I picked this puppy up on my scanner last Saturday. Didn't make sense then, but the events of last week helped me out.
(squealing static)
"Kenny baby, come on. They're offering you a stack of cash here."
"I don't know, Morrie."
"What's not to know? Beach, babes and enough clams to score a pound of blow a night."
"Come on. I haven't used that stuff in..."
(static)
"Fine, fine, that's just more money for the babes."
"That part is certainly appealing. I mean, I try one little line on that McDougal chick and she shuts up. Even after months in a cold cell she still isn't interested. I don't get it. I mean, it's not like I felt her up or anything."
"Kenny, baby, that's the Arkansas talking. Get that out of your head. We're talking co-eds in bikinis. Girls with cash who are just begging for a father figure."
"But I'm not quite finished with the investigation. I've got to..."
(static)
"...not going to indict the Clintons or anything, are you?"
"Morrie, Bill is a slimy bastard, and Hillary is an a-prime bitch, but no one is talking. The only people with stories are David Hale and old man McDougal, and no jury will believe their word over the President's. I'm at a dead end here."
"Right, sweetie. So pack your bags and take a well-deserved siesta in the California sun."
"It's not that easy. Newt's been bugging me to stick around at least through the 1998 elections so that the Dems don't regain Congress. He doesn't care what the Clintons have done; he just wants the specter of possible criminalities to hang over the administration and the Dems."
"Don't talk politics with me, baby. You know what I think of Fruit Gingrich and Bent Lott. And don't even think of mentioning Fat Buchanan..."
"Morrie, Morrie, calm down. I don't like playing political games, but I owe a lot to these guys. In fact, I owe this job offer to them."
"You don't owe anyone, sweetie! Come on, reach into your ideology bag and get a grip of your own bootstraps. You've done this all yourself. I mean, think: You've managed to keep a dead-end investigation alive for almost four years. That's one hell of an accomplishment."
"So what are..."
(static)
"...hundred thousand dollars, plus a house on the beach and a hot tub in your office."
"In my office?"
"Hell, it on a deck that looks out over the ocean, baby. I checked it out last week, and the setup is pretty damned sweet. I mean, you don't have to do a thing."
"It's one of the worst law schools in the country"
"Right. Expectations are low. You can succeed there."
"The first-year dropout rate is the highest in the country."
"Okay, okay, so you'd rather sit in a classroom than surf?"
"Morrie, what the hell are you selling me here?"
"Almost a million a year to sit on the beach and watch the babes roll by."
"Geez."
"I know, it's almost too much to take."
"What the hell am I doing in Arkansas, Morrie?"
"I asked you the same thing when you took this job."
(unintelligible sound)
"So I guess I should take it."
"That's my boy!"
"When do they want me?"
"Probably for the fall semester."
"So August first or so?"
"That's not going to be a problem, is it?"
"Newt'll kill me, but it's not like anyone has to worry about his bite any more."
"He's got as much power as Jim Carrey these days."
"God, wouldn't that be a great career comparison."
"I don't even want to think about it."
"Morrie, you're a saint. How can I repay you?"
"The standard fifteen percent."
"But of course. Give my love to Moira."
"Kisses Kenny baby."
"Bye."
(click)
Jon Worley monitors the airwaves from St. Petersburg, Fla. (for the next month or so).