Everyone suffers from a private shame they pray would be buried in the sands of time. A foolish mistake, an error in judgment: evidence that at the end of the day we are all frail and weak and prone to being human.
I have spent my life covering politicians with skeletons in their closets. I remember when Gary Hart was caught having an affair with Donna Rice on a yacht called Monkey Business. At the time I assumed that was an innocent deep sea fishing expedition. I remember being a young college reporter on that yacht, spending the night with my pole in the water with Pat Schroeder — an older woman who seemed to get me — swapping stories over Michelobs, never wondering why the candidate was spending so much time with an unmarried woman in the cabin. I also remember Iran-Contra and when Bill Clinton executed a retarded man to show he was tough on crime.
We all know that the brave men and women who enter the arena of politics will, under the scrutiny of the public eye, be forced to reckon with the ghosts of their past. But universally-respected superstar journalists labor under the very same pressure. And I am no exception.
I thought I could hide my shame, I really did. But I was only fooling myself. Now I must embrace it.
My two meanspirited and entitled Millennial assistants, @virgiltexas and @byyourlogic, uncovered certain voicemails I left to various people years ago. My sadistic, Ramsay Bolton-esque underlings would have you believe that in these recordings I pretended to be someone I’m not. And I’m ashamed to admit that is indeed the case.
In the interest of full disclosure, here are those recordings.
Carl “The Dig” Diggler has covered national politics for 30 years, and is the author of “Think-ocracy: The Rise Of The Brainy Congressman”. Got a question for the Dig? E-mail him at firstname.lastname@example.org or Tweet to @carl_diggler. And check out his predictions at SixThirtyEight.
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