by Ron Burgundy
I don’t know if that’s something you’re interested in but I should warn you—you can shave your legs and put on heels and the prettiest dress in the world but you’ll never even come close to what these men look like. They basically are women.
[Spitz looks off camera, confused]
Ron
Hey! Over here. This isn’t Howard Cosell lobbing softballs at you, kid. This is San Diego and I am Ron Burgundy. Answer the question! Does shaving your legs make you feel like a woman? America wants to know!
[Spitz walks off set]
It was one of the few times I lost my cool on camera but gosh darn it, from time to time I let my insatiable need to know get in the way of decorum. I respect the NEWS just too much not to give a damn, and frankly he was hiding something. After the broadcast I ran after him. He took off like he was afraid of somebody or something but I gave good chase. I was fast on his heels all the way to the Coronado Bridge but then—again, maybe because something scared him—he dove into the harbor and at that point I threw up my hands in comic defeat. I laughed so all of San Diego could hear me. I certainly was not going to catch nine-time gold medalist Mark Spitz in the water! It made for a good story.
At any rate it couldn’t have been Mark Spitz’s leg draped over my own, that’s for sure. This was before his time. More likely a beautiful woman. That would make all the sense in the world. Really quite simple: a night of drinks, maybe an after-hours gentlemen’s club, a dip in someone’s pool if we could find one driving around, a stroll through the natural history museum, a private party and then to bed, where Mr. Hammersmith could go to work in all his glory. How many nights have gone like this—every one of them special in its own way? How many times did I awake to this same sweet scene played out like a jazz flute solo with infinite variations on the same chords? I could almost describe the room before my eyes fully opened. There would be women, more than one, lying naked, and empty bottles and clothes hither and thither thrown about in passion’s full fury. There might also be a half-eaten steak sandwich and some deviled ham. There could even be a fan of mine—a total stranger who had won a contest or something, “A Night on the Town with Ron Burgundy.” The tales he or she would tell for the rest of his or her life! It was one of the ways I gave back and also it was one of the ways to get the station to pay for my nights on the town. In those days, ’65, ’66, a night on the town could run you three to four dollars, which was a good chunk of your paycheck. Newsmen were expected to party. Not like socialites and movie stars but like oilmen and footballers. There was a code amongst the real newsmen. You couldn’t report the news till you paid your dues, and by paying dues I mean you had to out-drink and out-screw everyone else in the game. The code was a lifestyle and no one could outdo me. I was simply the best. I once went to have cocktails with Lana Cantrell and Bubba Smith. We agreed to meet in the Marina for a few afternoon drinks. I remember ordering something silly like a Naughty Squirrel. I was feeling zesty. I can remember the first sip. The next thing I felt was a boot to my rib cage. I woke up. I was in downtown Laramie with no pants, holding on to a bag of hundred-dollar bills. Another victory for sure. I know today people might look back and say, “Ron, you were an alcoholic.”
Where was I? Oh yes, so I had regained consciousness in a strange small room with a naked or dead person in the corner and a female leg straddling my own leg. It was time to put on my thinking cap. First off, and this is something I do every morning to this day, I asked myself, are there any open wounds or bruises? I always like to assess the damage if there is any. Nope. I was feeling pretty good, maybe a bite mark on my arm but that hardly constitutes a problem. I noticed something gooey on my hand—a gooey substance. I knew I would have to sniff it but that could wait. I also noticed a sound. It was snoring, loud, contented snoring from a man. Aha! Besides the girl and the person in the corner there was someone else in the room with me. I tried to remember the evening. Was there another man with me, perhaps from the news team? We news people tend to celebrate in groups. If you get a bunch of us together, say at a conference, or maybe a big story brings the network affiliates into town, it’s Katie, bar the door! Heck, Dan Rather and I aren’t even allowed in the Flamingo hotel in Vegas anymore. That was a case where things got out of hand—unpaid bills, property damage, assault charges, etc. If it weren’t for Rather’s connection to the mob I don’t think we would have left Vegas alive that night.
