The American Spectator

We have arrived at the State of Irrelevance. Unpack. Defecate on the front porch, if you wish. In fact, do anything you wish, with anybody you wish, for as long as you wish. No one will say a thing.

Apart from a few brief moments to mourn in private once her daughter Jessie’s pregnant body was discovered, Patricia Porter was readily available to the media, which carefully avoided any trenchant inquiry. Had she ever had a mother-daughter talk about sexual relations with a married man? Even after such had produced a child two years ago? Had she any misgivings about yet another illegitimate child entering the family circle, courtesy the same man whose relationship with her daughter seemed casual to say the least?

Such questions must have occurred dozens of times to TV viewers, but not to the interviewing anchors who bowed and scraped and exuded unbound sympathy throughout, from their towers of irrelevance.