Usually, when people get mad at you, they bring up that time a white supremacist broke your nose with a chair, or that time your live-TV peek into Al Capone's crawl space revealed only dust bunnies and shame, or that time you were playing tough-guy war correspondent and accidentally gave away U.S. troop positions on live TV.
When I think back on your crimes against journalism, I recall your hilarious mid-'80s satanism-in-America specials, where you tried to prove that heavy metal, satanists, and 20-sided dice were turning America into a relentless hellscape.
You have a history of hysterical overreaction, and of blaming completely innocent things for society's ills. So it's not much of a surprise that today you went on television and said “The hoodie is as responsible for Trayvon Martin's death as George Zimmerman is.” Then you railed against hoodies and “gangsta” fashion, and compared a 17-year-old wearing a comfy sweatshirt to the gunslinger hero of the old Johnny Cash ballad whose mom warns him not to take his gun to town.
Seriously, you equated wearing a hoodie in a Florida suburb to packing heat and itching for an Old West shootout. Have you ever been inside an Old Navy, Geraldo? Or seen white Americans at an airport? Or visited Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco, where tourists are always buying $30 hoodies because they didn't realize that California can be cold? Seriously, to you this whole country must look like a gang war ready to break out.