Rather is one of the best in the business. That is a fact I’m not afraid to report. With that smooth Texas drawl and that sexy I-will-mess-up-your-face-if-you-so-much-as-lay-a-hand-on-me smile, he is one classy operator. I’ve always said if I get caught in a Moroccan back alley and I’m looking at an all-or-nothing knife fight, Dan Rather or Charles Kuralt would be my pick for wingman. Both of these guys are as comfortable with a blade in their hand as a monkey is with his penis. Kuralt is legendary for quick-handed jabs and slashes, whereas Rather is the natural-born descendant of Gentleman Jim Bowie. He could toss a knife into a charging bear at fifty feet. I saw him do it one time back when bearbaiting was still very close to being legal. A man’s bear got loose from his chains and headed into the crowd. Rather happened to be there on a story about Ross Barnett, the governor of Mississippi. Barnett was a big bearbaiting fan and an old-school racist. He had the Freedom Riders thrown in Parchman Farm, where they were strip-searched and humiliated. He said this about Bobby Kennedy:
“I say to you that Bobby Kennedy is a very sick and dangerous American. We have lots of sick Americans in this country but most of them have a long beard. Bobby Kennedy is a hypocritical, left-wing beatnik without a beard who carelessly and recklessly distorts the facts.”
The bear headed straight for Governor Barnett and Rather dropped him like a sack of old beef. I asked Dan about it a couple of years later. I knew him to be a lefty from way back when we both were members of the Commie Party for a couple of weeks. He said, “I didn’t want that bear to make a martyr out of that sack of shit.” Rather could swear up a storm but I’ll save that for later (see chapter 8).
Well, it was coming to me. The whole setup started to make sense. There had been a big story in San Diego that week.
The minor-league San Diego Padres became a Major League Baseball team and it was a huge, huge story! All the big network affiliates were in town. Every newsman—Mudd, Reynolds, Cronkite, Reasoner, Wallace, Huntley, Brinkley—they were all in San Diego to cover the story. So here’s what must have happened. We got our stories in and then, because San Diego is my town, I hosted the evening. I took the whole gang out to my favorite watering holes. I’m sure one thing led to another and here I was in a small room with a contest winner, a naked woman or two and another man. All that was left was for me to sit up and survey the room to see who’d survived the night. I did just that. I sat up. My head hit something and I immediately saw that I was in the cabin of a small schooner. Sure enough Walter Cronkite, America’s most trusted news source, was snoring away in a hammock three feet from me. His beard was maybe four or five days old. The person in the corner was Korean, a sixty- or seventy-year-old woman (still breathing thankfully), and the woman lying across me, sans undergarments, was none other than a young Barbara Walters. A slow smile formed.
Here I was, the boy from Haggleworth, Iowa, in a boat, drifting aimlessly at sea with two of the greatest newsmen who ever lived. (There’s always been some confusion over whether to call a woman in the news business a “newswoman” or the more proper “female newsman.” If she’s risen to the level of a Barbara Walters, then she damn well deserves to be called a “newsman.” The end.) I took in the greatness of this important scene. How did I get here? Not the nuts and bolts of how I got on the boat—Cronkite stole the boat off the harbor pier, yelling, “I’m the greatest sailor that ever lived! I’m better than Sir Francis Drake! And that’s the way it is!” And off we went. We were four hundred miles off the coast when I woke up. Weeks later we ended up in the Solomon Islands on a remote outcropping, shipwrecked, because Cronkite is NOT
the greatest sailor that ever lived. Two months on that island with those three people fighting off monitor lizards is a whole other story. What I’m really getting at is clearly I had reached the pinnacle of success. I was number one in San Diego. Soon I had just put together the news team that would come to dominate that town for nearly a decade and I had just spent a night or maybe a week of lovemaking with Barbara Walters … and most likely Walter Cronkite and the old Korean woman, but let’s focus on Walters. I can hardly think of a more prestigious honor than a night of wine-soaked sex with two respected newsmen like Cronkite and Walters. That morning, with nude bodies spread out in the cabin and the smell of body fluids everywhere, was the moment I realized I had made the big time.
