EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT: Greg Gutfeld's 'The Bible of Unspeakable Truths'

Ed. Note: Today and tomorrow Big Hollywood is running exclusive excerpts from Greg Gutfeld’s new book, “The Bible of Unspeakable Truths,” which is available now. Leigh Scott’s review is here. Rep. Thaddeus McCotter’s review is here.

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Garry Trudeau Is an Untalented Sack of Poop

If Doonesbury did not relentlessly spout knee-jerk liberal tripe in every panel, it would not exist. It’s the only cartoon given tenure–in that the media cut Garry Trudeau slack because they all believe his heart is in the right place, even though his stuff sucks harder than something that really sucks.

But in our hearts, we all know the truth: The strip is neither amusing nor interesting. Worse, the dude can’t draw for shit. Essentially, Trudeau has been a recipient of comic strip welfare his entire career. No one has had the guts to cut him off. It’s too bad, because Funky Winkerbean really deserves his spot.

Reporters Are Always Fearless in Movies Made About Reporters

I remember a few years back, a polling company measured public perceptions of twenty-three professions, and journalists ended up ranked at the bottom. Just 13 percent of eleven hundred U.S. adults said the occupation of journalist had “very great prestige,” while 16 percent said it had “hardly any at all.” Meanwhile, 61 percent said the most prestigious job was firefighter, noting that they were also great strippers at bachelorette parties.

And yet, Hollywood has spent the last seventy years glorifying the role of journalists, while it’s made only one Backdraft (possibly two, I can’t remember). Robert Redford can play a journalist on the big screen, but we all know that in real life, journalists look more like me–pudgy, pasty drunks with moderate to unhealthy obsessions with unicorn porn (or uniporn, for short). Aside from those brave souls who really put themselves in harm’s way in war-torn countries–for the rest of us hacks–journalism is about as heroic as dentistry. And dentists have cooler instruments. And nitrous.

I know this, for I used to be a print journalist, it’s true. But I spent my time doing what all good journalists should do: trying to find my pants. If I could have cloned myself and created a press corps entirely of Gregs, I would have, but until then I refuse to learn how to read and urge you to do the same.