There once was a man named Toobin,
Whose fondest delight was in Zoomin’,
As he wiped off his screen,
After makin’ a scene,
He asked, “How did you like my oozin’?”
The New Yorker has or had a “legal analyst” named Jeffrey Toobin. He was a participant in a recent Zoom videocall with several other people. The conversation evidently didn’t interest him. He pulled his pants down and found something that did. A lot.
Can you imagine if this talking head had been on-the-air and live via Zoom, as often happens these COVID days? And imagine if he were doing his thing as one of the presidential debate “moderators.” On the other hand, that wouldn’t be much more immoderate than the other moderators.
In any event, the object of Toobin’s hands-on interest proved less interesting to the other participants on the videocall. The New Yorker has suspended him. Which surely is a violation of some sort of special protection to which he’s entitled.
Maybe he can share a cell with Hunter Biden.
Toobin practiced law for a little while way back when. But after a few years, he quit the profession and became what he is now or was until a few days ago: A
As someone who spent a career in law at very high levels, I was often bemused by Toobin. He was of course hard left and conspicuously biased — and I do mean hard and conspicuous — but that’s to be expected for someone with The New Yorker. The source of my bemusement was his bad lawyering.
He seemed to get everything wrong. But he did so with such cocksureness that the viewer had to wonder if just maybe he was right this time.
Alas, he seldom was. But journalists are never penilized for being wrong. Or for being biased, incompetent, rude or stupid.
Toobin’s little episode does illustrate, however, where his “profession” draws the line. They may be without morals, but they’re not without standards.
Wrongness, bias, incompetence, rudeness and stupidity are OK, but on-screen masturbation in company videoconferences is strictly prohibited. At least for now.
Edward R. Murrow must be so proud.