By Selwyn Duke

Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but there’s an inordinate number of women — blond women — on pugnacious pundit Bill O’Reilly’s "O’Reilly Factor."  Of course, it’s impossible to find media outlets that don’t assemble their stable based on a quota model; it’s customary to hire a certain number of news babes and people of various ethnicities and racial backgrounds, regardless of competence.  But I sense that O’Reilly has taken it a step further.

Before I proceed, I’ll give credit where it’s due.  While O’Reilly is a man about whom I could truly say that I’d like to buy him for what I think he’s worth and sell him for what he thinks he’s worth, he does do a far better job than most on television.  He does try to give people a fair shake and is as even-handed as he knows how to be.  But on to the female factor.

I’m always a bit suspicious of men who choose to surround themselves with an unusual number of female subordinates.  (One could point out that these women are guests and not underlings, but you get the idea.)  I used to know a man like that, and I have a feeling that O’Reilly may fall into his category.  I’ll leave it to you to try and figure out what category that might be.

Regardless, what is for certain is that meritocracy isn’t carrying the day.  It can’t escape one’s notice that almost to a woman the female factor crew is of pulchritudinous physiognomy.  There is one exception I can think of, but I’ll be relatively kind and allow her to remain nameless.  What I will say is that, also almost to a woman, those gals could double their I.Q.’s with one serving of fish.  And it really robs the show of credibility in my eyes.

Yet I know I’m a man who walks largely alone.   I’m of an older fashion — and I endeavor to be of an ageless one —  and look for silly, insignificant, frivolous qualities in such individuals, like intelligence, insight and wisdom.  I’m crazy enough to believe that it should be about what you know, not who you look good to.  And, just as rappers and shock jocks make millions, I’m sure the female factor constitutes a successful business model.

Oh, and just in case anyone thinks I’m picking on only the ladies, I’ll mention that I’m none too taken with his male guests, either.  Bernard Goldberg, although no desert mystic, has certainly earned his stripes, but some of the other fellows should be wearing them.  First among these is the bovine bloviator himself, Al Sharpton.  He’s on the show because he has a big mouth that he runs faster than a corporate shakedown, but it’s shameful that anyone would give him camera time.  The man is complicit in murder and has never really apologized for anything in his sordid past. 

Then there’s Geraldo Rivera.  I remember in the ’90s when he specialized in redundancy, focusing on the O.J. Simpson trial ad infinitum and acting as a Clinton apologist what seemed like every other night.  No, I wasn’t masochistic enough to actually watch him, but flicking by the station that carried his show I gathered what the topic was.  It seemed like Groundhog Day, and I was never so thankful for the innovation known as the remote control. 

Although Rivera has reformed himself in some small measure — he’s another Johnny-come-lately who says that 9/11 changed him (nuclear armageddon might bring complete enlightenment; just in time, too, I might add) — but I still have no respect for him.  He’s an apologist for illegal immigration — and only for reasons of ethnic patriotism.  Of course, no one will call him on this bigoted motivation, even as he calls others bigots for wanting to defend our borders and culture.

Anyway, my solution is that when Rivera’s puss appears on the TV, I make good use of that aforementioned innovation.

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