Investigators looking into the scandal involving General
David Petraeus and his comely biographer/mistress Paula Broadwell
have found possible evidence of pillow talk revelations that could
have adverse effects on the national security. An unedited
transcript has fallen into my hands about one rendezvous at the
Benghazi Motel 6.
Broadwell: Oh, David, sir, you can’t imagine
how I tingle when you mention the big buildup of fighter jets
outside Baghdad. No man has ever talked to me like that before!
Petraeus: I just tell it like it is, baby.
Could you move your arm a little? I’m having trouble checking my
Twitter account. I expect a message from the Pentagon soon about
some troop movements on the Pakistan border. It could be
important.
Broadwell: I’m sorry, sweetie. Um, is this
something I should know for the book?
Petraeus: Nah, just a routine CIA thing, but I
gotta keep up to speed on this damn stuff. You wanna break for
dinner later? We can order in. You like pizza or Chinese?
Broadwell: Gosh, I’d love to, sir, but I want
to finish that chapter we talked about last night. It drove me
absolutely wild when you whispered what you told Leon Panetta.
Petraeus: Oh, you mean the business about
moving a nuclear sub outside Libya?
Broadwell: You say it so casually, but a girl
takes these things seriously…
Petraeus: I didn’t mean to lead you on. It
sorta just slipped out. Hey, it was 0400 hours.
Broadwell: I know, honey — I mean, sir — but
it turned me on anyway.
Petraeus: I should button my lip, I guess, but
you’re not just any woman, ya know.
Broadwell (raises up on one elbow): Well, I
should hope not! What time is it, by the way? I need to split
before the cleaning woman gets here. I feel like I’ve seen her some
place before. She could be wired.
Petraeus: Really? Geez, it never occurred to
me. I was hoping you and I could spend the day together. I don’t
need to be back at Langley until Tuesday.
Broadwell: Darn it, sir, darling, I just can’t
spare the time now. My editor wants me to get this new chapter to
him by tomorrow. But it’s terribly nice of you to give up your
Sunday for little me. I can’t remember when I’ve had such a good
time, sir.
Petraeus: Listen, Paula, I’m not in this just for the — you
know, sex. I really like you.
Broadwell: I like you, too, sir, very much, but
a girl has to look out for her career. Besides, we can meet again
real soon, maybe at that little Greek place by the Pentagon.
Petraeus (pouts): So what am I supposed to do
the rest of the weekend?
Broadwell: Don’t you have some CIA reports or
something to work on?
Petraeus: Well, I guess I could catch a few
winks. These all-nighters are wearing me out. I’m not the two-star
general I used to be back in the good ol’ Desert Storm days.
Broadwell: Sir, could you pass me my other shoe
and zip me up?
Petraeus: Sure. Come on, you have time for a
quick bite to eat.
Broadwell (glances at her watch): Well, OK, but
only if you promise to tell me that story about what General Allen
told Hillary about those Drones outside Damascus.
Petraeus: It was a hoot. You’ll get a kick out
of it. So why don’t you go on ahead while I paste on my mustache
and wig. Meet you at Arby’s down the block. I’ll check us
out.
Broadwell: Let’s split the motel bill. I can
write it off on the publisher.
Petraeus: No, no, no — this one’s on me. CIA
will take care of it. See you in about 20 minutes. At ease, baby
face.
Broadwell: Yessir!
