Apparently Bill O'Reilly Has ALWAYS Been A Douche: The Daily Nooner (EST)!

You know what I'd do with a time machine? Grab a laptop, load up a bunch of websites with people all like "ZOMG BILL O'REILLY IS SUCH AN ASSHOLE" on them, and head back in time to the set of Inside Edition, just a few seconds before this rant happened. Ol' Billy boy was just your average soft news douche back then, introducing Sting "cuts" with a full head of hair and flipping out on innocent teleprompter operators. The phone booth would shoot out of the floor of the set (because time machines are made out of phone booths - duh), the camerman would yell "CUT!" and O'Reilly would be all "GET THAT FUCKING PHONE BOOTH OFF MY SET!" But then I'd be all "I'mmmmm frrroooommmmm the fuuutttuuuurrreeee" and Bill cower in the corner like "NOOOO!" because, as you probably know, Bill O'Reilly is completely terrified of time travelers who talk like spooky ghosts. Seriously - he's like the real-life version of a black chef in a 20s movie. Anyway, once his guard is down I'll whip out the laptop and show him all the blogs like "ZOMG BILL O'REILLY IS SUCH AN ASSHOLE," and at first he'll be like "What does 'ZOMG' mean?" and I'll be like, "Oh yeah - it's the early 90s and internet slang doesn't exist yet." But then I'll explain to him that none of that matters, and that the important part of the story is that everyone in the future thinks he's a dick. He'll probably get all defensive at first, and then he'll get angry and turn back to the teleprompter and go off on the rant that's in this video. Then after he's done with that he'll start bargaining with me, like "Maybe I can be a dick now and turn into a nicer guy later?" Then he'll get super sad and cry a little at the craft service table, and then eventually he'll give up and be like, "Okay, fine - I accept that everyone in the future hates me." The five stages of grief will be complete, and I'll nod knowingly, turn around, and start walking back to my phone booth to return to the present. Then right before I punch in the final number of today's date on the keypad, Bill O'Reilly will call out to me. "Hey, wait a minute," he'll say. "What the hell are all those interconnected pages filled with text, pictures, and clickable hyperlinks?" I'll crack the door to the phone booth open and give a sly little wink. "It's called the internet, Mr. O'Reilly, and pretty much everyone on it thinks you're dick."
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