Sunday Morning with Charles Kuralt

Charles Kuralt ... Norm MacDonald



[Image of a sunrise. SUPER: SUNDAY MORNING WITH CHARLES KURALT - We hear the "Sunday Morning" series theme, a baroque trumpet fanfare by Johann Gottfried entitled "Abblasen."]

Announcer V/O: And now we return to Sunday Morning with Charles Kuralt.

[Dissolve to old, balding, chubby newsman Charles Kuralt, fondly remembered for his "On the Road" segments on the CBS Evening News, who sits on the set of his long-running CBS TV series "Sunday Morning" and addresses the camera in his cadenced, folksy style.]

Charles Kuralt: Well, it seems that's all the time we have this Sunday morning. It has come time for us to part, you and I, for I am retiring from CBS News. I have been "On the Road" now for thirty-seven years, and I will miss it. I will miss it ... much. I will miss the thunder of the big diesels as they roar by me. I will miss the inviting windows of well-stocked general stores reflected in the rear-view mirror. I will miss the sight of young cottonwoods and and old rattlesnake nests, of winds that blow, and rivers that flow. But, mostly, I will miss the sex.

For that is what brought me to the road in the first place, so many years ago: the promise of sex with a string of anonymous partners across this great land. And, oh, how that promise has been fulfilled.

There was Thelma Ober, a frail old woman of seventy-five, whose pumpkin pies have been well-known to the residents of Cornwall, North Dakota for years. Every afternoon, Thelma leaves her house and strolls gallantly toward town. And wherever Thelma goes, the birds of Cornwall follow. Miss Thelma Ober is known as "The Bird Lady." And I had sex with her.

I remember Sarah Little, who lived at the end of a long dirt road in the piney woods of Arkansas and is the best friend a dog ever had. She owns over four hundred and fifty of them. Oh, and just one more thing: Sara Little is the town dog catcher. And, oh, one more thing: I had sex with her.

And I will not soon forget Old Ned Harrigan from Muncklin, Maine, the proud possessor of a ball of twine, sixty-seven feet around. If he ever unrolled it, it would stretch from Muncklin, Maine to the Gulf of Mexico. But, of course, Ned didn't want to unroll it, he wanted me to have sex with his wife. And so I did. And, wouldn't you know it, Old Ned watched. And I think he learned something -- as did we all that balmy August Muncklin night.

Yes, there were hundreds and thousands more. None of them were very attractive, I suppose. Even by backwoods standards. But I couldn't care less. What's done is done.

Anyway, those days are passed now. I will retire tomorrow and busy myself with more solitary diversions. Perhaps you'll find me knee-deep in a bending piece of water known as the Madison River, trying to fool a trout with a bit of floating feather. Or maybe I'll be practicing something called "autoerotic asphyxiation," a curious diversion Eric Sevareid introduced me to ... and I've grown quite fond of.

And so, tiddly-widdly toodle-loo. All I want is to stay with you, but here I go. Good-bye.

[Applause. Kuralt takes the microphone off his necktie as we hear the trumpet fanfare again, pull back, and dissolve to an artist's rendering of the sun. SUPER: SUNDAY MORNING WITH CHARLES KURALT]




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