ronan Farrow’s scribbles. Or the films written and directed by Mia Farrow. Or Illeana Douglas’s exposes. Or Kirsten Gillibrand’s mountains of legislation.
[whohit]Ronan Farrow: Please Shutup[/whohit]