Watergate wasn't All My Fault

Turning [to] the Segretti matter. Early in the precampaign period I agreed with an idea that was suggested to set up a man functioning independently of the White House, the Committee to Re-elect [the President] and the [Republican] National Committee, for the purpose of generating for our side the same kind of [activity] that [was] so ably carried out over the years for Democratic candidates and in 1972 for Senator McGovern by Dick Tuck, a man who has been widely praised by political writers as a political prankster, whose basic stock in trade is embarrassing Republican candidates by activities that have been regarded as clever and acceptable parts of our political tradition. The repertoire of the political prankster includes such activities as printing up embarrassing signs for the opponent, posing in trainman's clothes and waving the campaign train out of the station, placing an agent on the opponent's campaign train to produce witty newsletters mocking the candidate, distributing opposition signs at rallies for use by members of the crowd, encouraging bandleaders to play rival songs at rallies, and so forth.

--Opening statement of H.R. Haldeman before The Senate Watergate Committee, July 31 1793

Satchel Paige used to say, "Don't look back, 'cause something might be gaining on you." In 1973, it was. The Watergate investigation was supposed to cover the past couple of years, but we all found ourselves looking back much farther than that. When my name popped up in the testimony of four or five Watergate witnesses, I began to wonder. Were the references to "developing a Dick Tuck capability" and "Dick Tuck political tricks" hints that the White House equated Dick Tuck with Watergate? Then Haldeman formalized the charge in his well-prepared statement. I had been fingered by the top aide and alter ego of the President of the United States--perhaps by the President himself--as a factor in one (continued on page 92)Watergate(continued from page 89) of the biggest scandals in the history of the United States.

So it was time for some soul-searching. Did my tricks spawn their tricks? Did I deserve some of the blame for Watergate? I couldn't plead total innocence, since the Nixon crowd and I have been crossing paths for many years now. But as I thought about this White House Tuckophobia, I realized that it had all been a misunderstanding right from the start.

In 1950, I was a GI Bill student at the University of California at Santa Barbara. I was also becoming addicted to politics and political campaigns, and the only game in town was the race for a U. S. Senate seat. I backed the glamorous Helen Gahagan Douglas over one Richard Nixon--who you could tell wasn't going anywhere anyway.

I was, therefore, surprised when a Nixon staff member approached me about a month before the election and asked me to advance Nixon's visit to the campus the following week. It seems that an absent-minded professor, remembering only my interest in politics and not my affiliation, had suggested my name to the Nixon staff. "Why not?" I thought--this would be my first advance. I began making arrangements.

The speech was scheduled for a Thursday. A good choice, I thought, since most classes were held Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I picked the time; four in the afternoon seemed best, since there was nothing going on to conflict with the visit. There was so little going on, in fact, that the campus was empty.

With considerable effort I got the big auditorium, which seats around 1800. The moment arrived and after delaying the meeting for half an hour for the latecomers, who, unfortunately, were outnumbered by those who grew impatient and left, I introduced Mr. Nixon. I like an introduction that raises more questions than it answers, but I may have overdone it. After about 25 minutes, Nixon interrupted me and said he would have to speak immediately. So, concluding with a flourish, I said, "Here is Mr. Nixon, who will speak to us about a subject of importance to all Californians--the International Monetary Fund!" His gasp was louder than the applause and, I must say, his talk was somewhat incoherent.

After the speech, he walked to his car and, stopping before he got in, motioned me over. To thank me, no doubt. He asked my name. When I told him, he said, "Dick Tuck, this is your last advance!" He simply misunderstood.... After all, we carried Santa Barbara in 1950.

Two years later, I was in Sacramento when I learned that Nixon's train would be in nearby Marysville. There was a rumor that Nixon had a secret fund, and it occurred to me that his staff, overprotective even then, might not have told him about the vicious rumor. Realizing that it would be difficult to get close to him, I stopped on the way to Marysville and had a large sign made. The train was just pulling out as I arrived at the station. I raced down the platform, my sign and I both shouting, "Tell us about the sixteen thousand dollars!" Fortunately, I caught his attention and he stopped the train.

But once more, he misunderstood. He pointed his finger at me and said to the crowd, "You folks know the work I did investigating Communists in the United States. Ever since I did that, the Communists and left-wingers have been fighting me with every possible smear."

At that moment, a man left his place behind Nixon and, sidling up to me, muttered out of the side of his mouth, "Where the hell have you been? You almost missed the train!"

