Read this if you work in news and have to deal with Trump


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By David Iseman

I’ve been a newsman more than three decades.

Watching Donald Trump beat up on my fellow journalists ticks me off.

I’m not actively writing for a publication right now, so I’m free to write some opinion, not just facts. I don’t have to turn the other cheek at Donald’s hate, as many journalists do every single day.

Let him take his shot. Fume quietly. Go back to work. That’s part of the job.

I have written some angry words about Trump in a blog; this is not more of that.

This is an attempt to say what I hope many other journalists are thinking, to touch on root causes for the friction between this virulent, pandering swellhead and honorable journalists.

I hope this brightens the day for some newspeople out there. I know you probably cannot even react or share this, out of fear of running up against ethics policies. That’s OK.

Just getting this off my chest lowered my blood sugar.

Why Trump hates my hard-working colleagues

1) We  expose bullies. You try to bully.

2) We strive for truth. You push it off to dark corners.

3) You say political correctness has made Americans afraid to speak out. You try to muzzle us when we speak out.

4) We stand for clarity in complex, important matters. As far as I can see, you stand for it only in wine.

5) You like to sue. We work diligently to avoid being sued.

6) You say you want America to be great again. We want the world’s people to have the chance to be great again.

7) Our ethics prohibit us from stereotyping and bias. You feed on premeditated bigotry.

8) You speak out of both sides of your mouth. Most of us have to prove what we have gathered in order to share it.

9) You try to be crude. We try to be polished.

10) You ban us from your events. Still, we reach out to you for words.

11) Having lots of money, to you, should bring automatic respect. Having lots of money, to us, should bring automatic questions.

12) The best of us are willing to risk our jobs over principle. You are unprincipled.


And, lastly, a question: You say you have hate in your heart for us. We want to know, does that leave room for anything else?


The (deadly) art of the deal

001Note from author: I’m no longer an active journalist with Gannett, and these writings are my own opinion.

After meeting with the evangelicals this week, Donald sidled up to one he knew would keep a secret.

“Hey, got a question for ya. But, do me a favor, keep this between us. Deal?”


“You really believe in the Big Guy up there? That miracle stuff?”

“Well, of course, the Bible in Corinthians …”

“No, please, short answer. I’ve had enough of that Scripture stuff for one day. Believe me. I just need to know one thing: Can you get me a meeting?”

“A meeting? With who?”

“The Big Guy. The All Powerful. The one with all the wings and halos and gold. Frankly, I need some cash. That freakin’ Hillary, the freakin’ god’s gift to women, has me outgunned like $42 million to $1. Can you do this or not?”

“Well … uh. All I know is folklore, something about Billy Graham sneaking off in that hallway with Reagan and coming back with …”

“Reagan. Perfecto. Beautiful. C’mon. Hurry. Show me. Puleassse, step it up? You Southerners are slower than the Lincoln Tunnel.”

They walked to a tiny elevator off a narrow hallway. Inside were no numbers, only a lighted arrow pointing up.

When the doors opened, even Donald’s orange face turned white, bathed in pearly light.

The two men had to squint to try to figure out who was standing in front of them.

He was huge, with a rooster on his shoulder. He boomed, “NO! NOT HIM!” and motioned toward a second elevator to the right, red arrow pointing down.

Unseen arms lifted Donald off his feet, escorting him in to the elevator car, alone. After a whoosh, it opened to a dank room that smelled like wet dog and fireworks.

“Please allow me to introduce myself,” said the goateed man seated in a large blood-red recliner.

But Donald was no mental slouch and cut to the chase. “Listen Lucifer, or do you prefer Beelzebub? I heard about you. In fact, the other day, I was talking with my very, very good friend Newt Gingrich. You know he loves me. He really loves … but, nevermind. That’s a story for another time. Right now, I need cash. I’ll trade you my soul for $100 million.”

Lucifer clapped his hairy hands to summon someone. In shuffled Joe Paterno, dressed like a Venetian gondolier, carrying a big dusty book.

“Um, minor problem Mr. Trump. You don’t have much capital in the Soul Department. I know you pride yourself on your deal-making but your bargaining power … Excuse me.”

Adolf Hitler goose-stepped in, bent and whispered something in the devil’s ear.

“Mr. Trump, we must hurry along. I have other appointments. It is the political season, you know.”

Hitler stared haughtily but Donald stared him down.

“Loser,” Donald muttered, before turning his attention back to the devil.

“OK. OK. I knew I shouldn’t have fessed up to that adultery crap. C’mon, tho. That was so long ago, so very very long ago. There’s gotta be something we can work out here. I’m gonna be president for Crissakes.”

Lucifer winced at the C-word. “Please. Watch your language. Come to think of it, there is something you could offer me.”

“Beelzy baby, just spit it out. Time is money.”

“I would like you to kill 200,000 people. By my estimation, about 60 percent will be in state of sin, so I can add a few souls to my wailing entourage. Some of those Baby Boomers really reformed themselves after the ’60s. My percentages are down right now.”

Donald’s wheels started turning. Presidents have armies. Armies have guns. Wars are easy to start.

“Sure Beelzy. Can do, my friend. In fact, I’ll go ya one step further.”

“You’ve got my attention Mr. Trump.”

“Did you see me on TV the other week? When that slimeball Rubio questioned my manhood. I told the world there was no problem ‘down there’ but there is, well, a little one. Ya get my drift?”

Lucifer resisted a chuckle and asked, “You want a little help in that department?”

“Who doesn’t, eh? Except for my bitch of an opponent, maybe, but then again she’s already married to a big …”

“Spare me the obvious, please, Mr. Trump. Yes, I can help, but what are you offering me?”

“I’ll see your 200,000 dead and raise ya 200,000. Just endow me down there, baby. Make me as big as I feel. Give me something to shake, rattle and roll.”

They stood.

They shook hands.

Donald smile broadly until he started to realize what was happening. His face went pale and he rocked on his heels. The burgeoning mass in his nether regions sent him completely off balance. He toppled forward — face-first into Lucifer’s pointy, razor-sharp, prehensile tail.

Lucifer looked down, bemused. He clapped again.

“Adolf, feed him to the eternal fire, quickly. I’m booked today and need this room. Joe, get ready to send in that Gingrich fellow.”

Hitler bent toward Donald, sprawled and lifeless.

With a harrumph, in broken English, he said, “Dumkoff. Now who’s fired. Get it? Fired, like with da flames.

Ha! Dumkoff.”