New tales about Watergate lead to a Scrantongate
I was drinking alone in the office one night when this dame wanders in. Real sweet, she was, with coal dust in her long blonde hair and a crumpled bus ticket in her fist. "Scranton," she sighed by way of explanation, in a voice that trailed off like the Doppler effect of a passing 18-wheeler on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I poured her a stiff one, and she poured me her story: "I have this terrific manuscript, but please don't ask how I got it, and I...
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