From the archive: This post was published on our original site, MyCityLife back on 23 April 2014
The law according to Buddha says the four unwholesome actions of speech to be avoided are lying, slander, harsh speech and malicious gossip.
Eleanor Roosevelt proclaimed: Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.
For those whose livelihoods generally are in communications; writers, journalists and publicists live fairly wholesome lives. Through the power of their words, they furnish the world with content, open eyes and create dreams.
But there is the bottom feeder of media: one who depends upon exaggeration and vilification; who in their insignificance creates something out of nothing, lacks a name and furthermore, a reputation, and even less, acceptability. They are the uncelebrated small city gossip-columnist.
I detest these nameless, dishonourable media whores. They are the scummy scroungy crabs of the communications floor. The malicious gossip that spreads care of their words is frivolous and cheap – much like the cheap perfumes sold at pharmacist that smells like sour toilet water and simply won’t go away. These are not the Brahmin class of media who socialize and report on society: such characters from Damien Anthony Rossi to Richard Wilkins and Molly Meldrum are the crème-de-la crème of tête-à-tête with the esteemed names and reputations: when they disclose information on their subjects, there is that immediate warmth and affection that shows their connection to the affair of discussion.
These bottom feeders are not journalists and certainly not writers. They certainly don’t rate as publicists, for publicity means telling the truth and working ethically – even when the media wants headlines and the public screams for a sacrificial lamb. The uncelebrated refuse of the newsroom slots is the flux of the literary world. When it came to selling out and desiring convenience over morals and ethics, they basked in the anemic sunlight of baleful drivel and passed it off as light entertainment.
But the incognito scoria of sensationalism is far from entertaining. They are the equivalent to the reality stars of Bachelor Pad – more so a distasteful distraction that shows humanity at its worst. And at a time when print media is being defeated so skillfully by the internet, the educated and the informed are not buying newspapers to read such dross.
These execrable crabs can’t even apply their name to their news items – either it’s not wanted by the publications they write for, or, they have shrouded their news items in such vitriol, they are too ashamed to. Instead, they are associated more with the section of the newspaper they write for or the publication they write under. Their words have no virtue: when they look at themselves in the mirror, they lie. They rely on tarnish and misrepresentation; for when everyone is covered in muck, they look less unsanitary.
Their greatest talent lies in disguising their virulent vocabulary with a glossy skin of genteel ridicule and rancour. This hides a fragile image of vacillation, misery and bromide, for deep down, they know, they were meant for something far more beautiful and exceptional. Because even deeper, they know they are unworthy, defying Buddha’s four unwholesome actions of speech with every letter that drips from their spiked computer fingers and disfigured lips.
The true irony is, the only reason we ever find out about them comes when they unscrupulously contaminate the lives of the people and subjects they put their words to. The real world and readers do not absorb this untitled smear of literature. These abortive accounts are simply more TMI in a world already satiated with too much information.
Such desperate media whores are they, that there is a calculated lack of consideration in the consequences of their words. They don’t care whether they are airing dirty laundry, underhandedly ‘out’ somebody’s sexuality, or assume something where there is nothing. They simply weave their futile tales like an ugly witch her spells in a Macbeth dirge to tragedy. They covet a name and a reputation of their own – at all costs; even to their own detriment. They emulate Joan Rivers, though their sycophantic associates would prefer to liken them to Carrie Bradshaw or Perez Hilton. Because it glamourizes their lying, slander, harsh speech and malicious gossip.
Anonymous residue of farcical enlightenment: you are not reliving Sex In The City. You are the Crap of Cow Town, and as the incog bore of bulletin, you continue to spatter Cowtown in smudge. But poor media whore, we hope you’ll find substance, someday, somewhere. We, the educated and informed, fervently pray you do.
Love and Kisses, Lady Lex