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Transcript of Rather Interrogation Released


(Er, that should be "Rather Questioning.") Hauled down to police headquarters prior to his arrest for the murder of Mainst Reammedia, one D. Rather—alias Ms. Word Default—was gone over and grilled good about his knowledge of the DNC/CBS forged memos badmouthing our president during wartime. Here's a transcript of that interrogation question & answer session:

SUSPECT D. RATHER: I want to see my lawyer.

DETECTIVE T. SMITH: All right... O.K., Sergeant. You can bring in Mr. Rather's lawyer now.

SGT. W. CORONA: Here ya go.

SMITH: Thanks, Sergeant

RATHER: Hey, that's just a photograph of my lawyer, mounted in a stand-up frame. A nice frame, I'll grant you. I like the gilded edges. Where did you get it? Oh, wait! I meant, I want to talk to my lawyer.

SMITH: Well, why didn't you say so? All right, here's the phone. You can call him now.

RATHER: Thanks. Now let's see... Five-Five-Five Zero-Zero-Zero-Zero. It's ringing... It's still ringing.... O.K., he's picking up now. Huh?

PHONE: Hi, you have reached Mr. Rather's lawyer. I'm not in right now, but if you'd like to leave a message I'll get back to you. Bye. *dhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr*

RATHER: Hey, wait! He hung up on me before I could even leave a message on his answering machine.

SMITH: Can you call your lawyer at another number?

RATHER: Yeah. I can probably reach him at the bar.

CORONA: The Bar Association?

RATHER: No. The Tropical Flamingo, on J Street in D.C.


RATHER: Let's see. One-Two-Three Four-Five-Six-Seven. It's ringing... It's still ringing. Hang on.... Ah, here we go. Someone's answering—Wha?

PHONE: Hi, you have reached Mr. Rather's lawyer. I'm not in right now, but if you'd like to leave a message I'll get back to you. Bye. *dhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr*

RATHER: What? This doesn't seem right. Let me dial a number at random. Two-Four-Six One-Three-Five-Nine. Ringing... Ringing... and—

PHONE: Hi, you have reached Mr. Rather's lawyer. I'm not in right now, but if you'd like to leave a message I'll get back to you. Bye. *dhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr*

RATHER: Look, I don't know what's going on around here, but I have a right to legal counsel. I demand access to a lawyer, and I demand it now.

SMITH: Oh, all right. Here's the Yellow Pages®. You have access to every lawyer listed in there. Why don't you call one of them?

RATHER: All right, I will. Let me see now... B... F... G... M... Q... Oh, wait. Too far. N... L... O.K. Lucite... Lip Readers... Liposuction... Laxatives... Lawyers, here we go. Hmm. There doesn't seen to be that many listed. J.Q. Doe, Esq.... F. Scott Fitshyster, Esq.... S. Nake Indygrass, Esq.... Low Estform Oflife, Esq.... Vill Ain, Esq.... Ambu Lancechaser, Esq.... Bilkyou, Bilkme & Bilkall LLP... Something's wrong here. These might sound like lawyers' names, but I've never heard of any of them specifically. Wait, here's one that sounds familiar. Joe Bob's Lawfirm & BBQ. If I remember right, they also have an office in Texas. I'll try them. Let's see... Seven-Six-Five Four-Three-Two-One. It's ringing... Still ringing... Ring—O.K. Someone's picking up. Hey!

PHONE: Hi, you have reached one of Mr. Rather's potential lawyers. We're not in right now, but if you'd like to leave a message we'll get back to you. Bye. *dhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr*

RATHER: Listen, you two. This isn't funny. I refuse to answer any questions unless I see my lawyer.

SMITH: You hear that, Sergeant?

CORONA: Loud and clear. Mr. Rather, who's in that picture sitting on the table.

RATHER: That's my lawyer.

CORONA: You see him?

RATHER: Yes. But—

CORONA: Then you best answer our questions like you just said you would. *Knuckles cracking*

RATHER: *Gulp*

SMITH: All right, Mr. Rather. Here's the first question. Who wrote the forged memos?

RATHER: That's "allegedly forged," flatfoot.


RATHER: Hey! You aren't allowed to strike anyone in your custody. I'll do a special 60 Minutes II exclusive investigation of you!

CORONA: That's the one you host on Wednesday nights?



RATHER: Ouch! What was that one for?

