Sunday Morning with Charles Kuralt
Charles Kuralt … Norm MacDonald
[Image of a sunrise. SUPER: SUNDAY MORNING WITHCHARLES KURALT – We hear the “Sunday Morning” seriestheme, a baroque trumpet fanfare by Johann Gottfriedentitled “Abblasen.”]
Announcer V/O: And now we return to SundayMorning with Charles Kuralt.
Charles Kuralt: Well, it seems that’s all thetime we have this Sunday morning. It has come time forus to part, you and I, for I am retiring from CBSNews. I have been “On the Road” now for thirty-sevenyears, and I will miss it. I will miss it … much. Iwill miss the thunder of the big diesels as they roarby me. I will miss the inviting windows ofwell-stocked general stores reflected in the rear-viewmirror. I will miss the sight of young cottonwoods andand old rattlesnake nests, of winds that blow, andrivers that flow. But, mostly, I will miss the sex.
For that is what brought me to the road in the firstplace, so many years ago: the promise of sex with astring of anonymous partners across this great land.And, oh, how that promise has been fulfilled.
There was Thelma Ober, a frail old woman ofseventy-five, whose pumpkin pies have been well-knownto the residents of Cornwall, North Dakota for years.Every afternoon, Thelma leaves her house and strollsgallantly toward town. And wherever Thelma goes, thebirds 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 along dirt road in the piney woods of Arkansas and isthe best friend a dog ever had. She owns over fourhundred and fifty of them. Oh, and just one morething: 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 fromMuncklin, Maine, the proud possessor of a ball oftwine, sixty-seven feet around. If he ever unrolledit, it would stretch from Muncklin, Maine to the Gulfof Mexico. But, of course, Ned didn’t want to unrollit, he wanted me to have sex with his wife. And so Idid. And, wouldn’t you know it, Old Ned watched. And Ithink he learned something — as did we all that balmyAugust Muncklin night.
Yes, there were hundreds and thousands more. None ofthem were very attractive, I suppose. Even bybackwoods standards. But I couldn’t care less. What’sdone is done.
Anyway, those days are passed now. I will retiretomorrow and busy myself with more solitarydiversions. Perhaps you’ll find me knee-deep in abending 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 EricSevareid introduced me to … and I’ve grown quitefond of.
And so, tiddly-widdly toodle-loo. All I want is tostay with you, but here I go. Good-bye.[Applause. Kuralt takes the microphone off his necktieas we hear the trumpet fanfare again, pull back, anddissolve to an artist’s rendering of the sun. SUPER:SUNDAY MORNING WITH CHARLES KURALT]