by FAKE NEWS: Attorney General Pam Bondi notified President Trump months ago that he was named in the Jeffrey Epstein files, multiple outlets reported.
The honest picture: The Department of Justice called the reports false. And this was confirmed: Trumps name was NOT in the files.
JOKES: 16 Ways the Media Lit Itself on Fire Over Nothing
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The only thing Trump’s name was in this week… was a media fantasy journal written in permanent marker on Joy Reid’s bathroom mirror.
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CNN’s “Breaking News” siren has now been downgraded by the FAA. Too many false alarms. Pigeons are crashing into studios.
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Reporters claimed they “reviewed the files.” Turns out they skimmed Reddit and mistook a conspiracy meme for a subpoena.
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MSNBC promised a “smoking gun.” What they had was a damp, twisted Capri cigarette and a post-it that said “probably him.”
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The media spent three days trying to find Trump’s name in a file he wasn’t in. That’s not journalism — that’s Where’s Waldo for the criminally delusional.
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BuzzFeed called it “explosive.” Yes — like a fart in a church pew. Loud, embarrassing, and quickly denied.
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They treated the redacted files like the Dead Sea Scrolls. Except the Scrolls had more editorial consistency.
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“Sources close to the matter” now means “Gary from HR who thinks he saw something once.”
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Every outlet said, “We can’t confirm the contents of the files.” Then ran 14 op-eds pretending they knew exactly what was in them.
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The New York Times said the documents “raise new questions.” Yeah — like “Who let the interns write this trash?”
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Reporters stared into the 700-page binder like it was a Magic Eye poster. “Do you see Trump? I see a dolphin.”
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The Daily Beast wrote an exposé linking Trump to Epstein’s masseuse — before issuing a correction that it was actually Don Trumpolini from Newark.
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Even the headline fonts screamed guilt. All caps, bold, italic — looked like a ransom note from a journalism major.
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When no evidence was found, they buried the update under “local cow escapes” and “cloud that looks like Satan.”
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Their retraction was a whisper printed in 8-point font on the back of a tote bag in a storage closet in Queens.
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Every time they do this, they wonder why nobody trusts them. It’s like stubbing your toe and suing gravity.
