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.
WB: Right. 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.
WB: Come 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.”
Me: What?
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.
WB: Screw 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?
Me: Baltimore? 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? . . .
Click.