While I puzzled that one over, Nixon continued: "When I received the nomination for the Vice-Presidency, I was warned that if I continued to attack the Communists in this Government, they would continue to smear me." The speech went on in this vein, but I was so stunned that he seemed to be talking about me that I heard little more of what he said.

Returning to my car, I was absorbed in my dejection and, therefore, startled when a car suddenly screeched to a halt and two men jumped out with signs almost identical to mine. They asked if "Chotiner" had left their money with me. This Chotiner was, it seems, the man who had left Nixon's side to speak to me.

To understand Richard Nixon, you have to know Murray Chotiner. Perhaps his greatest contribution to American politics was the discovery that a candidate for high office could be packaged and sold just like a box of detergent or a tube of tooth paste. All you needed was the right sales program. Issues and political philosophy became irrelevant.

Before Chotiner handled Nixon, he showed his skill in the early campaigns of Earl Warren and William Knowland. One of his tactics was setting up phony Democratic committees for the Republican candidates. Since party affiliation did not appear on the ballots, at least 2,000,000 Democrats cast votes for these two Republicans and still swore they voted the straight Democratic ticket.

In 1946. Chotiner launched Nixon's campaign with an old ploy. Once he had decided on his candidate, not before, he got a group of prominent good-government types to sign a newspaper ad seeking a candidate. They didn't ask for much; how could they, knowing who it was they had in mind? The ad asked for "any young man ... preferably a veteran, fair education ... and possessed of a few ideas for betterment of country." Nixon managed to qualify, barely meeting Chotiner's tough requirements, and 30 years of political history were in the making. In 1956, Chotiner toured the country conducting campaign schools. His speech could best be summarized as follows:

"Deny what they didn't charge and charge what they cannot deny."

"Always play in the other guy's sand pile and argue over his marbles."

"If it's our charge, we're revealing the facts; if it's theirs, it's a smear."

Denying what wasn't charged and charging what can't be denied is probably the best known and used of all the Nixon-Chotiner tricks. Take a look at any of the press conferences or statements on Watergate over the past year for the best evidence that coach Chotiner is back in action now that, as he said, "those amateurs, Haldeman and Ehrlichman, have been thrown out."

The virtuoso performance, according to Chotiner, was the Checkers speech in 1952--the answer to the revelation that Nixon had a secret fund of at least $16,000. Here was Chotiner's boy denying that his wife had a mink coat (the symbol of corruption and a chorus girl's dream that year) and swearing that he would never return the dog that had been given to his children--not that anyone had asked him to. After denying what wasn't charged, he quickly jumped to the attack. The fact that staffmen in Adlai Stevenson's office had received augmentation of their salaries could not be denied by Presidential candidate Stevenson; and the fact that Stevenson's running mate, John Sparkman, had his wife on the Senate payroll from time to time couldn't be denied, either. But "Pat Nixon has worked in my office night after night, and I can say proudly--she has never been on the Government payroll since I have been in Washington."

No wonder Chotiner said, "I think the classic that will live in all political history came on September 23, 1952, from Los Angeles, California, when the candidate for the Vice-Presidency answered, if you please, with an attack against those who made one on him!"

These tactics were successful in turning back the anti-Nixon sentiment developing in the Republican Party because of the secret fund. Ike put his arm around Dick and said, "You're my boy." They both went on to win, and Dick Nixon disappeared to that place in Washington where Vice-Presidents go. I figured he didn't need any more help from me, so I got involved in some state legislative races in California and the next thing I knew, it was 1956.

One summer's day that year found me at the no-name bar in Sausalito--actually, many days found me at the no name, but on this particular day, Nixon blew into town, bringing his whole act with him. It had something to do with the Republican National Convention, which was being held in San Francisco's Cow (continued on page 96)Watergate(continued from page 92) Palace. Once more, Nixon needed my help, this time because Harold Stassen (remember him?) and some others were engineering a stop-Nixon drive. I was pretty well identified as a Democrat by then, so I knew that anything I did for Nixon would best be done in the dark of night.

I went to his local headquarters and picked up a dozen of the largest and most elaborate Nixon signs. Late that night, I went out onto the Bayshore Boulevard leading to the Cow Palace and attached the Nixon posters to a series of road signs.

