Retraction
Please disregard the previous blog entry. The results of the handwriting analysis came back, and the handwriting is mine. Apparently, I wrote it when I was drunk last Thursday.
Nonetheless, I stand by the story, as the facts laid out on that paper are absolutely correct.
To ensure that this doesn't happen again, I've let Jorge go. I'll be out of blog contact for a while while I find a new webmaster.
Meanwhile, my friends: courage.
Posted by Dan Rather at 6:00 PM on 3/28/2005 | Comments (0)
Journalism
They said my journalism career was over. They said I was no longer relevant. They said I was no longer savvy enough to subtly steer the course of the country ever onward to the left with nobody the wiser. Well, check this out, doubters:
I found it on the floor of the living room this morning, apparently slipped under the door by some unknown informant. This is it. I can feel it. The piece of evidence that will prove my point and clear my name. And although this is clearly a photocopy, rest assured that I have the original this time, and it will not be leaving my possession. Fool me twice, shame on me.
I'm having it run by an independent handwriting analyst now, but I already know what the results will be. I'll be back at the anchor desk before you can say, "Bite it, Schieffer!"
Posted by Dan Rather at 6:00 PM on 3/27/2005 | Comments (0)
Out!
Out of my head, Whitman! You depressed, student-shooting, Klinefelter's-having, son-of-a-bitch!
Posted by Dan Rather at 6:00 PM on 3/26/2005 | Comments (0)
Woo Hoo!
Wooooooooooooooooo! Hey motherfuckers! I'm pretty sure nobody's readin' this shit, so I might as well say it:
The frequency is 1.21 GHz!
Do something about it, assholes!
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
AHAHAAHAHAHHA!
BWAHAHAHAHAHA!
Gotta go! Time to play Puzzle Pirates!
Posted by Kenneth at 1:17 AM on 3/25/2005 | Comments (0)
Drinking Some More
Drunk again! Lit up like an El Paso switchboard with an epileptic operator! And hornier than a ten-point buck at a Spanish Fly salt lick. Y jole, chinga! This tequila, she is one crazy Juanita!
I haven't been this loaded since Election Night 2000. Unless you count Election Night 2004. Good times!
I just went into the bedroom, lookin' to get my Rather on. Jean was snoring loudly, her lips flapping wetly around her dentureless gums, one of her hellspawn cats staring malevolently at me with eyes aglow like a Corpus Christi sunrise. I tapped her shoulder and she snorted herself into wakefulness.
"Green-eyed lady, ocean lady," I crooned. "Soothin' every ragin' wave that comes."
"What do you want, Dan?" she croaked, like the sexiest damned bullfrog on the banks of the long and glorious Rio Grande.
"I have some important investigative reporting to do... With my microphone... On location... In your fertile crescent."
"You're drunk again, Dan. Just go to bed. We'll talk about this in the morning."
"Listen, woman!" I shouted. "Do you know who you're dealing with? I'm the guy that first reported that Kennedy was dead! I broke that story, goddammit! You'd do well to remember that. Now give up the booty!"
Like a ball from Sam Houston's trusty musket, her fist shot out from beneath the down comforter and connected with my testicles.
I hobbled back to the living room couch, feeling chastened and old. And here I will sit, until either this bottle or I am finished.
Posted by Dan Rather at 11:13 PM on 3/24/2005 | Comments (0)
My Day Out
This morning, as I settled onto the couch for my Regis fix, Jean walked in and scowled at me.
"Dan Irvin Rather, Jr.!" she said. "You've done nothing for two weeks but sit around in your Fruit of the Looms and feel sorry for yourself. You're getting out of this house if I have to shove you out the door myself."
She's right of course, as our better halves so frequently are. I realized it was time for a trip into Midtown. Perhaps I'd find something there worthy of relating to my many readers.
