The recent DC media revelry was thwarted by a blundering assassination attempt, and in my case, a drunken challenge from journalist Jim Acosta, formerly of CNN and now Substack. He asked me to “step outside” so we could settle our differences like real men. I was eager to oblige on the sidewalk in front of the Smithsonian Museum, where Substack was hosting its gala. His fury erupted when I dared approach the VIP partygoer Julie K. Brown – comically credited with having broken the Jeffrey Epstein story in 2018 with her series of painfully overrated articles in the Miami Herald. She has since enjoyed hero status, getting showered with every contrived journalism award. Julie has even had her likeness optioned for some sort of streaming-service drama.
I was therefore not to be so rude as to ask about the repeated defamations she’s been hurling at me. Julie and her little sidekick Tara Palmeri have crudely insinuated that I am paid by Epstein coconspirators because I dare to depart from the prevailing hysterics. She has also claimed that I romp around “harassing” the sainted “survivors” – pure fabrications, of course. I only wish the billionaire largesse was flowing in at the rates they suggest – maybe I could move out of my Jersey City one-bedroom, and upgrade to a newer model Hyundai Accent.
What I actually argue is the Epstein story has become self-perpetuating internet mythology. Epstein, we’re told, was running a vast network of child sex abuse, involving industrialized blackmail and intelligence services cooperation. No one would argue he was innocent; after all, he once pleaded guilty to soliciting a minor for prostitution. What I take issue with is the idea there are thousands of victims of this supposed monumental “trafficking” ring in which the rulers of the universe are gravely implicated. No credible evidence has yet emerged to validate this blinkered notion. So I wanted to talk to Julie about this narrative inflation and ask, politely of course, that she stop slandering my good name.
The problem is that Julie now appears to style herself as some sort of Epstein survivor by proxy, having served as a loyal mouthpiece for this multibillion dollar industry. A simple attempt to speak with her descended into a totally needless maelstrom, with Julie claiming she was somehow physically endangered – as a vulnerable Female Journalist – and needed the noble intervention of a chivalrous male posse (led by Acosta). This, at an event that was supposed to be all about celebrating our cherished freedom of the press. It was a particularly odd state of affairs given this was a party convened by Substack, once considered the Wild West of journalism, set on attracting swashbuckling media outcasts. And so I obliged Acosta and his tough-guy taunts. News of the nearby shooting had just broken however, and a rigid security perimeter imposed. That was probably for the best. I would’ve walloped Acosta the minute we “stepped outside.” Instead, he shrewdly delegated his dirty work to security and they unceremoniously removed me before we could throw any haymakers. I was the one who ended up getting chucked to the curb.
Though I instantly accepted Jim’s street-brawl challenge, and would happily have fought him right then and there, I have to admit the ensuing theatrics were mostly an exercise in absurdist self-deprecation. I can barely lug a few bags of heavy groceries. Any journo-scrum would have devolved into a limp confrontation between a pair of wet noodles, wildly flailing at each other, hampered by our black-tie attire. I know I probably would’ve ended up busting my own sternum or something. Hence, my idea of victory would simply be to have uncoiffed Jim’s immaculate hair, still primped for television hits at a moment’s notice.
The next phase of this saga could become all too real. Offers have poured in for a big-money prize fight. Jason Calacanis of the All-In podcast dangled $100,000 for Jim and me to duke it out in Las Vegas on July 4. I can hardly think of a grander way to mark our nation’s 250th anniversary. And I could actually use the $100,000, unlike Jim, who until recently had been living high off the hog with his fat CNN contracts.
Here are my only stipulations: that the undercard feature a mud-wrestling match between Candace Owens and Erika Kirk. Then, for the main event between Jim and me, the perimeter of the ring should be lined with Epstein survivors in skimpy bikinis. Melania Trump could even serve as the official “ring girl.” It would definitely do numbers on social media. It’s about time we all admit we’re slaves to the Master Algorithm. That’s one shadowy network I really dobelieve in.
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