The Horror I’d Feel If I Were a Member of the Press
On the Outside
as well on the inside, my body would be all a-quiver. Like to take your best shot as to why? Well, if given the choice of dinner and dancing with Ava Gardner and Marilyn Monroe or being in an hour-long press conference to (hopefully) answer questions by (current) President, Donald J. Trump, Gardner and Monroe win hands-down! To put icing on this cake, the press and Trump, if they ran for my attention, would not even get out of the gate. I am serious.
There is nothing wrong with President Trump or the press. Both entities are doing a fine job, but let me be an employee or representative of either, and I would shake with fear and I do not exaggerate. Allow me this analogy: If I am in a stuffy, serious press conference, I would sweat bullets, but not with the lovely Ava Gardner (who was married by Frank Sinatra) and Marilyn Monroe, star of film and stage. And to all guys: would you dare to challenge my answer?
The number one fear that I would have if I worked with the press, it would have to be, if I lifted my hand to ask Press Secretary, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, what President Trump would be able to do if he and our Congress were to vote on the Draft being invoked or not, or not, how would he react? Get serious, my friends. All human beings are built to experience fear—some with more and some with less fear. I can tell you this: if I were standing in my front yard and a pack of Hell’s Angels were to zoom into my yard, I would get instantly-fearful and start to cry like a whipped stray dog.
Do I Make my Point
by using my Hell’s Angels comparison as to what ‘real’ fear’ is like? And I am not immune to that male part of me when I forget about where I am at and start complimentary phrases to a Washington page who works for some powerful Congressman. I know that if ‘this’ situation were to appear, I would blow it like blowing on dust off of a used car.
I can just imagine what President Trump would do if he, or the Secret Service, were to see and hear me and say a few nice lines, Trump would blow his stack and yell, “You there! You there with the cheap suit! Out! Get out of here now!” And by now, the tall, muscular guys from the Secret Service would have me hauled-out of the press conference faster than you can repeat the current NASDAQ Stock Reports being reported in China.
Oh, sure, I could muster-up the courage to not let the Secret Service fill me full of holes, but knowing me a lot better than Trump, the Secret Service, and you, I can tell you that working for some publication in the White House Press Conference would definitely NOT be the place for yours truly.
Here a few More Things
that would surely-solidity the fact that “I” would be so out-of-place as a catfish trying to swim on the bank of the river that I would make the front page of the local paper. What I
mean to say is: there are some people who do MAKE wonderful reporters and cameras in their work with the press and then there is ME, who would not make a passing grade if I were suddenly-plunged into the White House Press Corps.
When it pertains to me, I know what might happen: my suit, shirt, and pants would become wet with sweat and when that happened, my attire would shrink causing me to look like Laurel Hardy, of Stan and Laurel fame. And what professional man or woman would want to sit near me in this Tom Thumb suit? None. I can answer that with ease.
And what if I were to stand-up and try to get an ask Mrs. Huckabee (something of this nature), “Uhhh, errr, Mrs. Huckleberry, oops, I, yuhhh, Huck and Finn, oh, no! I mean, uhhh, I mean, what is the Muskrat, hey! I mean, can I sit down for a minute?”
The last and most-lethal question that I might ask that would both be the end of my job with the Press Corp. and a one-way ticket back to Hamilton, Ala., would be: “Uhhh,say, Mrs. Huckle-Root, errr, about yesterday, I just want to know if, errr, President Tromp is going to race next year?”
I would not expect any of my friends in the Press Corp.,to give me a “Farewell Party,” or even a “Going Away” gift . . .this has turned into a sad day.
April 8, 2019______________________________________________________
© 2019 Kenneth Avery