This is the way I heard it.

Long before the colonel needed a lawyer, he needed a publicist.

He was very rich, you see, and very famous, even by Hollywood standards.

But for all his wealth, and in spite of his generosity toward what he called the plain people of Los Angeles,

the colonel was not well liked.

Indeed, he was not even liked, not even a little.

The press called him an eagumoniacal midget, and that was a problem for a man who treasured his reputation above all things.

In court, sitting next to the finest defense lawyer, money could buy.

The colonel regarded the faces in this so-called jury of his peers.

Why did they despise him?

The night before over a bottle of expensive scotch, the colonel and his lawyer discussed his image problem.

Why did they hate me, Earl?

Why do the people hate me?

Oh, I don't know, said Earl, throwing back another whiskey.

Maybe they prefer not to be described as plain by someone who makes more in a day than they will in a lifetime.

Or maybe they resent the fact that you call yourself a colonel, having never served in the military.

Or maybe it's because you pretend to be a tea toteler,

even though you pass out drunk every night.

The colonel finished his third scotch and poured another,

Jesus, Earl, tell me how you really feel.

And that's before you shot your wife in the face, said Earl,

trust me, there are a dozen good reasons to dislike a man like you.

...