For the first time in years, though, I'd be forced to take the subway instead of a CBS limo. I decided the situation was ripe for one of my famous disguises. I had purchased some appropriate urban garb several years ago for just such an occasion. Now I extracted it from my disguise trunk with a quiet reverence.
I slipped on my baggy satin sweatpants and pulled the Latrell Sprewell Knicks jersey over my head. On with the FILA tennis shoes and the long, black do-rag. A quick coat of Shinola and a few more accoutrements for accent, and my clever ruse was complete.
I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror. The effect was flawless. Buckwheat himself would have said, "Otay!"
I was ready to go into town and blend in with the locals.
On the subway, I noticed a young African-American fellow who appeared to be staring at me. For a moment, I thought he had seen through my subterfuge, but soon enough I realized that he was just admiring my bling. As I got off the train, I felt it would be appropriate to acknowledge his interest, so I called back to him, "Yo, homes! Smell ya later!" As the train pulled away, he banged both fists against the window repeatedly, in a well known urban gesture of solidarity.
Once out of the station, I wasn't sure what to do. I wandered about aimlessly for a bit, and before long I found my feet carrying me, as if of their own accord, down to Sixth Street and into the lobby of the CBS building. Soon enough I was standing before the guard at the entrance desk, a mustachioed black man I'd seen a thousand times, but whose name I had never caught.
"Word up, yo," I stated, calling upon my extensive knowledge of the peculiar vernacular of the street. "Be Andy Heyward in da hizzy?"
The guard regarded me placidly. "I'm sorry Mr. Rather," he said, his specially trained guard eyes somehow seeing through my clever deception. "You know I can't let you in here. I have strict orders that you're not to enter the building."
"Nigga', please!" I exclaimed, thumping my chest with my right hand, fingers extended into a peace sign. "Who be dis' Radder beeotch you be talkin' bout?"
"I can remove you myself very easily, Mr. Rather," he said. "I would probably only need one arm to do it. I wouldn't even have to put down my coffee."
"You be trippin', homie," I replied.
"Sheeeeeit," I said, as I picked myself up off the curb.
I returned to the subway, feeling chastened and old. On the train, a black teenager approached me and asked me if I had the time. I gave him my wallet without protest.
Posted by Dan Rather at 6:00 PM on 3/23/2005 | Comments (0)
Bad
Today was a bad day. I'd prefer not to speak of it. Suffice it to say, through late afternoon my head rang like the UT Austin bell tower with an angry sniper inside of it.
Posted by Dan Rather at 6:00 PM on 3/22/2005 | Comments (0)
Coraggio.
Drunk.
Drunk as a skunk. Drunk as a skunk with a pawful of thistles and nowhere to go.
That didn't make any goddamn sense at all. I'm losing it. Losing my touch. Touch of evil. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon now TOUCH ME BABE! Can't you see... Ah, shit.
Courage.
Coraje.
Corajem.
Coraggio.
Moed.
Mut.
Смелость.
Asdj98h*@ asda a dfz sdsdt5e9zcvliask GET OFF MY LAPTOP YOU DARN CAT!!!!
Ha! Just kidding! LOL
Bed.
Posted by Dan Rather at 11:30 PM on 3/21/2005 | Comments (0)
New News?
Well, I finally decided to sit down and watch the CBS evening news with Bob fucking Schieffer. A goddamn embarrassment, that's what that guy is. Where's the warm, down-home witticism? Where's the poorly masked liberal bias? Where's the forty yard stare like a walleyed Cowboys fan on his tenth can of Lone Star?
Nowhere, that's where. Just some crusty old bastard reading the headlines at you. You're not fit to fill the Dan Rather ass impression in that anchor chair, Schieffer, and you know it.
Since the news ended, I've been doing shots of Jose Cuervo that we had lying around from some or other stupid Fiesta Night Jean held with the "group." It tastes like catheter runoff from a Dallas prostate cancer patient, but it dulls the pain of knowing that my legacy is being torn asunder nightly by that shock-haired charlatan.
