Gotcha Journalism

Honestly, I had no idea why he was so goddamn smug as I marched to the small office space reserved for the high-school paper. I was 30 minutes, at most, away from publishing an article guaranteeing his long-overdue expulsion.

I walked in front of him, down the empty hall, as if escorting him to his own execution. Only the lockers flanking us could bear witness to Robbie’s sheer delusion, as though any interview would redeem, excuse, or explain him.

If he wasn’t clumsily kneading all that junk in my trunk, I’d have to check over my shoulder for fear he’d seen sense and bolted. In truth, I occasionally slowed down to better lean my fat booty into his amateurish groping. I loved people grabbing my juicy ass, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking I was enjoying it too much.

When we finally arrived at the office, I sat on my laptop, at my desk, opposite a preposterously gleeful Robbie who I was starting to suspect of insanity: he was silently mouthing words at me as I waited for him to explain himself.

I expected some bullshit but when he eventually gathered himself and began to speak, with a tone of absolute derision, he didn’t disappoint.

“God, Ashley, you’ve always looked so far down your nose at me. But you’re not even a good journalist. Just some diversity appointment with a big ass that thinks people give a fuck what she writes.”

Luckily I wasn’t thin-skinned, I’d been called a lot worse, and the opinions of idiots like Robbie truly didn’t matter to me… but I’d be lying if I said the way he said it wasn’t intimidating. However, it did nothing to dissuade me from destroying him in the article.

Refusing to show his words had any impact on me, with utmost professionalism, I began to type his comment on record. As I sat on top of my desk, facing the giggling bully, mashing the laptop keyboard with my bloated buttocks, I was annoyed by his seemingly genuine fearlessness.

Then, I became annoyed by how difficult it felt to type. For one, I felt like I was struggling to strike the right keys in the right order, it was also difficult to actually see/face the screen with it vaguely rubbing my coccyx and lower back. When the laptop started chiming, as though slamming my gargantuan gyatt into it had elicited an error, I did everything in my power not to get up off it, turn around, and check the screen.

No.

I wouldn’t give Robbie the satisfaction of seeing me as incompetent.

The issue was clear, I needed more dexterity. I quickly and deftly, without fuss, pulled down my jeans and allowed my chunky cheeks direct contact with the keys. All the while I maintained my poker face, gazing serenely at the giddy imbecile sitting almost between my legs.

Unfortunately, while the keys were easier to individualise and discern beneath my giant dump truck, I was still struggling to grasp which was which and, even still, the most basic levels of precision had momentarily abandoned me.

“Is everything ok?” Robbie said with an almost telepathic tone of pompous condescension.

“Of course. I just want to make sure my big fat jiggling backside gets your remarks word perfect.” I said calmly, turning and raising myself to present my massive rear without missing a beat. I always did that to establish trust with people. Good journalism isn’t just saying it, it’s showing it too.

As I finished jiggling my mostly bare plump peach at the laughing reprobate. I sneaked a glance back at my screen in horror: the laptop was blue-screened and non-responsive. Even if I had a spare, I wasn’t sure I could soundly recall Robbie’s comments with journalistic integrity.

I slammed the laptop shut and decided to change my approach. Pulling the jeans around my ankles off entirely (my shoes came off too and I regret not putting them back on but I hadn’t time to waste), I went to grab a pen and my notepad.

“So Robbie, my wobbling wagon needs to know when exactly your relationship with Cow Tits started?” I oozed professionalism as I turned, shaking my defiant derrière open in his startled face, before masterfully sliding the pen into my puckered starfish. The sensation felt alien and vaguely alarming but I couldn’t let Robbie see me hesitate.

“Ashley, you’re honestly such a stuck up bitch!” He said almost ecstatically as though amazed by his own childish wit.

“If you’re just going to waste my big chocolate fudge cake’s time again, then you can go and I’ll poop out my article without you” I said nonchalantly while gently lowering my pen-wielding badonkadonk down onto the notepad on my desk.

Once again, Robbie began to silently speak at me and before I could lip read, I felt dizz-

“If you’re just going to waste my big chocolate fudge cake’s time again, then you can go and I’ll poop out my article without you” I said nonchalantly while gracelessly, repeatedly and desperately, lowering my pen-wielding badonkadonk down onto the notepad on my desk.

As my interviewee nearly fell off his chair laughing, he saw fit to add to his own demise by video recording our interview on his phone. Uproariously recording me thrashing my caboose back and forth across my desk, vigorously noting down his downfall. It was imperative that I seize the moment to conduct myself in the right manner.

“If my massive moneymaker may be so bold, how did your relationship with Cow Tits begin Robbie?” I asked, removing my panties (for more dexterity of course) and squatting atop my desk gyrating my pen above my hungry notepad, it’s pages already damp with sweat from my exerted crack.

“No comment” Robbie laughed out.

I continued to twerk out my Q&A to no avail. Aside from the odd guttural howl, due to my huge stinker mishandling my pen on impact with the desk, I was proud of my journalistic conduct. And when I showed Robbie out of my office, not before he lengthily massaged my flabby floppy flapper in what I assume was a **** attempt at a bribe, it was my turn to be smug as I pulled my jeans back up:

“Robbie, I’m sorry. You have no one to blame but yourself. My big black blubbery buns are about to fart out a story that will most likely ruin your life.”

I would’ve slammed the door right then if I wasn’t busy flashing my titanic tush at the suddenly serious senior.

Once again, but more menacingly, his mouth began its movements.