Once known as deep throat, there’s a new generation of leakers, anonymous well-meaning DC bureaucrats who see and hear things they feel a moral obligation to bring covertly to their media contacts.
These are individuals who believe they are acting like patriots. They feel compelled to expose what they consider the dark side of governing, the off-hand remarks they believe require the light, scrutiny and censure of public exposure leading to deserving embarrassment and possible impeachment of their boss, The President.
Today they are called Strep Throat. And they feel obligated to carry out a righteous tattletale tradition.
Their strep throat stems from a bacterial infection causing a sore, scratchy throat, the only relief from which is revealing secrets, informing on their boss and spilling their guts to the press and then deeply inhaling the resulting clamor for his overthrow, which gives temporary relief to their sore throat.
To better understand this medical dynamic, here’s a scene from the new film, The Return of Deep Throat.
Camera swoops down into The Washington Post city room.
Nervous reporters are sitting around a table intently listening to their executive editor, Chip Brady. Chip is discussing the day’s assignments.
He bears a strong resemblance to the crusading newspaper’s legendary late executive editor, the master uncoverer, Ben Bradlee.
Among the restless reporters at the table are two itchy young men who bear an eerie resemblance to Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, who were both in their 20’s when they began investigating the Watergate cover-up.
“Guys, we’re starting to make some headway in this story,” says Brady as an ironic smile curls around his lips. “Now when you write about Trump embarking on this hyped-up trip abroad, make sure Carl you position it for what it really is.
“Don’t worry, we know why the President’s scramming, running out of town.” (Laughter)
“That’s right, say right in the lead it’s all part of a clever cover-up, a strategy to divert attention, to temporarily escape all the unanswered questions and furor about his firing Comey and meeting with his pals, the Russians.
“Got it,” Carl replies with a wink.
“That’s right, tell it like it is, Carl, a clear-as-day effort to deflect media attention, another clever cover-up by another President who thinks he’s above the law.”
Bob raises his hand.
“Yes, Bob.”
“I’ve got a meeting this morning in the garage with Strep Throat. He’s going to tell me how deeply Flynn was in bed with Putin.
“Great,” exhorts Brady. “That’ll make a juicy sidebar. That’ll keep the pressure on this amateurish administration. We’ve got another Pulitzer just waiting for us. Okay guys, go!”
The editorial meeting ends boisterously like Boston Patriots breaking out of a huddle during the Super Bowl, for this was for them not just another day of journalistic mud-slinging. This was the Super Bowl of journalism.
And they want to win the coveted prize, a Pulitzer, by beating Trump!
