Nearly every major political story of the past decade falls into one of these two categories, from Obama’s birth certificate to Solyndra to the IRS farrago, from Monica Lewinsky to Mark Sanford to Anthony Weiner.

Week after week, reporters at major news outlets serve up these lurid morsels, and the usual Greek chorus of cable TV pundits and political handicappers chew them over for as long as the flavor lasts.

What’s at stake in these stories is almost never the morality of the policies enacted by our elected or appointed leaders. It’s ratings, pure and simple.

We’ve reached a point where traditional journalism is being steadily squeezed out by the toxic amorality of scandalism.

For an especially disheartening example of this paradigm in action, consider the hue and cry over Bill O’Reilly’s serial exaggerations concerning his derring do as a reporter.

By all indications, the media believes that the boastful lies he told decades ago to make himself seem brave are more important than the glaring deceits he peddles every night on his show.

But just imagine if reporters focused on those, rather than leaving Jon Stewart to do the dirty work?

Ditto the sad saga of Brian Williams. The NBC anchor carried the Pentagon’s water for years when it came to our disastrous adventure in Iraq. But his journalistic credibility only came under fire when he lied about his helicopter coming under fire in the field.

Or consider the coverage of the NFL’s woes this past season. For nearly a month, reporters whipped themselves into a froth over the off-the-field transgressions of two star running backs, Ray Rice, who knocked his wife unconscious in an elevator, and Adrian Peterson, who was indicted on child injury charges for disciplining his four-year-old son.

On the very same day that the Peterson story broke, a report surfaced revealing that the NFL’s own actuaries estimated that 30 percent of former players would suffer long-term cognitive ailments (i.e. nearly a third of the employees in America’s most famous workplace could expect to face brain damage).

This was shocking news, especially in light of the league’s longstanding efforts to deny, or obscure, the link between football and brain trauma.

And yet the vast majority of the ensuing coverage focused on what sort of punishment Rice and Peterson should or would receive, and whether NFL commissioner Roger Goodell had handled the scandals properly.

This is what scandalism does: it reduces the public discourse to a giant gossip session. It focuses our collective attention on the wrong questions.

It may turn out that Hillary Clinton wanted a private email system so she could hide nefarious deeds. But it’s much more likely that this “scandal” will turn out to be more sound and fury, signifying nothing.

The beauty of scandalism, from a business perspective anyway, is that scandal stories don’t have to lead to a revelation of corruption to be considered successful. They don’t have to deliver on their promise, so long as the pitch is seductive enough to dominate the news cycle.

To use an analogy more appropriate to the milieu: scandalism is the journalistic equivalent of spam.