.... If you checked the newsroom of the Washington Post, I suspect you would find that the inmates mostly lived in pricey neighborhoods, had degrees from Princeton, drank white wine, and ate salads made from strangely named vegetables. Most of them, I'll bet you, have never baited a hook, changed their oil, or made a raft out of orange crates and old inner tubes.
Nor (I'm continuing to bet) have they ever held a gun, much less fired one, and would regard doing so as highly exotic and probably fascistic. Zero of them would have served in the military. The men likely never got into a fight in high school. The women probably think that peeing in the woods constitutes either grave hardship or high adventure. Few have hitchhiked, boozed in a country bar, done shift work in a gas station, pulled crab pots, or played in a tire swing.
In short, they are privileged little snots. And have the attitudes to go with it. They don't like, among other things, the military, rural people, guns, the South, traditional morality, and Marlboro Man.
...........
Soon you begin to believe that your business is not to inform, but to instruct. You know that you are right about. . .well, about everything, because everybody in the newsroom agrees with you. (Diversity in newspapering means that you have blacks who think exactly the same things you do, Hispanics who think exactly. . . .)
The result is a kindergarten of privileged little snots, insular, arrogant, convinced of their superiority, thinking in lockstep, ignorant without knowing it, invincibly self-assured, who want to Make Things Better. They want to improve you. They want you to share their enlightenment, want to herd you in directions good for you. They are missionaries to the bushmen. You and me.
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