Yeah, But The Emails

Mary Louise Kelly, WaPo:

Around 3 p.m. that day, massive news broke. The Office of the Director of National Intelligence and the Department of Homeland Security released a terse statement, declaring that Russia had “directed the recent compromises of e-mails from US persons and institutions, including from US political organizations.” In other words, the leaders of the intelligence community were for the first time publicly fingering Russia for the Democratic National Committee hack, and not only that: “Only Russia’s senior-most officials could have authorized these activities.”

I had attempted to take Oct. 7 off, and I have a vivid memory of standing on the sideline of my son’s soccer practice, scanning the statement on my phone and realizing that my weekend was shot. But before I finished filing for the NPR newscast, another shoe dropped. At 4:02 p.m., David Fahrenthold of The Washington Post tweeted, “stand by for some news about @realDonaldTrump.” One minute later, his story on the “Access Hollywood,” “Grab ’em by the p----” video went live, instantly imperiling Trump’s candidacy.

And still the news gods were not done. Just when you thought the afternoon could not possibly get nuttier, 4:32 p.m. brought a tweet from WikiLeaks. “RELEASE: The Podesta Emails,” it read. Some 2,000 messages from Clinton campaign manager John Podesta’s personal Gmail account were posted immediately; WikiLeaks claimed to have tens of thousands more. Soon reporters would be mining a document dump that included both serious campaign communications and Podesta’s risotto recipe.
That last bit - the part about how reporters were combing through the emails like a bunch of grade school little brothers who've found their big sister's diary, and making no perceptible effort to make sure we were well-informed about the link between those emails and the fact that the whole goddamned Spook Network was telling us the Russians were fucking with our election.

Now, of course, they blame Obama for not trying harder - for not continually hitting us over the head with it.

Do your own fuckin' work, Press Poodles.