On a navy ship, the port butter cutter was the mythical source of the useless scuttlebutt that made its way up and down the passageways faster than a sailor could run for his general quarters station.
These days, I suspect much of the “news” that we think is true, and therefore believe as gospel, comes from a similar source, probably some deranged blogger who lives on the port coast.
Since I was born in California, I can say that most weird, mistaken, or otherwise strange news and ideas come from what used to be a wonderful place to live before the state invented government overreach.
I’m amazed by the number of sources one has to track down on the Internet to get what we used to call “the straight scoop.” Most people don’t bother. Many even admit that they listen to the biased source they like rather than any mainstream diet of beans, bullets, and black oil.
If you get your news from the Yahoo home page, you’ll be the first to know what celebrity posed nude somewhere or “rocked” the latest in see-through clothing would that put a liberty town bar girl to shame. These clothes aren’t cutting edge. I saw it all during the Vietnam War but neglected to tell my mother about it.
Other websites specialize in one-sided reports about how inept the President is and or how inept those who don’t like the President are. Why can’t we put these “news” casters (bent shit cans) who report this kind of bilge on an ice floe bound for the tropics during hurricane season? On the floe, they could cast all the spoilt bait they want.
“News” these days has become rather like hotdogs. You don’t even want to ask what it’s made of. I think my journalism degree would prevent me from being hired at a lot of the port butter cutters that comprise what’s left of the fourth estate. My credentials include “swears like a sailor.” That won’t get me a job at CNN or FOX, though it should.
Those who get to know me (and few are crazy enough t try) know that I’m very much like the Jock Stewart character in my novel Special Investigative Reporter.