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It’s only a matter of time before someone takes President Donald Trump’s frequent attacks on the “Fake News Media” to heart and shoots up a newsroom somewhere in the United States of America.
This will likely be met with cheers by a significant portion of the population, many of whom have swallowed the Kool-Aid on this false notion that low-paid, hard-working journalists are why the country is swirling down the drain. Another larger segment of the population will simply be indifferent.
That’s one scenario. The other is that important freedoms like those of the press will simply be chipped away until they are gone. No one will notice by that point. Most people already can’t be bothered to look away from their Instagram.
Of course, there’s always the chance, if ever so slight, that the working press will simply be declared an outlaw profession and everyone can get their information directly from the government and the handful of large corporations that control the universe.
In any case, I will likely need a job soon. But what am I qualified for? My lifelong problem with authority has suited me well as a reporter, but it would likely get me fired at Chipotle. I’ve often joked that I would just go on a simple interstate bank robbery spree that ends in a hail of police gunfire in west Texas, the premiere place in America for one to die in a hail of police gunfire.
But that won’t work. I hate guns. And even if I were to purchase one for a bleak, end-run crime spree, I wouldn’t carry any bullets. I don’t want to hurt anyone, and it would be fun to leave the police explaining why they shot a sort-of-unarmed white guy in the parking lot of a Wells Fargo in Amarillo.
I sometimes fantasize about posting up as a highwayman at that scenic outlook east of Boulder on U.S. 36 and robbing tourists for just enough that they will have a fun story to tell their grandkids but not enough for them to bother the cops. But that brings up the aforementioned distaste for firearms. So that’s out.
Solution: felony-level cheese thievery.
I was at the grocery store the other night, and I noticed — in the refrigerated case full of the fancy cheese I can’t afford — a few large wheels of expensive cheese. I’m talking 10 pounds, 2 feet wide. The pitiful slivers placed on top of the wheels cost $10, $11. That wheel’s easily two grand of cheese. All one has to do is roll it out the front door.
Absolutely true stereotype about white people: We love cheese. Even white people who turn vegan expend great effort devising ways to make ersatz cheese with soy and other unpalatable ingredients. Fencing fancy wheel cheese will be an easy sell in Boulder.
Anyway, if things go any further south, I’ll be selling Parmigiano-Reggiano at the scenic outlook. Line forms to the left.