Self-abusing Daily Caller reporter shares tips on how journalists should handle themselves
Patrick Howley, who has had a rich (in unintentional LOLs) and varied career at Tucker Carlson’s Slightly Less Racist Than Breitbart.com playground, is very very disappointed in HuffPo reporter Ryan J. Reilly.
It seems that Reilly’s post-Ferguson Cops Gone Rogue Fun-Riot appearance did not move the dial on Howley’s ‘How Much Can You Bench?’ scale.
Howley — who fancies himself a man’s man, a guy’s guy, a dude’s dude, a bro’s bro, but is actually kind of a dick’s dick — chose yesterday to give a masterclass in journalism of the most manly kind.
Pushing his crumpled fedora back on his head, stubbing out an unfiltered cigarette on the back of his hand, Howley takes a a slug of cheap scotch from a dirty glass and pounded out an exclusive on the battered Underwood that has seen him through three wars and countless hours spent pleasuring himself while watching Juno:
Huffington Post reporter Ryan J. Reilly was detained in Ferguson, Missouri Wednesday while trying to make himself the story and refusing to leave a McDonald’s after 45 minutes.
Okay, let’s stop right there. I was unaware that there was a 45-minute time limit at McDonalds, punishable by getting your head slammed into the soda dispenser and then being hauled off to jail. Damn. Mayor McCheese makes Chicago’s Richard J. Daley look like a fucking Quaker.
Tell us more, Patrick Howley, tell us more:
There’s no reason to even bring up the Ferguson situation here because this fake reporter had no interest in Ferguson, or in anything except the edification of an ego that obviously grew in inverse proportion to the number of times that nobody he met at parties knew who he was. This isn’t about police brutality or the brutality of the protesters, or the racial powder keg exploding right now in St. Louis County, scene of the 1917 labor riots and the shortened playing career of Curt Flood. This is about one pathetic moron.”
Did you get that? I mean besides the ‘you think you’re all that‘ shade thrown at Reilly? Howley dropped a lil bit o’ Curt Flood baseball trivia on your butt and he probably high-fived the shit out of himself after crushing that man BOOM.
But time is short, let’s cut to the chase: where is Ryan J. Reilly — who went down to Ferguson to cover “the racial powder keg exploding right now in St. Louis County” — coming up short under Howley’s male gaze?
Writers, believe it or not, used to be cool. That was actually, for a decades-long spell in magazine history, one of the prerequisites for the job. In order to chronicle one’s times, one must be detached, smart, tough, fair, objective, willing to put himself in tough situations and then not cry like a little baby if something goes wrong.
Sure you want to go there, Sparky?
Well there is the Patrick Howley who wrote a “satirical piece” about playing ‘One Thumb, Way Way Up’ to Ellen Page movies, which contained this totally non-biographical quote, before the Caller yanked it:
“Almost everyone I run into, if I bring up school choice or mismanagement at the Federal Reserve people start jabbing their finger in my face about how their gay cousin served in Iraq and still can’t get married. Am I doing something wrong? Am I just an unlikable person? I don’t even have any friends under the age of 40 anymore, Skiff. I’m so lonely.”
There is the Patrick Howley who complained that gays weren’t being gay enough for his tastes:
Gayness used to be pretty awesome, according to alternative literature from the period 1954-78. Back in the day, gays were subversive adventurers, trolling the city streets at night on a lustful quest for experience and with an outlaw mentality not seen since the days of the Wild West. They were decadently-dressed sexual superheroes, daring Middle America to condemn them as they pranced their corseted, high-heeled bodies around to midnight screenings of great American movies like “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” “Pink Flamingoes,” and “Mommy Dearest.” They had an ingrained creativity, a patented sense of irony. They had a brand. They had an identity.
Which eventually led to Howley having to explain to the gays that there is a wonderland of back-alley Houses of the Hole-y just begging to be filled. Like, duh, you gays! Just ask around.
And there was that time when Patrick Howley tweeted that he wouldn’t boink Rosie Gray with Patrick Howley’s boinker which only led to Tucker making him apologize, shutting down his twitter account, and taking a time out to consider what exactly he did wrong. (It should be noted that Reilly played a part in Howley’s non-humping fantasies, so really this whole thing is actually payback.)
Presumably he used the time off to work on new and better ways to yell, “Nice ass, sugar-tits, you wanna do it with a guy who works for someone named Tucker who has a brother named Buckley?”
Word on the street is: you get laid with that, consider your man card stamped.
And there’s nothing cooler than that…