The next day, unnoticed, I boarded the Nixon press bus. As we reached the highway, I moved up front with Nixon's press secretary, Herb Klein, and the others to share their pleasure when the Nixon signs were first sighted. But, as they loomed into view, I was filled with chagrin. Not only did this highway lead to the Cow Palace, it was also the route the garbage trucks used. Each succeeding sign read dump Nixon.

• • •

When 1960 rolled around, I was the deputy director of motor vehicles for the state of California. I had been given the job because of my deep and lasting interest in traffic safety, my recognized ability as an administrator and because my candidate for governor, Pat Brown, had won the election. But I got tired of my friends' calling up and asking for motor vehicles and, since I never was sure where the office was, I quit and went to Washington. After all, the Presidential campaign was upon us, and this was the big one. The House, the Senate, the Vice-Presidency were all behind Nixon and ahead was the gold ring. Could we have known then that it would turn out to be brass?

Nixon has always complained that the press doesn't cover him honestly, so I decided to do my part to reveal the real Richard Nixon. If this was a matter of interest to the public, I thought, then it would certainly concern John Kennedy. So I proposed to the Kennedy organization that I be their Nixon correspondent, filing regular reports that would help them come to know the true man.

Not long ago, it was revealed that our old friend Chotiner hired at least two people to cover, surreptitiously, the various Democratic candidates in the 1972 campaign. Unlike Chotiner's covert agents, my presence and my employer were well known to the Nixon organization, although my sympathy for Nixon was not, for some reason. Also, unlike the Chotiner operatives, I never got $1000 a week. (The Kennedys, in those days, surrendered dollars about as often as they did primaries. A hundred dollars a week was tops, unless you were a woman: then it was $50, no matter what you did.)

So, with my tape recorder and my bowling-ball suitcase, I hit the road with Richard Nixon. On black-tie occasions, my reversible bowling shoes became patent-leather pumps and my bowling shirt, when reversed, shined the lapels of my only dark suit. It was a simpler world then, and nobody suspected a guy carrying a bowling bag.

I faithfully followed my leader, sometimes on his plane, sometimes on the press plane, and, on those occasions when an overzealous campaign aide threw me off the plane, on my thumb. Whether it was Dubuque or Memphis, I found that an indignant "What! You don't recognize Scotty Reston?" was better than a press pass. If that didn't work, I put on a Western Union badge and looked old or young, depending on the town.

Since the Kennedys weren't paying me all that much, I felt some part of the long days of the 1960 campaign belonged to me, and what better way to spend the time than by helping my old friend Nixon?

I was in Memphis at the time of the first debate. As it ended, I wondered if Nixon could evaluate what had happened. This was a totally new political phenomenon, and even the political writers of the day didn't know how to judge it. And the Nixon staff certainly wouldn't tell him anything. Even if they knew anything.

I was lucky. Following the debate, Nixon flew from Chicago to Memphis, where I waited at the airport to greet him. But I was faced once more with the problem of his overprotective staff and his inexplicable order to "keep that man away from me." I needed a courier. I found an accommodating matronly lady who agreed to deliver my message. The airplane pulled up to the ramp, the engines stopped and the crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs. As the lights went up and the TV cameras whirred, my lady was there to greet Nixon with a big hug and a loud "Don't worry, son! He beat you last night, but you'll get him next time." Nixon's face dropped and it took him several minutes to spot me smiling happily in the crowd. This sort of thing pricked the imagination of newspapermen, who felt more of an obligation to avoid boring the public than the politicians did. So it was reported that when the Nixon Victory Special pulled into Chillicothe, Ohio, and Nixon stepped onto the rear platform to speak, who should appear on the scene, disguised in a conductor's uniform (having changed in a phone booth, no doubt), but lovable prankster Dick Tuck. While Nixon was in midsentence, conductor Tuck signaled the engineer, who promptly took the train out of the station.

Repetition has firmly established the story as fact. Even Haldeman and Nixon believe it. No amount of denial on my part can make that story inoperative. But I wasn't even in Chillicothe that day and I have never disguised myself as a conductor. Nor have I ever waved a train out of a station--but I wish to hell I had.

