so, william randolph. your last big scoop contrasted the popularity of rice crispie treats and chocolate snickerdoodles at the annual bake sale.
let me guess: retail sales of little chocolate sprinkles have gone through the roof!
is it true? is ignorance bliss?
don't even tell me you're hot for miss titty pom poms over there.
i didn't know they gave them for best lip gloss retention during a blow job.
go ahead. ask her to the prom. get it over with.
--do it. i triple-dog-dare you.
no, ted. this is an actual emergency.
i tried to warn you, william randolph. she's got stiletto heels hidden in those keds.
it was for your own good, in a twisted sort of publicly humiliating way.
he reinvented himself into a dick.
what gives, don corleone?
new hushpuppies don't make a new man.
that explains the emptiness that haunts me.
second only to unfettered arrogance and the inability to see the irony therein.
a few billion bucks and suddenly he's cro-magnon man of the year.
what is it, william randolph? your balls need scratching?
in what sense?
ah ha! it was so well hidden, you didn't even know it was there.
just because someone died and made you king of the publishing world doesn't mean you're even one ounce smarter than you were a week ago.
i'm still better than you. nothing changed except the decimal point in your savings account.
oh, right. you're probably not a virgin anymore. but as far as being a hack, that much is status quo.
then i'll write about you.
"local boy inherits more money than god." call me crazy, but i smell human interest.
no offense, wolfgang puck, but dead flesh is dead flesh. this just happens to be better than most dead flesh on the planet.
different how? different like a dwarf at a basketball game? or different like a lesbian in pumps?
could everybody else tell you were different, or were you the only one who knew?
i see. so more like a tight rope walker who secretly wants to be a trapeze artist.
interesting.
she said peanuts, you cretin.
is this an gritty expos or a candy ass press release?
life must be peachy on planet ted.
i did my homework. your grandfather was a peach farmer.
undoubtedly an aristocratic bartender of some sort.
i bet there are lots and lots of mirrors on planet ted.
and this is not my first time on a private jet, so quit acting like i'm rebecca of sunnybrook farm.
money can't buy respect, ted. saying what you mean. meaning what you say. being an honorable person. that's how you earn respect.
you're so twitterpated you don't even see the miner's hat and the pickax.
second only to unbridled, narcissistic conceit.
you've got enough people kissing your ass.
the girls of xenia? jesus.
isn't it true, principal merkin, that you only care now because "heaven" is suddenly too close to home?
oops, sorry. warning: you've got lipstick on your teeth.
put your eyeballs back in your head, william randolph. i'm on assignment. a girl has to fit in.
need a lift?
to the best hiding place in the world.
he didn't. he had it built.
not "whatever." it's two different things.
he phoned it in.
i doubt it.
the ozone must be fully depleted on planet ted.
your dad taught you everything.
a father is nothing but sperm, ted. it takes a real man to be a dad.
it's incredibly simple.
eventually you'll let go.
then you'll see who's really holding on to you.
i know.
but you never do.
cut to the chase, william randolph. your audience is way ahead of you.
that's two words. and i'm out of the "exposed" business, remember? i need to graduate. besides, merk's a boy scout.
you forget, i dislike you at least as much as him.
a good journalist can take lemons and make lemonade. i'm honing my craft.
see what i mean. he's squeaky clean. he makes gandhi look like a war monger.
well? where the hell are you?
i got an anonymous tip and an address in cincinnati.
you expected whips, chains, merk being cattle-prodded by some dominatrix in a leather hood?
amen to that.
i'm trembling with excitement.
my desire betrays me, like goosebumps on my flesh.
i figured you for more of a hairy armpit guy.
wearing them? or humping them?
that's refreshingly deviant.
i'm very aural.
sounds, voices, music, humming. all of it can turn me on, or off, like a switch.
i had a portuguese boyfriend who could read the phone book and melt me.
you live and learn. i realized the most important thing to me, above all, is trust.
you lose trust in someone and it's over, done, gone, forever.
not a chance.
trust is something you earn, over time. you don't just inherit it overnight like a gazillion dollar empire.
maybe someday.
that's hard to believe.
i have to be honest with you, ted. i really despise "the girls of xenia."
i mean your pictorial. it bothers me, profoundly.
you're telling me you don't get aroused by a roomful of naked breasts.
which explains the continued success of "heaven" for how many decades?
you think you're working with chimps here?
keeping your word is something i can actually respect, ted.
what's up, doc?
go away, ted. just go.
being naked is no big deal. it has nothing to do with emotion, nothing to do with love. you can be around all the naked girls you want and you won't be even one step closer to anything meaningful in your life.
see that? you don't know me even one ounce better than you did before. you and your stupid magazine. i liked you better when you were sweet and kind and human, like the rest of us.
"it's easy to fall prey to petty jealousy when considering the young life of ted nelson. but how would any of us behave if one day all our dreams came true? would we handle it half as well? would we find ourselves making the same mistakes for which we criticize him?"
not bad for a hack. he has a future in yellow journalism.
and who might that be? miss july? miss august?
i'm not going anywhere, ted. you're the one with the champagne wishes and caviar dreams.
very ambitious. i like that.
i know where you can find any number of naked girls who'd love to hop on board.
planet ted. five years from now. what's happening?
i know where you can find an excellent editor-in-chief.
let your fingers do the walking.
you better.