Democracy Dies...In The Washington Post Magazine

This is the actual headline of an actual fizzy, gushing +4,400 profile fluff piece on the latest model to roll off the Fox News Blonde Dimbo assembly line which was published in the actual Washington Post Magazine:

The Making of Britt McHenry 

Is the rising Fox star a thoughtful conservative or a right-wing troll? As she finds her way in the world of punditry, striking the perfect balance isn’t easy.

And here is a tiny sip from that wretched jug:

Her hair has been loosely curled and teased, her black eyeliner applied, her pink lip gloss dabbed on. A thick cloud of sweet-smelling hair spray has been unleashed, fumigating any natural scent previously on her person. When she gets up from the TV makeup chair, smoothing out her black body-con dress with trendy shoulder cutouts, she towers over everyone in the room, because she is 5-foot-10 and wearing three-inch stilettos. She spits out her gum. Britt McHenry is ready for Fox News...

Many Fox News viewers probably already follow McHenry on Twitter, where, after her layoff from ESPN in April 2017, she cultivated a provocative brand of conservative punditry. “Between Gigi Hadid’s ‘blackface,’ or as some of us call ‘bronzer,’ & a high school girl’s prom dress, apparently Caucasians have to apologize for existing. The reverse racism is ridiculous in 2018,” she tweeted in May. The month before: “Love triggering the Libs.” ...

Oh how far we have fallen from Frank Sinatra Has a Cold

...
Frank Sinatra, leaning against the stool, sniffling a bit from his cold, could not take his eyes off the Game Warden boots. Once, after gazing at them for a few moments, he turned away; but now he was focused on them again. The owner of the boots, who was just standing in them watching the pool game, was named Harlan Ellison, a writer who had just completed work on a screenplay, The Oscar.

Finally Sinatra could not contain himself.

"Hey," he yelled in his slightly harsh voice that still had a soft, sharp edge. "Those Italian boots?"

"No," Ellison said.

"Spanish?"

"No."

"Are they English boots?"

"Look, I donno, man," Ellison shot back, frowning at Sinatra, then turning away again.

Now the poolroom was suddenly silent. Leo Durocher who had been poised behind his cue stick and was bent low just froze in that position for a second. Nobody moved. Then Sinatra moved away from the stool and walked with that slow, arrogant swagger of his toward Ellison, the hard tap of Sinatra's shoes the only sound in the room. Then, looking down at Ellison with a slightly raised eyebrow and a tricky little smile, Sinatra asked: "You expecting a storm?"

Harlan Ellison moved a step to the side. "Look, is there any reason why you're talking to me?"

"I don't like the way you're dressed," Sinatra said.

"Hate to shake you up," Ellison said, "but I dress to suit myself."

Now there was some rumbling in the room, and somebody said, "Com'on, Harlan, let's get out of here," and Leo Durocher made his pool shot and said, "Yeah, com'on."

But Ellison stood his ground.

Sinatra said, "What do you do?"

"I'm a plumber," Ellison said.

"No, no, he's not," another young man quickly yelled from across the table. "He wrote The Oscar."

"Oh, yeah," Sinatra said, "well I've seen it, and it's a piece of crap."

"That's strange," Ellison said, "because they haven't even released it yet."

"Well, I've seen it," Sinatra repeated, "and it's a piece of crap."

Now Brad Dexter, very anxious, very big opposite the small figure of Ellison, said, "Com'on, kid, I don't want you in this room."

"Hey," Sinatra interrupted Dexter, "can't you see I'm talking to this guy?"

Dexter was confused. Then his whole attitude changed, and his voice went soft and he said to Ellison, almost with a plea, "Why do you persist in tormenting me?"

The whole scene was becoming ridiculous, and it seemed that Sinatra was only half-serious, perhaps just reacting out of sheer boredom or inner despair; at any rate, after a few more exchanges Harlan Ellison left the room. By this time the word had gotten out to those on the dance floor about the Sinatra-Ellison exchange, and somebody went to look for the manager of the club. But somebody else said that the manager had already heard about it—and had quickly gone out the door, hopped in his car and drove home. So the assistant manager went into the poolroom.

Behold, a Birthday Fundraiser!