Whoops! Gotta go. Spongebob calls.
Posted by Dan Rather at 7:30 PM on 3/21/2005 | Comments (0)
Burrito Madness
Jean's gone off to do her Canasta thing with that gaggle of old crones she calls her "group." It's just me and the laptop and a freezer full of microwave burritos. And these goddamned cats Jean's filled the place with, of course.
Honest to God, I don't know what's been going on in this house. We used to have real pets. Awhile back there was this gorgeous golden retriever that went by the name of Courage; muscular, obedient, striking. Don't know what happened to that dog. After years of being on assignment or in the newsroom more frequently than at home, I just kind of lost track of the old boy. I suppose he just... faded away.
For a time after that, we had a St. Bernard. Big, meaty, dopey-looking son of a bitch. We called him Goldberg. He was a bad dog. We eventually had to have him shot.
After that, we were without animals for a time. Then, one day, without fanfare, a cat mysteriously appeared in the house. Gradually and insidiously, he was joined by more and more of the furry little mongrels, until you could hardly walk out the door without dancing the long-hair lambada around some flea-bitten feline monstrosity.
The spare room, meanwhile, has made the transformation into a repository for thousands upon thousands of tiny, malodorous Tootsie rolls. Now the whole house reeks like a Houston slaughterhouse at high noon on Fourth of July.
¡Ay Caramba! While I was typing away, I failed to notice the precarious state of my burrito. I've just dropped scalding beans down the hole in my Y-fronts. Damned stuff stings like a Laredo scorpion that caught herpes on shore leave! Gotta go!
Posted by Dan Rather at 6:00 PM on 3/17/2005 | Comments (0)
On The Laptop
Sunday at Casa de Dan finds me on the couch in front of the television. I've thrown myself into this "blogging" business wholeheartedly. Jorge found a way to rig up a small portable computer so I can sit in front of the TV while I type, and I've spent the whole day channel surfing in my skivvies, just like the real "bloggers" do it.
Not the news channels, of course, I don't think I'm quite ready for that yet. Mostly just catching up on the things I've missed over 24 years devoted to nothing but bringing you the stories of the day, in the most socially responsible way possible.
I must say, I find this whole "blog" concept to be strangely liberating. No jackass producers to answer to. No faked apologies to prove I'm a team player. Just good ol' Dan and his trusty keyboard, saying whatever he damn well pleases.
I've claimed for years that's what the people want, and now I finally get the opportunity to prove it. Frankly, I'm bubbling over with excitement like a colostomy bag at a Wharton retirement home chili cook-off.
Posted by Dan Rather at 6:00 PM on 3/13/2005 | Comments (0)
Welcome
Good evening. I'm Dan Rather, and this is my blog.
As you know, for twenty-four years I was your trusted correspondent behind the anchor desk at CBS News. As you may also know, I recently stepped down from behind that desk, thanks in no small part to a group of plucky - if untrained and irresponsible - pseudo-journalists.
Apparently these "bloggers," as they call themselves, have near bottomless wells of free time with which to sit around the house in their pajamas, drink coffee, and fart around on their computers. Ironically, I now find myself in a similar situation.
As another famous Texan, Popeye, once said: "If you can't beatsk 'em, joinsk 'em. A-guh-guh-guh-guh-guh!"
A-guh-guh-guh-guh, indeed, Sailor Man.
And so, with the assistance of Jorge, a technically savvy member of the Rather household staff, I have started my own "blog."
But this "blog" is not like others you may have read in the past. That's because I bring to this endeavor the same professionalism and journalistic integrity that was a hallmark of my long tenure at CBS.
If the "blogosphere" is the menu at Taco Bell, then think of me as the chalupa. Meaty, substantive, and soaked through with delicious gooey Baja sauce.
Please do not drop me, or I may be eaten by a tiny, wisecracking Chihuahua.
Posted by Dan Rather at 6:00 PM on 3/11/2005 | Comments (0)
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