Apparently so, yeah.
As the co-host of NBC’s “Today,” Matt Lauer once gave a colleague a sex toy as a present. It included an explicit note about how he wanted to use it on her, which left her mortified.
On another day, he summoned a different female employee to his office, and then dropped his pants, showing her his penis. After the employee declined to do anything, visibly shaken, he reprimanded her for not engaging in a sexual act.
He would sometimes quiz female producers about who they’d slept with, offering to trade names. And he loved to engage in a crass quiz game with men and women in the office: “f—, marry, or kill,” in which he would identify the female co-hosts that he’d most like to sleep with.
These accounts of Lauer’s behavior at NBC are the result of a two-month investigation by Variety, with dozens of interviews with current and former staffers. Variety has talked to three women who identified themselves as victims of sexual harassment by Lauer, and their stories have been corroborated by friends or colleagues that they told at the time. They have asked for now to remain unnamed, fearing professional repercussions.
On Wednesday, NBC announced that Lauer was fired from “Today.”
Couldn’t happen to a nicer asshole. Except, perhaps, this one:
Garrison Keillor published this in WaPo last night! pic.twitter.com/UcHFEF9FR6
— Jimmy (@JimmyPrinceton) November 29, 2017
I nurture an especial loathing for Keillor, who has to be pretty much the pluperfect example of the smug, sanctimonious, self-righteous, arrogant Progressivist. The greasy unctuousness that drips like hot bacon fat from his every spoken syllable has always grated on me something awful, and I look forward to seeing the fatuous pig twisting in the wind for days to come yet, as more and more accusers find their courage and crawl out from under the rock he crushed them under.
Better put some Powdermilk Biscuit flour on that, fat boy.
Update! Creep confessional.
In 1994, Keillor addressed the National Press Club and defended Bill Clinton against a battery of accusations, calling him a “soulful man” who “got himself elected without scaring people.” Keillor warned that society should try “not to make the world so fine and good that you and I can’t enjoy living in it.”
He added in his hangdog baritone: “A world in which there is no sexual harassment at all, is a world in which there will not be any flirtation. A world without thieves at all will not have entrepreneurs.” Twenty-three years later — amid a reckoning of workplace behavior that has felled politicians, TV anchors and Hollywood heavies — a viewer is left to wonder: Was Keillor being straight, or satirical?
In 1998 Keillor wrote “Wobegon Boy,” a novel about a radio host who is wrongly accused of sexual harassment and fired by his station.
On Tuesday, the day before his firing, The Washington Post published his opinion piece ridiculing the idea that Sen. Al Franken (D-Minn.) should resign over allegations of sexual harassment.
Calls for Franken’s head are “pure absurdity,” Keillor wrote, “and the atrocity it leads to is a code of public deadliness.”
Keillor, an avowed Democrat, last year became a weekly columnist for The Washington Post News Service and Syndicate — meaning he was a contract writer, not an employee with a desk in the newsroom. Many of his columns took mournful aim at President Trump, who “would have enjoyed the 17th century,” when “the idea of privileged sexual aggression was common in high places.”
Man, irony just doesn’t come much richer or more toothsome than that. Twist, twist, and writhe, you double-dealing blowhard. You readers can rest assured I’m going over the above-mentioned WaPo piece on Franken right now, and will be back for another savory bite of greasy long-pig soon as I’m done with it.
(Via David Bernstein)
Meh update! Surprisingly, it’s a very brief and almost perfunctory piece, although in light of what we know now it DOES have a distinct flavor of self-serving desperation lurking under the crust of overcooked wordplay. Keillor starts off with a so-so riff on the potential risks and rewards of renaming—one Francois-Marie Arouet (who went on to renown under the pen-name Voltaire) in particular—which pointless perambulation brings him staggering round at last to the meat of it, such as it is:
That name worked out well for Francois-Marie — it lent an electricity to his work. For example, his statement: “Any one who has the power to make you believe absurdities has the power to make you commit injustices.” We might not believe that coming from a Francois-Marie. And how considerate of him to say it in English rather than French.
The greatest absurdity of our time is You Know Whom, which goes without saying but I will anyway. What his election showed is that a considerable number of people, in order to demonstrate their frustration with the world as it is, are willing to drive their car, with their children in the back seat, over a cliff, smash the radiator, bust an axle and walk away feeling good about themselves. No other president in modern times has been held in contempt by a preponderance of people from the moment he said, “So help me, God.” The playboy blather, the smirk of privilege, the stunning contempt for factual truth — how can the country come together when the president has nothing in common with 98 percent of the rest of us?
And then there is Sen. Al Franken. He did USO tours overseas when he was in the comedy biz. He did it from deep in his heart, out of patriotism, and the show he did was broad comedy of a sort that goes back to the Middle Ages. Shakespeare used those jokes now and then, and so did Bob Hope and Joey Heatherton when they entertained the troops. If you thought that Al stood outdoors at bases in Iraq and Afghanistan and told stories about small-town life in the Midwest, you were wrong. On the flight home, in a spirit of low comedy, Al ogled Miss Tweeden and pretended to grab her and a picture was taken. Eleven years later, a talk show host in LA, she goes public, and there is talk of resignation. This is pure absurdity, and the atrocity it leads to is a code of public deadliness. No kidding.
Franken should change his name to Newman and put the USO debacle behind him and then we’ll change frankincense to Febreze. Remove the slaveholder Washington from our maps, replacing him with Wampanoag, and replace Jefferson, who slept with Sally Hemings — consensual? I doubt it — with Powhatan, and what about the FDR Drive in New York, named for a man who was unfaithful to his wife? Let’s call it RFD and let it go at that.
Man, the “everybody does it” self-justification rises off that like a bad, bad odor.
