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I knew then that I had been next door to the man who wanted to turn the White House Correspondents’ Association dinner into a mass shooting
Well that’s a level of presumption unbecoming of a journalist.
Quite simply, a man who wanted to kill people—many people, maybe me, maybe my colleagues—had checked into the Washington Hilton, just like I had.
Or maybe, like, one person in particular?
This isn’t journalism, this is manufacturing consent for dystopian levels of security theater and invasive procedures. The writer is upset that no one searched his luggage or stopped him and demanded to see ID on his way to his room? Utterly fucking ridiculous.