The chickenshit hacks at the Wall Street Journal are having conniptions over the departure of Marcus Brauchli, their managing editor. The hacks are pissed at Brauchli and think he’s a coward for quitting his post instead of standing up to new owner Rupert Murdoch. But they’re too cowardly to say that out in the open, so instead they get New York Times media columnist David Carr (photo right) to do their hatchet work for them. In today’s paper Carr savages Brauchli for taking money from Murdoch ($3 million to $5 million, supposedly) in exchange for going away quietly. Carr quotes Journal hacks who suggest Brauchli is a hypocrite for selling his soul instead of speaking truth to power. The Journal hacks use words like “disgusting” to describe Brauchli’s performance.

Curiously, however, those brave Journal hacks all speak on condition of anonymity. Not a single one will put his name to his bashing. Yes, O noble Journal hacks, O defenders of freedom of speech — speak to us about what is disgusting. Like stabbing your boss in the back, smearing his reputation and scurrying away into the dark like a pack of rats, maybe? And you wonder why people hate the media?

The best part is Carr’s last paragraph: “The verdict is already in on one matter: Inside and outside of the paper, there’s no confusion about who the paper belongs to. Not the editors who built it, not the reporters who fill it with articles, but the men who bought and paid for it.”

Really? You think? Yes, David Carr, the people who own the newspaper own the newspaper. Put a tray under your face to catch the scales as they fall from your eyes, frigtard.

Good news is that soon David Carr will be learning this lesson all over again when the Times gets taken over too. Let’s see how brave Carr will be when it’s his turn to speak truth to power.

Re: the dismay over events at the Journal, let me say this: There comes a moment in the life of every filthy hack when he finally realizes what business he’s actually in — not the glamorous, rollicking newsman’s life depicted in movies like The Front Page and His Girl Friday; not the grandiose investigative heroics of All the President’s Men and The Insider; but rather the grubby business of attracting an audience to whom advertising messages can be shown, and performing this task for a tiny fraction of the money your organization intends to generate from those advertisements. In other words, you are a whore. And not even a well-paid one.

Better yet, you are duped into not realizing your whoredom by being flattered and pandered to and spoonfed lies about the importance of what you do. You believe these lies and fill yourself with the notion that you are central to the business at hand — essential, key, vital, necessary. But then one day, for whatever reason, you see the real nature of your job. You realize that far from being central to the business of journalism you are in fact the piece that could most easily be dispensed with.

Much to your chagrin and dismay you realize that the true heart of your corporation beats not in the newsroom, where you sit, but on the other side of the wall, in that storied realm you’ve never actually visited but where you are told various dirty people do various dirty things and are paid, you’ve heard, a great deal more than you are. You’ve always dismissed those people, thought of them as a pack of glad-handing graspers who were kept on board to keep the ad machine running so that you, Mr. Hack, could carry on the grand important work of Journalism with a capital J.

Then one day you realize you’ve had it backwards. The beast doesn’t exist to support you. You exist to support the beast. They, not you, are running this business, and they laugh at you behind your back and not-so-secretly despise you for being so easily tricked into lining their pockets for them. The truth is right there in front of you! It has been all along! This is all even more hilarious because you make such a big deal about how shrewd and cynical you are; you’re the tough guy who cuts through the bullshit and spots the truth. Except when it comes to your own situation, that is.

Suddenly you feel like a puffed-up, pious fool. Which is good, because that is exactly what you are.