Along with this story, Haldeman made references to other Dick Tuck tricks in his prepared statement before the Watergate committee. One that particularly surprised me was the business of "encouraging bandleaders to play rival songs." Another myth. There were occasions when I was asked what Nixon's favorite song was. Naturally, I would oblige. In Manchester, New Hampshire, during the 1968 primary, I was chatting with Tom Wicker of The New York Times and waiting for Nixon to arrive when I heard the bandleader asking about the candidate's favorite song. I was only too happy to tell him. Wicker and I took a position near the door as the Nixon caravan arrived. Nixon walked confidently into the lobby--and the band struck up Mack the Knife. If the point was lost on most of the crowd, it wasn't lost on Nixon. He paused, looked around and, seeing me, came directly over to tell Wicker that he was in bad company. We all had a good chuckle. Mr. Nixon was kind of a wag in those days....

The 1960 campaign ended at last. They finally counted all the votes in Texas and Illinois, and Camelot went to Washington. But old Nixon watchers knew that we hadn't heard the last of R.M.N. We knew that this close defeat would have a profound effect on him. And we were right.

In 1962, Nixon and Chotiner were back. This time, in the California race for governor. Their political bunko scheme that year called for setting up a phony committee, which they called the Committee for the Preservation of the Democratic Party in California. While they didn't have a John Connally, they did have Haldeman, Kalmbach, Ziegler, Chapin and a young volunteer named Segretti. This committee sent out a loaded questionnaire to 500,000 "conservative Democrats." (Do you think Pat Brown has stopped beating his wife yet? Yes or No.) When the hoax was exposed, the Nixon people denied having anything to do with it. But in a lawsuit brought by the Democratic Party, fudge Byron Arnold of the Superior Court of San Francisco (the Judge Sirica of his day) found that "Mr. Nixon and Mr. Haldeman approved the plan and project" and that "the mailing constituted fraud." It was also shown in the court documents that Haldeman paid out $70,000 for the project--the largest expenditure for salaries of the entire campaign. Some political prank. Well, they had their pranks and I had mine.

(continued on page 100)Watergate(continued from page 96)

It has been called the Chinatown Caper. The former Vice-President went to Los Angeles' Chinatown and was met by the usual delegation--a Miss Chinatown, distinguished Chinese elders and children bearing signs, some in English saying Welcome Nixon! and others with colorful Chinese characters. Nixon posed smiling for the TV cameras until an agitated Chinese elder whispered that the Chinese signs said, How about the Hughes Loan?--a reference to the $205,000 unsecured loan Howard Hughes had made to Nixon's brother, Donald. Nixon, in a performance that would be outdone only by his "final" press conference (or the push he gave poor Ron Ziegler in New Orleans), snatched the signs from the children's hands and ripped them to shreds--all on the evening news. Overnight, a subject the Republicans had been trying to cover up was debated openly.

Every now and then, there was an indication that Nixon did have a sense of humor. Just before the '62 election, he was speaking at a Los Angeles Press Club luncheon. Somehow my name came up during the question-and-answer period. He smiled and said, "Well, the last time I saw Tuck was at one of my rallies and he was wearing a Nixonette costume."

As the laughter died, I gained the floor and announced, "I will never reveal how he found out it was me in that Nixonette dress."

Nixon did not become governor of California: if he had, some say he wouldn't be President today. On the other hand, perhaps that shattering defeat in 1962 contributed to the psychology that brought us Watergate. Six of one, half a dozen of another.

• • •

Out of politics for the first time in 16 years, Nixon moved to New York and started doing well in the practice of law. He also traveled a lot. I remember running into him at the Rome airport in the spring of 1964 when he was holding a press conference. The meeting was friendly. He mentioned that he had heard the day before that Pierre Salinger had entered the Senate race in California. I said that I might go back and get Herb Klein to run against him. Nixon laughed and headed for his plane. As he reached the ramp marked Pan am Flight Two, I heard him ask the stewardess if it was flight two to Cairo. She simply pointed to the sign, and with that he growled, "I know what the sign says, but is this flight two?"--looking straight at me. Another misunderstanding.

With Nixon practicing law, politics just wasn't the same for me. But October 1964 saw the Johnson-Goldwater campaign competing with paint drying and grass growing as a spectator sport and I had to do something. Goldwater, in desperation--or in form--had decided to resort to the ways of the past and whistle-stop through the heart of Republicanland, U.S.A.: West Virginia, Ohio and Indiana. Since Barry and His Boys had not exactly made a name for themselves as a fun group, I thought this time capsule could use some help as it traveled through Middle America. Perhaps a publication of some sort--a house organ--a spot publication; and the more ridiculous the spot, the more ridiculous the publication. It was called The Whistlestop and we managed to deliver it under every compartment door during the night.

