an indictment.: 2008

Drew: Our story kicks off in 1979. The beginnings of high times for young multi-millionaires with busted moral compasses.

Jess: "High times."

Drew: Pun unintended, dickhole.

Drew: At that point Whiteman and my mother had already moved to Colombia, where they lived in a suitably palatial villa overlooking several hundred acres of quite valuable ranch land, all of it patrolled by local feral children wielding automatic weaponry that worked right about half the time. Thanks to the influence of my grandfather, Senator Overton Lawless II, Whiteman had received a rather lucrative governmental contract to supply America's public schools with milk. Of course, the reason he got the contract was his bizonkers low bid, and that suspiciously low bid stemmed from the fact that he was actually milking off-brand yaks, shipped via steamer from Mongolia. The yaks were fed a mix of substandard feed and low-grade amphetamines, which got those udders pumping double time, apparently. Once word got out, the government didn't exactly give this idea an enthusiastic thumbs-up, but until some malnourished elementary-aged urchin dropped dead in their Salsbury steak, they turned a blind eye to Whiteman's yak scheme.

Drew: At the time, my hobo dad was working as a field agent for the Food and Drug Administration. Toppling cartels and shady McNugget manufacturers and whatnot. Anyway, that summer he came to Colombia, posing as a playboy investor with an interest in purchasing a yak-milking concern, with the intention of stringing Whiteman up by his Gucci loafers.

Jess: Loafers don't tend to have laces.

Drew: Dickhole. So the whole thing was classic dawn-of-the-Reagan-era Washingtonian nonsense. Thanks to the usual lack of inter-departmental communication, you had a government agent trying to take down a government contractor, who had taken white-out to the letter of the...