The Cleveland Dead Media Delegation was named as a "special guest" on the engraved invite for Edward R. Murrow's annual holiday soiree, so Ghoulardi of course has to spill the beans. "It's gonna be John D. Rockefeller topping Reagan. I just know it." He starts sellin' tickets. Next thing I know, every dead Cleveland media celebrity from Betty Cope to Casey Coleman are packed into Murrow's basement watching The Gipper writhe in chains in a cage while John D. lets him have it. But there's more!
Outta nowhere, Rasputin himself, the old devil, swings in from the ceiling on a golden stirrup, drops into the cage, and now it's a party. Bob Bennett puts YMCA on the jukebox, screams "Where's MINE RASPY!" Hours later, bodily fluids splattered everywhere, I end up passing out, last thing I remember is tellin' Murrow, "you still got it, Ed." I wake up covered in mistletoe, and in his arms.
"You think John D. ever thought he'd see Standard Oil owning the country again?" Ed asks in his come get me deadpan.
"That was the best Christmas party since everyone came to my place for the Peter B. Lewis Welcome Party after party," I tell him. "Can we book Rasputin for when Dick Goddard gets here?"
"He begged me," Ed quips as he downs his Bloody Mary. "Filthy old Russki's been waiting for this a hundred years. Just tell him Bob Bennett will be there." We kiss deeply.