It was a service publication: "In order to end confusion over the various time zones we are traveling through," the first issue announced helpfully, "Senator Goldwater has proclaimed that we will keep our watches on Washington time--George Washington, that is." It also included isometric exercises for conservative stomachs and cautioned against walking off the edge of the earth. And it reassured all that the water aboard the train wasn't fluoridated.

The paper good-naturedly took note of the size of the crowds along the way and compared them with Richard Nixon's similar trip four years earlier. It also noted which Republican leaders avoided the train like the plague and gossiped about squabbles among the Goldwater staff.

Unfortunately, it was the Goldwater staff that enjoyed the paper least. Before long, like a scene from The Orient Express, the train was crowded with railroad dicks, Pinkertons and, some said, men from Interpol.

Then it happened! Goldwater's press secretary, Victor Gold (more recently one of the saner members of the Agnew staff), decided enough was enough. Some said he played it like Humphrey Bogart, although those less inclined to be charitable said it was more like Bela Lugosi. The culprit was found: A pretty young girl turned out to be the deliveryperson. With a grand flourish, Gold stopped our "last train to Toledo" and ejected her, shouting as cameras rolled. "Young lady, you have made your last delivery!" Roger Mudd, who was a struggling young TV correspondent in those days, couldn't find his camera crew at first, so Gold, who was always obliging, let the girl get back aboard the train and gave television its first instant replay.

The paper continued to publish, incidentally. The girl was made News Deliveryboy of the Month and won a free trip to Disneyland. To the rest of the world, thanks to a then current best seller, she became known as "the spy who was thrown out in the cold."

History records that Goldwater lost, and before I knew it, it was election time again--1966. In California, Pat Brown was to try for a third term as governor and, thanks to the Supreme Court decision on reapportionment, 13 new state-senate seats came up for grabs. I was late for the caucus that was choosing the Democratic nominee for one of the seats but agreed that its choice would be mine. They said that was nice, since that choice was me. Not only was I the most qualified, they said, but I was also the only one who lived in the district. Furthermore, since there was a large poverty pocket in the district, I could speak for the unemployed as one of their own.

It was a spirited campaign, complete with low blows. For instance, my billboards that started with The Job needs Tuck ended with and Tuck needs the Job. I might have won, had it not been for two natural disasters. The first struck about ten days before the election.

There I was in the Democratic primary, in the most Democratic of districts, fighting to demonstrate my true Democratic credentials, when Nixon came to town. And he endorsed me!

Recovering quickly, I challenged him to a debate. And I said--in the spirit of fair play--just to make it even, I wouldn't shave. Nixon left town laughing.

The other disaster? The climax of my campaign was Huckleberry Tuck Day, which was the Saturday before the election. The Los Angeles River wends its concrete-walled way through the heart of the district, and I planned a gala tour down the river--by truck, in order to dramatize the one ingredient the beautiful river lacked: water. So it rained, and it was days before the river was navigable again.

Losing the election had a broadening effect, however; I understood how Nixon had felt the night of his final press conference in 1962. I thought of him as I faced the cameras to deliver my concession speech: "The people have spoken--the bastards!"

• • •

The year 1968 was to politics what 1929 had been to the stock market. It started out with Eugene McCarthy and his young supporters, who put an incumbent President on the run, and was soon joined by the happiest warrior of them all, Robert Kennedy. To watch and participate as those two Irishmen crossed swords in Oregon and California was a joy to anyone who loved politics. Then it ended on the kitchen floor of a lousy hotel in Los Angeles. After the siege of Chicago, with its stench of tear gas and its bloodied heads, everyone was so turned off that the field of battle was pretty much left to the bloodless and humorless group that brought us Watergate.

By 1968, my very presence would make Nixon folk nervous. Just before Election Day, they held a huge ethnic rally in (concluded on page 162)Watergate(continued from page 100) Madison Square Garden--All Nationalities for Nixon or something. I arrived just before it got under way. As I arrived, long-awaited boxes of Nixon buttons with slogans in every language imaginable were delivered. They were about to distribute them when Herb Klein spotted me. He went over to the boxes of buttons and studied them briefly. However, English was his only language. He ordered the buttons dumped. "Destroy them," he said. "We just can't take the chance."