It’s no big deal but I’m taller than the guys on the team. I look shorter because I’m kneeling down. If you look, you can tell that my knees are bent. Clearly I’m not standing straight.
I’ll be honest, Jackie O gave me the creeps. She looks like Jeanne Tripplehorn though. I’m wishing she was Jeanne Tripplehorn in this picture. No that’s stupid. Tripplehorn was three years old when this photo was taken.
Norman Mailer was a real puss and I enjoyed beating him at everything.
Mark Eaton, Utah Jazz.
My great friend who I never shut up about, Lance Bullwright.
Ancient dinosaurs like the Tyrannosaurus rex terrorized the first Mexican peoples.
Having a whale of a time! (I put that in here for laughs because of the word “whale” and there’s a real whale in the picture. I’ve always liked jokes.)
My favorite bird of prey, Lady Samantha Hutchinson.
God’s majesty knows no bounds.
Pointing at something.
Caught in the bubble! I go to jail for an $80 billion real estate mix-up. I’ve done longer stretches for public urination. Only in America!
Baxter refuses to get a job but I still love him.
My wife. My lover and a damn fine woman anchorman.
MY TWELVE RULES FOR LIVING THROUGH A PRISON RIOT
Prison riots are boisterous affairs. You really want to try to avoid them if you can, but at one time or another you can just bet you’ll be in the middle of one. I’ve been in eight of them. Three in this country and another five in various countries around the world. I’ve even started them! Here are my twelve rules for living through it.
RULE NUMBER 1: Use it now. If you’re not an idiot, then you’ve spent your time in jail wisely, making weapons. You should have at the very least a zip gun, a carved wooden shiv, a broken-glass-covered soap ball, a garrote wire and a chair leg with some rusty nails in it. A lot of guys will have more than this but if you have these few simple tools you’ll be okay. The key here is to recognize this is the moment to use these things. It’s a not a collection to take pride in and show the other guys. Prison is not a craft fair. You made these things to hurt other people, so get to it!
RULE NUMBER 2: Look for weakness. There’s always fear in the air. You might as well accept it and embrace it. Some men can’t handle it. They buckle under the fear. These are the ones you need to attack. Hit them fast and hard and often and if they get back up, then you didn’t do something right. Hitting a weaker man will gain you confidence when you have to go after the really big cats.
RULE NUMBER 3: Use a verbal assault. Different theories abound here. Do you come across as more fearful without talking? Are a few choice words all you need? The scariest man I ever came across inside or outside of prison was a man who could squish a human head in a fight and all he ever said was, “I’m going bananas!” He didn’t open his mouth for any other reason but to say those words, and if he was saying those words, it was too late, my friend! So sometimes a man of few words can indeed be a terrifying thing. However, I like to yell out a torrent of threats while running right at my victim. You should practice these in your cell at night. Practicing lines with your cell mate is fun and helps pass the time. “Here comes the face eater” is a good one. I’ve also said this: “I will rip your balls off and sauté them in garlic butter with basil and ground pepper. I will then add a garnish of shaved orange peels and a side of fresh-cut sliced beets misted with lemon juice. I will beautifully plate it and enjoy a glass of white wine with it while dressed in a tuxedo. It will be a Michelin three-star meal and you will not be invited to join me! Do you understand?”
RULE NUMBER 4: Go naked. Take your clothes off as soon as possible. It adds to the insanity of the whole scene. When watching scratchy security tapes of the riot later it’s always a moment of pride and levity when someone yells out, “Who’s that crazy naked mofo?”
RULE NUMBER 5: Paint your face. This is a must-do. When you walk out into the yard with a painted face you already have an edge. I like a simple “one side black, the other side white” look, but have fun! I’ve seen skulls, clowns, Jackson Pollock paintings, Egyptian symbols, brown paint that may or may not have been feces (see rule 8) and many more. If you can’t do it yourself most prisons have a face-painting station for a cigarette or two.
