Journalism is not dead, it's stealing all the benefits

I'm sick and tired of hearing of people telling me that Journalism is a dying art. Sure just because most the aces that made Journalism the really 'promising' field are gone, doesn't mean that the people left behind can't attempt to carry on the burden to make it as creative and interesting as it was before. I will admit it, it'll be much more difficult to track down the type of weird and eye-catching leads and stories than back in the days where you could find those stories in the nearest bar or government role in your area. Nowadays, it's all about what the president's doing, every time he looks out his window, it's a story, every time he passes a fucking bowl movement, it's a goddamn story. It's almost sickening that way how much we focused on the man in the white house. Of course there's other stories of his cabinet and everyone in that, but come on, we all know what the people want and they want to know what's going on in the White House, the official that America (well at least some of it) have voted for. We wanna know that the Vice-President has shot his friend in the face while quail hunting, and last time I checked, a quail is about the 12th of a size of a human. So he really shoot himself in the foot with that stunt.

If anything, we have more goddamn stories nowadays than what we know what to do with! Politics are a tricky game, but Doc knew how to play their game and even made some new rules of his own. But one thing that I have learned, is that only the strong will thrive in a place like politics. If you don't, you'll be swallowed alive by all the stronger vicious animals in the political pool and be torn from limb by limb. You gotta keep your head above water or you'll sink like a goddamn stone. That's probably the reason I've stayed out of politics all together, despite what Doc said, I really don't think I have a black enough heart or have too much morals (what little ones I have left these days) to write in politics. The minute a piece like mine hits the presses, the wolves would be released to hunt me down, teeth barring and claws sharpened. I wouldn't be strong enough to beat them away, no matter how big of stick I got. "Guns don't work on ugly animals like that," Doc would said, "you gotta out-smart'em with something they don't expect, like bashing them in the heads with sticks." It was always hard to decode his metaphors sometimes, does he really want me to hit someone with a stick or did he mean through words? What about the guns? He wants me to shoot someone now? Fucking Christ, man, speak goddamn English, god knows you write enough of it!