Some readers may remember that I was, almost 20 years ago, a press secretary/communications director for a member of Congress. And so I am probably well positioned to report that the communications person employed by an elected official holds the least defensible job in government. Because what purpose does this job serve except to promote the activities of an elected official and boost his image?
And with the rise of social media, the problem has gotten worse. Even in my day, I’d write press releases about votes the office deemed important — and, let’s be honest here — spin congressional actions in such a way that would hopefully bolster the congressman’s reelection chances.
Even a technocratic code inspector or a traffic cop pulling people over for broken taillights can at least argue a public purpose: safety and regulatory compliance. (I’d still argue these to be a misapplication of government interest, but we’ll hold that conversation for another day).
Yet a publicly paid media manager breaks the sacred trust between taxpayer and government, which theoretically exists to benefit the public. There is a difference between informing the public — a clerk could post the voting record — and polishing the man. The first is a public function. The second is a private benefit extracted at public expense.
Put it this way: imagine that a government official comes to you and tells you he needs your money more than you do. And you might inquire, “What will you do with my hard-earned money? What public benefit will come of the cash that I am parting with, so necessary that I must forgo food, clothing, and security?”
To which the government official will look at you earnestly and reply in all honesty and sincerity, “This money will be used to … capture a Congressman in all manner of silly situations such that he might go viral on Instagram and TikTok.”
Such is the case with Congressman Mike Simpson of Idaho’s second congressional district. Simpson’s office has a “social media girl” (her words, not mine). In her Instagram posts, Simpson, 75, is featured in all manner of goofy, cringy situations: poorly lip-syncing and geriatrically gyrating to the awful AI-generated but still popular “Puerto Rico Song,” showing off the fit of his suit, and mugging for the camera, usually in sunglasses, around the U.S. Capitol as if he were some hip Gen Z-er.
Maybe the most offensive Instagram Reel shows Simpson exiting an elevator, captioned “Everyone’s thoughts when I enter the house floor,” with the voice of an announcer from the reality TV show “Love Island” saying, “This week, a hot new bombshell enters the villa!”
The Idaho Statesman reported on this latest political development last month, with entertainment writer Michael Deeds calling Simpson “cringe” and “jaw-droppingly humiliating.”
On this point, I agree. But I would go further: A congressman, or any elected official, should not manufacture visibility for its own sake. To the degree they use social media, they shouldn’t pretend that they’re communicating with the masses directly when an intermediary, such as a press secretary, is doing the work. For example, note when a governor’s social media account says “I visited the local elementary school today, and I had a good time”: A) Those words were not written by the governor and B) they do not serve the public in the slightest.
Worse are these attempts to attract attention for no public purpose. You paid for it all: You paid for the congressman to play while he’s at work, and you paid for the staffer to plan, capture, and upload the nonsense that now appears interspersed in your social media feed along with your grandkids, baby ducks, and dance-offs.
A friend of mine is fond of saying, “You get what you permit.” Keep allowing this kind of tomfoolery to be the norm in government, and I guarantee we will get more of it. Staffers of congressional, gubernatorial, legislative, and mayoral offices will obsess over their social media presence more than the job they’ve been hired to do.
Good public officials put on no display. They do not boast. They do their work quietly, and then disappear — leaving the people to look around at what got done and say the truest thing anyone can say about a community: we did it ourselves.