All journalists go to hell

It’s 9 a.m. outside Gist Hall, the mecca for journalism activities at Humboldt State. All the students that typically fill the hallways are still in bed, unable to be bothered until at least 11 a.m.

Meanwhile, the only ones awake are those who woke up to hit the bong once or twice before they stumble into their sweats and yawn their way to campus somehow.

Yet, these are the elites. The ones who will go on to be some of the most brilliant voices in news, because, frankly, there are no brilliant voices in news anymore.

The persona of the tortured artistic type has morphed into a really obnoxious pissing contest not only between news stations, but among individual journalists as well.

In an era where news outlets and their worker bees are being discredited at every turn, we must face our fears and beat the elephant in the room to death… journalists are all terrible people.

It takes a certifiably insane human being to want to write news. It’s an impossible job for a level-headed person, and to recommend such a thing to a young and prospering academic is nothing short of treason.

The late Hunter S. Thompson, well-respected journalist and noted troublemaker, once said, “Sacrificing good men to journalism is like sending William Faulkner to work for Time magazine.”

Thompson, William Burroughs, Ken Kesey, Tom Wolfe, Tomi Lahren and more are known far and wide for rampant drug use, domestic abuse, drunken and boorish behavior.

All of these names belong to well-respected and famous journalists, who were all made famous not only by their work, but by the sleaze and trouble that came with it.

“Journalists have just operated under a veil of superiority, because our role was to call out B.S. and find truth,” said Nick Garcia, Humboldt State graduate with a bachelor’s in journalism. “Now everybody wants to be a personality and has an agenda.”

A newsroom in full swing is comparable only to the trading floor of the Wall Street Exchange.

Fingers senselessly tap-dance across the keyboard, beads of sweat trickle off any given forehead, phones buzzing every few seconds. Everybody swears like sailors and the coffee machine heat combines with cigarette stench to create the feeling of a sweat shop in the belly of an antique whaling ship.

If there’s a hell, journalists are going to be the first in line. They drink, they smoke, they weasel their way into stories and take photographs without asking.

Every national tragedy to ever befall this country, journalists earned a salary by showing up to annoy the victims.

Journalists could have ignored Donald Trump, but they wanted ratings and now there’s a tangerine with a neck running the White House.

The hell of it all is that the only journalists worth their salt aren’t paid nearly enough to be doing what they do.

Those who strive for objectivity even in the face of a world where small fish get hooked and transferred to a small pond with toxic runoff to slowly die while the big fish get botox and work for CNN.

Hats off to those chosen few who toil and sweat for little to no reward.

To be fair, it’s not like journalists would be good at their jobs if they weren’t capable of getting a little sleazy for the cause. It’s kind of a sleazy job. Writing in general is a bit greasy. It’s an inherently impossible job which might be why so many journalists find themselves at a news agency, addictive tendencies and an ego the size of a house.