CORONA: I hate that show.

SMITH: Now, Sergeant. We aren't here to be TV critics.

CORONA: Sorry, sir.

SMITH: That's O.K. Just tell us, Mr. Rather. Who wrote the forged memos?

RATHER: I don't know what you're talking about. The memos aren't forged. I just haven't been able to vouch for their veracity yet.

SMITH: You trying to be funny?

RATHER: Not as funny as you. ...Lookin', that is.

SMITH: Sergeant.

CORONA: *Smack*

RATHER: Dern. Can't you fellas take a joke?

SMITH: If it's anything like the one your network ran last Wednesday night at eight, the answer is no.

CORONA: Sir, didn't you say we aren't here to be—

SMITH: It's all right, Sergeant. That just applies to the show in general. If it's a particular show you're criticizing, then by all means smack away.

CORONA: Well, in that case—*BAP*

RATHER: Crap! That one hurt.

CORONA: Just letting you know that I didn't like your last Wednesday show either.

RATHER: Can't we just get on with this? I have a fax coming in at nine.

SMITH: Sure. So you say the forged memos aren't really forged, eh? Then take a look at this copy of one of them. How do explain all those things I've cricled in red?

RATHER: Uh, you used a red ink pen?

SMITH: Sergeant.



SMITH: No, the things inside those red circles. Like the small-lettered "th" superscript, and the perfectly pixelled-centered lines at the top. You believe both of those were done using a Seventies-era typewriter?

RATHER: Well, I'm no expert when it comes to such matters. But I will say, based on what a couple of unnamed, unimpeachable sources told me, that those things could've been done by at least one brand of typewriter then in existence.

SMITH: An expensive, top-of-the line model used almost exclusively by professional printers, you mean.

RATHER: Well, yes. But the key word there is "almost." Some other people could've been using that model as well.

SMITH: Like an Air National Guard unit?

RATHER: Yes, I believe that's possible.

SMITH: Even when the very same lady who was in charge at the time of typing every single memo at the Guard unit identified in this memo, who you interviewed yourself, says she never typed or could type anything like it?

RATHER: I don't know how reliable she is when she says that. I mean it was over thirty years ago, for cryin' out loud. She might have been able to, but simply forgot that she had.

SMITH: So when she remembers something else from the same time and place, her reliably about that is questionable too?

RATHER: Now, I didn't say that. She probably remembers some things better than others. It depends on what she's remembering when she remembers it.

SMITH: That's stupid.

RATHER: Hey, I'm no expert on memory or a neurologist or anything. So I can't tell you whether she's remembering something a hundred percent correctly or not. My job is just to report what she's saying and let my viewers decide.

SMITH: You report, we decide. Is that it?

RATHER: Yeah, something like that.

SMITH: Let's put aside that forgery part for the moment. Who gave you the memos?

RATHER: You want to try another question? You ought to know I can't reveal my sources.

SMITH: Wrong answer. Sergeant, it's time.

CORONA: Okie dokie. Be back in a minute.

RATHER: Where's he going?

SMITH: You'll see.

CORONA: Here you are, sir.

RATHER: Hey, what's with the wires and electrodes?

SMITH: Just standard procedure. Nothing to be concerned about. Oh, and it looks like the cassette in our tape recorder's about to run out. We'll have to put in a new one now. Mmwha ha haha hah—

[ break in the recording of the interrogation question & answer session ]

SMITH: Thanks for remembering to turn that tape recorder back on, Sergeant. In all the excitement, I simply forget about it.

CORONA: No problem, sir. Quite understandable. Could happen to anyone.

SMITH: Now, Mr. Rather. Do you want to repeat your answer?

RATHER: Ahhhhhgh! Voltage. Too. High... Please. Lower.

SMITH: You heard the man, Sergeant.

CORONA: Turning it down now.

SMITH: Well, Mr. Rather? Who gave you the forged memos?

RATHER: You can't treat me this way! I'm a respected, albeit totally discredited journalist. You haven't let me see—er, call—uh, speak with my lawyer. You haven't even read me my rights yet.

SMITH: But you're a Lefty.

RATHER: I still have rights.

SMITH: Very well, if you insist. Ronald Reagan.


SMITH: He's right, all right. You want me to read you another?

