There lies the crumpled, broken body of a Journalist. How small he looks. How weak, how antiquated. Did he believe, in the end, that his pretense at so-called objectivity would save him from the unpitying edge of the knife?
There find the scattered parts of the Publisher, hacked to pieces by the twin honed blades of Truth and Reason. Listen to me, you dead old dinosaur: You do not tell me what to think! You do not tell me what is important news or what opinions I should have! Not anymore! That's the Blogosphere's job now, bucko!
Ah, there, in the midst of it all, the limbless trunk of the TV Anchorman mounted atop a stake, there to be devoured by worms and carrion birds. A new age dawns! You are useless now. Sink into shadow, Rather! Fade into obscurity, Donaldson! Up and die already, Cronkite! The Age of the Blog is at hand. One day there will be a University of Higher Blogging named after Glenn Reynolds. One day a prestigious award for excellence in bloviating will be named after Michael J. Totten. One day Andrew Sullivan's head will be on the quarter. One day children will learn how to use the Trackback feature before they can walk.
Heh. Indeed.
Oh, and scroll down a bit to see Yar's man-on-the-street interviews with some people that, well, make me wonder just what the hell kind of street Yar lives on.
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