“Playboy blather” indeed, you son of a bitch; “nothing in common with 98 percent of the rest of us”—except of course YOU. You, and all of Hollywood, and your precious Democrat-Socialist swamp-dwellers, too.
And all Trump did was TALK about it, stating something everybody knows is the simple truth: that wealth and fame allow a man to get away with a lot that he wouldn’t otherwise. You and your fellow power-abusing pustules didn’t talk about it. You DID it.
You want Trump crucified for merely talking about the very things you and your precious “icons” HAVE ACTUALLY BEEN DOING ALL ALONG—and even have the big, brass balls to say so in the course of defending one of your own for doing it in this article. Worse, you all have actually been doing it while claiming to be “feminists”—priggishly lecturing us “toxic masculinity” troglodytes on our supposed “misogyny” while you have your unseen hand up some poor girl’s skirt against her will, without her consent, and to her outrage and horror.
Yeah, well, FUCK YOU, gasbag. Every last stinking, insufferable one of you. Period fucking dot. As the great Larry Brown once hilariously fantasized saying to a publisher who had rejected him: I wish I had you down here. I’d whip your ass. I’d stomp a mudhole in your ass and walk it dry.
Despicable, certainly. One can only stand in awe of their boundless gall, even as one chokes back the rising gorge over their deplorable lack of shame or decency.
Well, that, and enjoy their public humiliation while we eagerly await the next round, I mean.
Of course, the most delicious part of all remains unchanged: for all their high sanctimony before, now that all of Hollywood, most of Democrat Socialist DC, and even the world of “journalism” stands exposed, they still have, what?
Judge Roy Moore. One guy—ONE—against entire INDUSTRIES of Progressivist gropers, weenie-waggers, pervs, and pud-pullers. Let’s just run a list, which I won’t even pretend is comprehensive: Weinstein. Clinton, of course. Gore. Conyers. Franken. NPR chief editor David Sweeney. Takei. Louis CK. Keillor. Weiner. Spacey. Charlie Rose. Glenn Thrush. Halperin. James Toback. Brett Ratner. John Lasseter. Go back further than this recent tsunami, if you like, to Ted Kennedy: the Lion of the Senate, inspiration and role model, grandfather to them all.
All proud liberals—ALL. Against…what?
Judge Roy Moore. That’s it. He’s the only one. And the already-questionable allegations against him are holding less and less water by the day.
Enjoy this? Oh, you just bet your sweet ass I am. And if you’re a liberal female and are all butthurt now, perceiving my turning of that last phrase as some kind of microaggression against you, well, call a fucking cop, sweetcheeks.
Seriously, though, I must admit that I mostly agree with Keillor’s premise in his article above: I do think the stultified, juiceless world foisted on us by Progressivist political correctness—the lunatic boundaries their idea of what constitutes “sexual harassment” have drawn around us all—is neither a pleasant nor a desirable one. Would I prefer that we were all less uptight, more tolerant, more hardy and unflappable, less quick to take offense, more forgiving, more able to act like big boys and girls when it comes to such things? Sure I would.
Which doesn’t imply that I think there ain’t real, true harassment going on out there, mind. It also doesn’t mean I think it shouldn’t be swatted down vigorously and punished righteously when it’s exposed, each and every time, no matter who does it. It’s abuse of power; it’s preying on women, plain and simple, and it shouldn’t be tolerated. As a man and not a Pajama Boy pusscake, I believe protecting the women in my life from true predatory animals is one of my noblest and most compelling duties, and I have no qualms whatever about doing it. I owe my precious daughter that much, if no one else, and I swore to myself a long time ago that I would NOT fail her.
As has been said about other things, though: in a world where everything is sexual harassment, nothing is. All of the egregious behavior by the Progtard “icons” listed above rises (or sinks) to a reasonable, credible standard of harassment and abuse, and may God have mercy on the Franken or Lauer who dares do such to my little girl, because I surely won’t. On the other hand, innocent flirtation, say (unless it’s unwanted or excessive, or persists after a clear and calmly-stated request to knock it off); asking a co-worker out for drinks after work; an awkward, perhaps even drunken declaration of infatuation after a few of those drinks—ehhh, not so much, I’m thinking.
These are all things that those of us with a functioning moral compass can recognize as minor irritations at worst, certainly not just causes for hysteria, law-enforcement intervention, or psychotherapy. The critical flaw in the Progressivist approach is their usual lack of any sense of proportion, their complete inability to apply common sense to any problem or situation. That, combined with their bone-deep, reflexive penchant for seeking legislative, big-government solutions to anything and everything is why they find themselves in such deep doo-doo now. Which is no more than they deserve, the dopes.
But maybe the real long-term harm in what Progressivists have done is to make it probable that at least some bona-fide allegations of harassment or abuse won’t be taken seriously— that they end up numbing us to all such things so thoroughly as to render us uninterested in reacting appropriately to cases of real abuse. As with their shrieks of “Nazi!” at anyone who disagrees with them slightly, they may end up removing all force and impact from the term. Only time will tell on that, I guess.
For the moment, though, it’s time to enjoy another self-inflicted sucking chest wound, and to help ensure it’s as grievously and permanently injurious to them as possible. As with everything else, they’ve politicized sexual abuse, and are now being amusingly hoist once again on their own petard. This is the world they wanted; this is the world they made, and we all have to live in it. To fail to rigorously enforce their own rules against them, especially when it will do such great harm to them, is a mug’s game. It’s exactly what they expect of us right now, in truth—they’re counting on it; you can see that from the excuses they’re already so audaciously making for Franken, Lauer, and Conyers.
Hell with that. They’re your juices, libtards. Stew in ’em, till you’re fucking well done.
We’re gonna need more popcorn, looks like.