After the stock market crashed, Roosevelt's first order of business was to get the country on its feet again. Alter the political crash of 1968, we got Nixon with his 43 percent mandate, who, as his first order of business, established the Committee to Re-elect the President, more aptly called CREEP.

Perhaps the 1972 Presidential campaign was the first in which one candidate participated in every activity right down to the choice of paper clips and the other participated in nothing, not even the reading of newspapers. But it was nice to know that Nixon and Haldeman had included me in their thoughts, if not in their campaign. Actually, McGovern hadn't understood what a help I could be to Nixon, either. Late in the campaign, it was evident that the amount and source of Nixon's money weren't being made public, so I conceived a plan to correct this oversight.

When Nixon went to John Connally's ranch in Texas to meet with his fat-cat friends, there would be a Brink's armored truck at the ranch to pick up the money--followed closely by a Mexican laundry truck. The idea was too exotic for the McGoverns. Maybe if I'd been able to present the plan on $7000 charts like Gordon Liddy's, instead of on the back of a menu from Duke Zeibert's....

Looking back over the last campaign, one might think that 1972 was the year of the innovator. The McGoverns brought us New Politics; the Nixons, political chicanery. Not so! In both cases, it was really new dogs doing old tricks. Twenty years before, Estes Kefauver worked the primaries with his unwashed bunch, and more than 100 years ago, the Republicans (they called them Wings then) were using skulduggery.

The Presidential campaign of 1844 wasn't the first to employ dirty tricks, but it may have been the first to contribute to our vocabulary, James Polk, the distinguished Democrat from Tennessee, was opposed by Whig Henry Clay of Virginia. The campaign was particularly bitter and on the eve of the election, all hell broke loose. The Chronicle of Ithaca, New York, a prominent Whig paper, had come across a journal written by a Baron von Roorback, titled Roorback's Tour Through the Western and Southern Sates in 1836. In it, the baron told quite vividly of witnessing "the purchase of 43 slaves by James K. Polk" and how "the mark of the branding iron and initials of his name was placed on their shoulders to distinguish them." Although the election was fast approaching, Whig papers throughout the country found time to reprint the story of Polk's inhumanity.

As it turned out, at that point in time, there were a few discrepancies in the story: There had been no slave sale; the branding scene never took place; and, finally, there was no Baron von Roorback. The whole thing was inoperative.

Polk won the election, but the smear did a lot to weaken his Presidency. And the nonexistent Roorback became a common noun known and used by students and practitioners of politics for generations. It can still be found in the dictionary:

roor'back (roor'bak), n. A defamatory falsehood published for political effect.

I bring this up because of the frequent references to Dick Tuck tricks during the Watergate hearings. Before some itinerant lexicographer comes along and drops me into a lower-case colloquialism, let me make a few things perfectly clear.

First, it should be noted that Dick Tuck activities were at least touched with humor. And it wasn't always easy. Second, they never contained malice, although some politicians consider a vote for someone else the most malicious act of all. Third, their purpose was to unmask the fraud or expose the fool. They were designed to open up, to ventilate the situation; they were not surreptitious or anonymous activities. (I not only claimed credit; I demanded it.) And, finally, they were not illegal!

Do I deserve some of the blame for Watergate? The Nixon people seem to think so. Some of them, anyway. In fact, a few weeks before Haldeman testified, I ran into him outside the Watergate committee offices. "You started all this, Tuck," he growled. A joke, I thought, so I smiled and said, "Yeah. Bob, but you guys ran it into the ground."

Well, if my tricks spawned their tricks, it was more than just a misunderstanding. If people are confusing the altering of fortune cookies so that the message pokes fun at an overserious candidate with the altering of State Department cables to make it appear that a martyred President committed murder, then it's time to make a distinction or two.

No doubt, Dick Tuck defining dick tuck is like setting a fox to guard the hen house; but if I were to print my own dictionary (in the past, I have found that printing your own paper is the best way to ensure a good press), my definition would be as follows:

dick tuck* (di?k tuk), n. [after a political figure known for his use of lampooning tactics, active mid-20th Century] 1. A political activity, characterized by humor, devised to unmask, ventilate, bring to light, debunk, hold up to view, etc., the comical, ludicrous or ridiculous, etc., incongruities, follies, abuses and stupidities, etc., esp. of a candidate for office. 2. A political prank. 3.Archaic. A witty, kind, genial fellow.

Syn. Boston Tea Party

Ant. Watergate

*Americanism