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The Whistleblower and Me


- November 29th, 2019
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Late Thursday night, after waking from my second post-turkey nap, my cell phone rang. The caller ID came up as “Unknown Number,” but I had a feeling I knew who it was and that I better take detailed notes. Here is a more-or-less accurate recounting of the conversation.

Whistleblower: Hey, man. Sorry for calling so late, but I had to talk to somebody . . . and my lawyer’s at Disney World.

Me: Saw the picture he posted with his arm around Minnie Mouse. Looks like fun.

WB: Oh, is that what it’s called?

Me: I thought you two were buddies. What’s the problem?

WB: I’m the Whistleblower, dammit. Where’s my fun? It’s like I’m under house arrest. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Stay off the phone. Which reminds me! This call never happened . . .

Me: No problem.

WB: And want to know the worst part?

Me: What’s that?

WB: Nobody even knows who I am. It’d be nice to get a little name recognition now and then.

Me: People know your name.

WBRight. Like Adam Schiff? I’ve never seen such a phony . . . Wait a minute. Yes, I have. John Brennan! Losers on “America Idol” are treated to better than I am.

Me: Really?

WB: The level of B.S. you would not believe . . . OK, Brennan promised he’d get me a date with Azra Turk.

Me: Who’s that?

WB: Some smokin’ hot agent they used to set up George Papadopoulos.

Me: And?

WB: Still waiting . . . What woman would go out with somebody called “the Whistleblower”? Plus, I was supposed to be the star witness. Remember? And look who Schiff brings in. George freakin’ Kent, the bow-tie guy! Marie Yovanovitch, who couldn’t even cry on cue! And Vindman. What a dork!

Me: I’d watch out for him.

WBCome on . . . He’s got an identical twin brother. Can you imagine the two of them in the same room?

Me: Sounds like Devin Nunes’ worst nightmare.

WB: Everyone knows that should’ve been me.

Me: So what happened?

WB: Ready for this? Schiff’s writing a screenplay about the impeachment and doesn’t want me saying anything until it’s sold . . . Says he needs me for “context.”

MeWhat? 

WB: Hollywood’s in his district, and he thinks he’s Quentin Tarantino. You hear his rewrite of Trump’s phone call with Zelensky?

Me: Yeah. That was bad.

WB: Seriously, Schiff makes up everything . . . I mean everything. Calling me “the Whistleblower” was his idea. He’s afraid if my name gets out, I’ll start talking and ruin his movie deal.

Me: He’s got it all figured out.

WB: Not quite. I’m hiring Alan Dershowitz to do a collaboration agreement. And if Schiff doesn’t sign it, we’re through.

Me: He knows that?

WB: I told him yesterday, and, boy, was he pissed!

Me: You should be careful.

WBScrew him. If it hadn’t been for me, who’d be talking about impeaching Trump? And forget about a movie.

Me: Look, I hate bringing this up . . .

WB: What?

Me: It sounds to me like you’re Schiff’s hostage. That doesn’t bother you?

WB: Why should it? I’ve got the goods.

Me: You ever see that movie, “The Player”?

WB: Never have.

Me: Watch it.

WB: No Netflix in this dump? Schiff’s too cheap.

Me: Got to be the ultimate Hollywood murder mystery. The motive’s a screenplay.

WB: You kidding?

Me: And the murder weapon is a rattlesnake.

WB: Well, I have protection 24/7. Got a bodyguard named Darnell, who used to play for the Oakland Raiders.

Me: Schiff hire him?

WB: Think he’s parttime with the DNC . . .

Me: Is he there now?

WB: I sent him to Popeye’s to pick up dinner. Uber Eats won’t even deliver Chinese carryout in this neighborhood.

Me: Hmmm . . .

WB: Darnell’s OK. But he should’ve been back by now.

Me: You know for a guy with the agency, you haven’t been thinking this through.

WB: I’m telling you it’s being cooped up in this place . . . I’ve got a nice condo in Georgetown . . . Why do I need to be in Baltimore?

MeBaltimore? What the hell are you doing there?

WB: Schiff says . . . Wait a minute. Somebody’s at the door. Must be Darnell with my chicken sandwich. Hope he didn’t forget the Cajun fries . . . Damn, it’s Vindman! . . . And his twin brother!  . . . What’s goin’ on? . . . Where’s Darnell? . . .

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