CosRape used to be a content genre you could count on for gothic tales of ingenues drugged by Dr. Huxtable for the purposes of ejaculating into their lifeless lady corpses. It was horrible, but it had a certain je ne sais quoi. Now you’ve got the inevitable Gloria Allred jumping the shark in a pantsuits and the first black supermodel Beverly Johnson penning 2,000 words mostly about herself in Vanity Fair to describe Bill Cosby slipping a mickey in her cappuccino causing her to flee his home and barely make it into a cab to safety.
I don’t doubt all of these CosRape stories are true, but enough already with the sensational reporting. It’s no longer news, it’s milking. Cosby isn’t even really fighting back. The piling on of stories eventually serves only to diminish the power of the accusations. It’s human nature to tune recurring shit out. It’s why when documentarians cover atrocities in some locale, they don’t spend fifteen seconds each talking to a thousand victims, they find two or three that represent the rest and dig in deep. Cosby deserves to have his old man lavender scented balls strung up in the public square for the villagers to mock and abuse. But it’s time for journalists to do their job. It is possible there is a second rapist out there in the world somewhere. Bring us some fresh meat.