RATHER: Wait. I meant rights. R-I-G-


RATHER: Wha! You have to read me my rights. I know. I once did a special CBS 60 Minutes II exclusive investigation on it.


RATHER: Yeouch! Why'd you do that?

CORONA: Didn't you hear me when I told you that I hated that show?

RATHER: All right, all right. I won't mention it again. But I demand that your read me my real rights.

SMITH: Oh, ok. George W. Bush.

RATHER: Agh! I hate that name. Don't even mention it in my presence!

SMITH: O.K. George W. Bush.

RATHER: Ahhh, stop! I have rights. You can't torture me like this!

SMITH: Well, in that case. Here. Put these panties on top of your head.

RATHER: What the—?

SMITH: It was your producer's idea.

RATHER: My producer's?

SMITH: Yeah. In case you're interested, she was in here this morning, singing like a canary. And she wasn't too pleased about the way you've been trying to pin the rap entirely on her.

RATHER: But it must have been her, I tell you. She must have planned and coordinated the entire thing with the Qerry Qampaign! I'm just a simple news reader. I only say what's on the teleprompter.

SMITH: But you're the network's All-Managing Editor of All News Programs. Is just reading teleprompters the only thing you do?

RATHER: Yeah, sure. That editing part is just fancy talk for teleprompter reader.

SMITH: Listen. Are you gonna put those panties on your head or are we gonna have to do it for you?

RATHER: Geesh. I can do it. I'm more practiced at it than you. There. Satisfied?

SMITH: Now you can sit there, mister, looking more ridiculous than normal until you come clean about who gave you those memos.

RATHER: Speaking of clean, are these new panties?

SMITH: You don't want to know. Some frothing-at-the-mouth hilldabeast left hers at the front desk yesterday along with a note saying, "In case you need to put some panties on a teleprompter reader's managing news editor's head."

RATHER: Oooh noooooo!

SMITH: That reminds me. While we're waiting for your answer, tell us. Have you stopped hating your pajamas?

RATHER: What does that got to do with anything?

SMITH: Just answer 'yes' or 'no.'

RATHER: I don't own any pajamas.

SMITH: Sergeant.

CORONA: *Whap*

RATHER: Eeow! Okay, okay, I do own pajamas, and no, I haven't stopped hating them.

SMITH: There, Sergeant. See what a little mild persuasion can accomplish?

CORONA: Yes, sir.

RATHER: In fact, I hate all pajamas. I hate even the sight of pajamas.


RATHER: I hate everyone who wears pajamas. Wearing their pajamas and laughing at me. All laughing at me, in their pajamas. Typing at their keyboards and laughing while wearing their stupid, ugly pajamas!

SMITH: All right, that's enough.

RATHER: No! It's not enough. The government should ban the sell of all pajamas! Then no one could wear them and type anymore at their keyboards and laugh at me ever again. I'll do a special 60 Minutes II exclusive investigation of pajamas, and after I'm done investigating them and uncovering their evil, there'll never be any anymore pajamas anywhere for anyone to wear ever again! Hahhe hehee haha hoho hoohooo hahah—

SMITH: Sergeant.

CORONA: *Bamm*

RATHER: No, you can't stop me! I'll conquer the pajama-wearing people everywhere and drive them back into the three-network-only sea of oblivion where I'll again be master of only what I want people to survey. Never again will there be any fact checking. Never again will peasants in pajamas be able to laugh at anything. No more news unless filtered by me. Me! I'll be the one laughing. Laughing atop my anchor desk at everyone who even dared challenge my obvious partisanship and bias.

SMITH: Quick, Sergeant. He's trying to get away.

CORONA: I can't keep him restrained. He's squirming too much.

SMITH: Here. Put this straight jacket on him.

CORONA: It's not working. He's too crooked.

RATHER: Laughing—no more at me! Bwahahah hahah ha—

SMITH: Where's the stungun?

CORONA: I don't know. Try something else.

SMITH: George W. Bush.

RATHER: Ahghh! Don't say that name!

SMITH: George W. Bush. George W. Bush.

RATHER: No, stop! It hurts!

SMITH: George W. Bush. George W. Bush. George W. Bush.

RATHER: Ahhhhhhhhh...

CORONA: It worked, sir. He's out cold.

SMITH: Guess we'll have to schedule the rest of his interrogation, er, I mean Q and A session, for another day.

CORONA: I think you're right, sir.

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