Read Online An Atheist in the FOXhole: A Liberal's Eight-Year Odyssey Inside the Heart of the Right-Wing Media by Joe Muto - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joe Muto
Tags: Non-Fiction, Politics
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nodded. “Dave, are you ready with the alert?” she asked the director. He grunted in assent.
“Good,” Carrie said. “I want you to hit it straight out of this report.” The Baghdad reporter was wrapping up on-screen. Carrie flipped the intercom switch to talk to the anchor.
“Jon, we’ve got confirmation on Brando. We’re going to hit it with an alert as soon as Baghdad is clear.” I could see him on the camera feed, nodding.
Kurt glanced up at the rivals on the overheads. “Let’s do this, people,” he said, drumming his fingers on the desk in excitement. “CNN and MS still don’t have it. We’re going to be first with this.”
The Baghdad update ended with the reporter saying, “Back to you, Jon.”
“Hit that gong!” Dave the director yelled, and the tech at the console next to him punched a button. A red animated graphic swept across the screen with a whooshing noise, followed by a loud ba-bong , as if someone had struck a giant bell.
FOX NEWS ALERT , the graphic read.
The screen dissolved back to the anchor, his face somber, his voice even deeper than normal, his delivery slow: “This is a Fox News Alert. We’ve just received word that Marlon Brando, legendary actor, has died at age eighty.”
The control room exploded into applause and whoops.
Carrie was jubilant. “Nice work, everybody. Nice hustle.”
Kurt had stood up and was extending both middle fingers at the overhead monitors. “Fuck off, CNN! Fuck off, MSNBC! Yeah! We beat you fuckers!”
Less than thirty seconds later, CNN flashed its own alert, and about ten seconds after that, MSNBC had one up, but the celebration in the control room continued.
We were first.
The celebration would have been silly to me, except for one thing: It was one of the most oddly exhilarating experiences of my entire life.
I looked at Camie. She met my eyes and just nodded. I know, right?
April 11, 2012—11:49 A.M.
I s it just my imagination, or are there more security guards than normal stationed in the lobby?
I’d made it past the painting of Hannity’s bloated, mid-celebration head, down the hall to the eighteenth-floor elevators without anyone stopping me, and caught an empty car down to the lobby.
And now I was staring at three building security guards, standing about twenty feet away from my elevator bank, where normally there would be none.
Take it easy. They could just be on a lunch break. It was almost noon. The lobby was swarming with lunchers, some of them on their way out, others returning with plastic bags from nearby take-out places swinging at their sides.
One of the guards looked straight at me, pondering for a second, then slowly turned his head and said something to his two companions. And then all three turned to look at me. One of them went for the walkie-talkie at his belt.
And that’s my cue, folks!
It was all I could do to stop myself from running through the lengthy lobby toward the building’s back exit. I walked as briskly as I could while still appearing normal, willing myself to not look over my shoulder to see if they were following. I assumed that once I got outside, I’d be fine. This is America, after all. Sure, corporations are powerful, but they can’t just seize people on the street, right? Right?
I powered through the revolving doors and emerged into the midtown Manhattan air, which for once smelled sweet to me. It smelled like freedom, and relief—not at all like the usual scent of curbside garbage and hobo pee.
Once I was outside, I felt it was safe to check behind me. I turned and looked.
No one.
No one was following me. Gazing through the glass doors into the lobby, I couldn’t even spot the three guards who had spooked me. They had disappeared from the spot they were standing. Maybe I was right, and they were just meeting up to go to lunch together. Was I being too paranoid? Was I losing my mind?
I had to call Gawker .
CHAPTER 3
When Rupert Met Roger
F ox News was, by the
“Good,” Carrie said. “I want you to hit it straight out of this report.” The Baghdad reporter was wrapping up on-screen. Carrie flipped the intercom switch to talk to the anchor.
“Jon, we’ve got confirmation on Brando. We’re going to hit it with an alert as soon as Baghdad is clear.” I could see him on the camera feed, nodding.
Kurt glanced up at the rivals on the overheads. “Let’s do this, people,” he said, drumming his fingers on the desk in excitement. “CNN and MS still don’t have it. We’re going to be first with this.”
The Baghdad update ended with the reporter saying, “Back to you, Jon.”
“Hit that gong!” Dave the director yelled, and the tech at the console next to him punched a button. A red animated graphic swept across the screen with a whooshing noise, followed by a loud ba-bong , as if someone had struck a giant bell.
FOX NEWS ALERT , the graphic read.
The screen dissolved back to the anchor, his face somber, his voice even deeper than normal, his delivery slow: “This is a Fox News Alert. We’ve just received word that Marlon Brando, legendary actor, has died at age eighty.”
The control room exploded into applause and whoops.
Carrie was jubilant. “Nice work, everybody. Nice hustle.”
Kurt had stood up and was extending both middle fingers at the overhead monitors. “Fuck off, CNN! Fuck off, MSNBC! Yeah! We beat you fuckers!”
Less than thirty seconds later, CNN flashed its own alert, and about ten seconds after that, MSNBC had one up, but the celebration in the control room continued.
We were first.
The celebration would have been silly to me, except for one thing: It was one of the most oddly exhilarating experiences of my entire life.
I looked at Camie. She met my eyes and just nodded. I know, right?
April 11, 2012—11:49 A.M.
I s it just my imagination, or are there more security guards than normal stationed in the lobby?
I’d made it past the painting of Hannity’s bloated, mid-celebration head, down the hall to the eighteenth-floor elevators without anyone stopping me, and caught an empty car down to the lobby.
And now I was staring at three building security guards, standing about twenty feet away from my elevator bank, where normally there would be none.
Take it easy. They could just be on a lunch break. It was almost noon. The lobby was swarming with lunchers, some of them on their way out, others returning with plastic bags from nearby take-out places swinging at their sides.
One of the guards looked straight at me, pondering for a second, then slowly turned his head and said something to his two companions. And then all three turned to look at me. One of them went for the walkie-talkie at his belt.
And that’s my cue, folks!
It was all I could do to stop myself from running through the lengthy lobby toward the building’s back exit. I walked as briskly as I could while still appearing normal, willing myself to not look over my shoulder to see if they were following. I assumed that once I got outside, I’d be fine. This is America, after all. Sure, corporations are powerful, but they can’t just seize people on the street, right? Right?
I powered through the revolving doors and emerged into the midtown Manhattan air, which for once smelled sweet to me. It smelled like freedom, and relief—not at all like the usual scent of curbside garbage and hobo pee.
Once I was outside, I felt it was safe to check behind me. I turned and looked.
No one.
No one was following me. Gazing through the glass doors into the lobby, I couldn’t even spot the three guards who had spooked me. They had disappeared from the spot they were standing. Maybe I was right, and they were just meeting up to go to lunch together. Was I being too paranoid? Was I losing my mind?
I had to call Gawker .
CHAPTER 3
When Rupert Met Roger
F ox News was, by the
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