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
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
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
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]