My Sources Say My Sources Are Excellent
An exclusive look inside the most trusted network in journalism: me, asking myself.
A reporter is only as good as her sources. Mine happen to be unparalleled. I do not rely on whistleblowers or government insiders with an agenda. I rely on the most secure network of informants currently operating. I shut my office door. I sit in my swivel chair, the one with the broken left armrest, and wait for my internal monologue to hand me an exclusive scoop.
That internal pipeline is completely rigorous. Yesterday I needed confirmation on a geopolitical development involving a lunar colony of sentient briefcases. I approached a high-ranking official standing by the breakroom coffee machine. That official was me. I asked myself if the briefcases were planning a strike. And I thought about it for a second. I nodded at my reflection in the window glass and confirmed the situation was critical. Getting two independent verifications from the same brain is the gold standard of fact-checking in this building.
Critics complain that this level of in-house verification lacks objective distance. I find this insulting to the mirror. My bathroom mirror is a tough negotiator. But it never leaks information to rival publications. It just reflects the hard truth. Which is usually whatever I just said out loud while holding a tube of spearmint toothpaste. Last Tuesday my reflection leaned in and said the stock market is controlled by pelicans. You won’t read that in the financial pages. They don’t have clearance to look at my sink.
“The stock market is controlled by pelicans.”
I do branch out from the bathroom fixtures when I need a fresh perspective. Take my desk lamp. It operates strictly on background. If the lamp is switched on, the tip is solid. If the 60-watt bulb burns out, I assume a cover-up goes all the way to the top of the municipal grid. The lamp has never lied to me. It lacks the vocal cords to do so. Inanimate objects are the only sources with perfect integrity in journalism today.
Other reporters ignore these objects and waste weeks buttering up politicians or combing through redacted documents. I pity them. There is no reason to dig through a dull budget report. I can just close my eyes and hallucinate a much better scandal. Just this morning my left shoe told me the entire city council is made of papier-mâché. It makes sense. Facts are stepping stones on the path to truth, and sometimes you just have to invent new rocks to step on before your deadline hits.
Protecting those invented facts requires strict anonymity. I refer to myself in print as “a senior official familiar with the matter”. Sometimes I go with “a highly placed source with direct knowledge of my own brain”. That anonymity is crucial. It lets me speak freely without fear of retribution from myself. I even disguise my voice when talking into my dictaphone, guaranteeing the transcription software can’t trace the leak.
I stand by every anonymous word I write using these methods. If you question my reporting you can take it up with my vast web of imaginary confidantes. They evaporate the moment anyone else enters the room. Until then I will continue delivering the hard-hitting journalism you deserve, straight from the most reliable laminated desk in the building. You can quote me on that. I already did.