"He's a very young and immature kid who smoked too much marijuana."
What you didn't hear was Kahn's extended soliloquy, which was cut from the taped interview for reasons of time and decency*. Below, the unfiltered text of Kahn's way-off-the-cuff remarks:
I'll tell you, this marijuana is ruining society as we know it. Back when I was a youngster, we didn't need all of these fancy weeds to get us high. We used the ol' unholy trinity: rye whiskey, cheap cigars, and gasoline fumes.
See, that's the thing about the NBDL. Everybody down there was smoking up, and not even weed, either, weird stuff - arugula, potting soil, cinnamon dipped in Tabasco, whatever. But they did it professionally. Mature-like. You can smoke that Smoky Cinnamon all you want, just as long as you're ready to go when they toss that ball. Those NBDL guys, they got it.
You know what else? This country really went to heck when women stopped wearing skirts. Yeah, I said it.
Since you didn't ask, my favorite TV show of all time: Knight Rider. Hands down. The Hoff, well, now there's a man that could wear the hell out of a curly perm. And the car talked. That's everything I ask for in a show, right there - chest hair, macho curly hairdos, and talking automobiles. That's the big three.
I asked my car whether I should trade for Sebastian Telfair. Didn't get an answer. These imported cars, I tell you what - worthless.
Tom Osborne in a pair of bell-bottoms? Now that's the way to ring ol' Kahnie's bell.
Now here's what I miss about my days as a sportswriter. In those days, at the Oregonian, we had a copy editor named Bump. He was one of those men that didn't need a last name, or a real first name. When Bump was the slot guy, it became a tradition that we'd all leave the office at 2pm and just get hammered. I mean properly sloshed, calling-your-mother-to-apologize kind of lit up, and then we'd go back to the office a half-hour before deadline and pound out whatever happened to flit through our heads, and we'd hand that off to Bump. He'd always grumble and yell, and write the headlines, and we'd wake up hung over the next day and the paper would turn out fine. Well, one day I was supposed to write a profile of Jerome Kersey, and instead I turned in two hundred words about the 1976 San Diego Padres plus a picture of a clown holding a gun. Bump didn't even yell, he just reached in his desk and grabbed a old wooden table leg. He beat me half to death that day. God, I loved that man.
Oh, and Bump's real name? Ron Wood. Bassist for the Rolling Stones. If I'm lying, I'm dying. You could look it up.
You got a cigar? I sure could use a cigar. I'm supposed to quit, you know, that's what the doc says, but I figure, hell, I don't do anything else I'm supposed to do, you know? Ask Darko how that turns out. I guarantee that guy's happy.
Glen Taylor? I could tell you some stories about that guy, but then I'd have to, you know, silence you. All I know is that nobody's gonna find that plane, but it sure didn't look like a "light" aircraft when it went down, know what I'm saying?
Anyway, what was your question? Oh yeah, Beasley. Kid just smoked too much marijuana. He says he's quitting. I've never really liked quitters on my team, but that one's probably for the best.
*And also because they're completely made up. If you couldn't tell already.