There’s a lot of talk about “fake news” these days.

Given that I work for a newspaper, it’s a topic that interests me.

And considering my profession, I would imagine that it’s fairly obvious that I don’t particularly like the idea being tossed around that journalists just make things up willy-nilly, and pass them off as fact.

Because frankly, it’s not true. That’s not what real journalists do at all.

That doesn’t mean, however, that there isn’t a good deal of bad information being passed off as real these days. Especially on that glorious forum of anything goes, ye olde internet.

Be it faux science, creative agenda pushing, sensationalist garbage or bogus letters supposedly written by children but clearly penned by their attention-seeking parents, the world wide web is lousy with lies disguised as gospel.

And then there are the stories that just stick in your craw — the ones you read and can’t help but mutter, be it under your breath or right out loud ... well, I can’t write the word here (family paper and all).

Suffice to say it’s unsavory, and bulls make it. Probably several times a day.

I said that word recently when Angelina Jolie insisted her “audition” process wasn’t cruel or damaging to the children being cast in her latest film. Again when I read the accounts of the British model who claimed to have been captured and released in a dark web scheme.

Not that I don’t believe there are dark web schemes. I do. And they’re scary. Just mayyybeeee this one didn’t go down exactly as is being described. I mean, do dark web sex slave traders usually care if the women they kidnap, torture and sell to the highest bidder happen to be mothers? Do they take them shoe shopping first? Then release them nicely, unharmed and conveniently in front of an embassy? The whole thing just stinks somehow.

But nothing sent my BS meter soaring quite like an article I came across on, titled “The 1 Thing I Do To Feel Comfortable In A Swimsuit (and It Doesn’t Involve Weight Loss).”

I mean, come on. If you’re a woman in possession of a pulse and thighs, you have to immediately be suspicious of this.

The piece started off solid enough — the writer hates bikini season. Fine. Good. Most of us do.

She suffers from self-doubt. Struggles to rectify her body image issues with her feminist ideals. Cool. OK. Real enough.

But then she lies. Loses all credibility. Goes so far out of the realm of possibility that I may have gotten a little bit of spit on my screen from calling shenanigans so hard.

She writes this:

“So, how can you feel in a swimsuit? I can’t say this is a one-size-fits-all solution, but here’s what I did that day standing in from of the mirror that made all the difference in the world, surprising even to myself. ...

I simply started dancing.”

In front of a mirror. In a bathing suit. Without crying, or removing her own eyes with manicure scissors. Yeah, right.

“A little shimmy at first,” she fibs on and on, “and then I just went hog wild, dancing like I didn’t care what parts were jiggling, dancing like I was the sexy, confident swimsuit-wearing woman I wanted to be. And guess what? I was. Just like that.”

Sorry, nope. No way. Never happened. Unless this chick looks like Kendall Jenner, or was under the influence of something strong and quite probably illegal — and even then, the validity would be questionable.

Trust my journalistic nose for the truth on this one.

Or better yet, my two X chromosomes.

The legend of Bat Boy is more believable.

Katie McDowell is a lifestyles writer/copy editor for The Dominion Post. Email her at