That’s not a Doctor of Journalism. This is a Doctor of Journalism.*
Our arrival was badly timed . Most of the pigs from The American Spectator had already arrived. I saw this at a glance. They were just standing around trying to look casual. It was a terrifying scene. “I thought you should know about this,” the boy said finally. “Know? Me? Know about what?” I asked. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Just that this guy . . . this white supremacist guy . . . he says he’s you.” My brain locked up. I couldn’t think. The drugs were taking over.
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