Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward. Charles Bernstein and Rob Woodsomething. Among journalists, these guys are pretty much the cream of the crop. The Apex. The King of the Hill. The Menagerie. The Trojan Horse. The journaliest journalists to ever journalist a journal. Such men, such burly and charismatic men they are, only they could have busted one of the biggest scandals in American history wide open from eye hole to opposite-side ear hole on the cryptic skull that is our nation’s past. Their work consists of volumes; their skills nigh untouchable; perhaps the single-most famous name in journalism that is actually two people.
Friends, let me explain what this means to you. Let me share my reasons why everyone on campus (besides Taylor Knoedl) should be thoroughly invested in, what at least appears to be, two old white dudes shootin’ the shit on a ten dollar stage under a few rotisserie chicken lamps.
How many times have you thought to yourself “why is there no justice in this world?” How many times will I have to itch that itch before the itch finally leaves? Why do the bad guys get away? Why did God let grandma pass? I understand these questions, really I do, and have taken them into consideration regarding the importance of this event. Pragmatic.
Put your ear up to the wall. No, really. I’ll wait. Put the magazine down and put your ear up to the wall. Now listen. Listen to this wall. Do you hear that?
The structure of our institution of learning is fixated on the backs of dozens, hundreds, thousands, perhaps MILLIONS of workers and regulations. I’m aware that this is a large, overwhelming number to some, but a lot has passed through these facilities over the course of its history. Charles Woodward and Carl Bernstein are directly related to the building blocks of our university, our very way of life regarding this campus.
Imagine that we’re all just ants, just teeny tiny little ants crawling all over Long Island, too and fro like the busiest of bees. Only we’re not bees. We’re ants. And as ants, we walk a great distance for our eusocial bodies. We cross a Lawrence of Arabia style desert almost every day of our lives, but have yet to realize what our combined steps are amounting to. It’s funny in a twistedly tragic, almost sad way.
All falls down and reforms into order. It is our human way, our nature and the burden of our intelligence. The lesser minds of chimps and dogs and felines and insects have no concepts of philosophy, as they will never ponder their deaths, nor of faith, for they live as moving actions and exist inside the outside of self, nor even of the reasons why their jaws clamp shut to fulfill their basic biological functions.
In their maladjustment, there is a shimmer and sparkle. A shimmer and sparkle to be snuffed and hidden. Hidden from sight, smell and touch. To be released and shot down into the burning of the undersea, lost in the New Atlantis, subsequently found and then lost again. All in a moment; all in an instant.
Vanished.
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This.
This is what I imagine Woodward and Bernstein was like.
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