RULE NUMBER 6: Play dead. It’s not the strategy to use right out of the gate, mind you, but about midway through the riot there’s no shame in curling up on the ground like you’re dead. You might need to stab yourself to make it convincing but it’s worth it. You get to watch all the pounding and kicking and sticking with sharp objects from a nice safe place. Again, afterward there’s nothing funnier than one of the guys in the infirmary saying, “Ah shit, Burgundy, you wasn’t dead!” and then having a good hearty laugh over it.
RULE NUMBER 7: Stay with your group! A prison is a population of men organized around different social groups. There are men who are uncomfortable around black people and other races. There are men who belong to various urban societies and motorbiking clubs. Each one of these groups can be very protective, so join! Be a joiner! I’m a loner, which is not the way to go in a riot, so I try to side with the homosexuals. These crafty she-hes know how to survive and thrive in a bloody riot. They are some devious tricky bastards and if you turn on them, out come the claws and the metal shivs and other stuff they hide up their butts.
RULE NUMBER 8: Have poop ready. Save up bags of your own poop and be prepared to throw it everywhere. No one likes to be hit with poop. Make sure you have lots of it too. The closer it can be to diarrhea but still be held in your hands, the better off you are. It’s just basic human nature, going back to when we were monkeys. All animals, except dogs, try to avoid getting hit by poop. Aim for the face. It’s magical stuff in a riot.
RULE NUMBER 9: Try reasoning. If you’re cornered by a few thugs who want to stomp you to death, now’s the time to try to reason with them. Every man carries within him a sense of fair play. We all have it, be it from our fathers, our ball-playing days or just spending time out in the world with other men in daily combat. You can count on this one basic truth. All men will see the logic in your argument and give way to a more peaceful, alternative solution. I am clearly messing with your head. (Something you learn to do in prison.) Prison riots are the very definition of unreasoned mayhem. You need to be on your toes at all times and trust no one.
RULE NUMBER 10: Be prepared for a life sentence. It doesn’t matter if you’ve killed a man or if you’re only doing a ninety-day stretch for forgery; you have to go into the riot believing you will never leave jail and like it. If you’re dreaming of the day you leave, your opponent might smell hope on you. Hope is just another word for fear. Destroy all hope and turn yourself into a killing machine.
RULE NUMBER 11: Masturbate. Never tried this one but I saw it once in a Colombian prison, and let me tell you, everyone just left the guy alone. It’s a bold move—not my style, but effective.
RULE NUMBER 12: Have fun. This might be the most important rule but so many people seem to forget it. It’s a prison riot; have fun! Make a game of it. Sing to yourself. I sing songs from the musical Hair. Get punched and punch other people and smile. Don’t forget to smile.
MY NEIGHBOR RICHARD WELLSPAR
Last night around dinnertime I took a bag of dog crap that Baxter and I had conspired to save and set it on Richard Wellspar’s front doorstep. I lit it on fire, rang his doorbell and ran away. Sweet revenge! I hurried back in the house and got to the window just in time to see Wellspar stomping out the fire on his stoop! What an idiot! It worked perfectly. Baxter was ecstatic! I said very loudly to Baxter, “That’ll teach him to borrow something of mine and not return it.” So about five minutes later, Richard comes to my door with the charred bag of poop.
“What is the meaning of this, Burgundy?” He’s obviously very angry.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Richard. Is something the matter? I’ve been working on this airplane model for the last two hours.” He didn’t expect that, I’m sure. That was my strategic mind at work! I had gone to the hobby shop that morning and purchased a Grumman Bearcat World War II fighter plane model and put about half of it together. It actually was starting to look pretty good with the two wing pieces attached but I left it half-done and when I appeared at the front door holding the half-finished model it looked like I was in the middle of something that demanded great concentration and time. How could I have been involved in the flaming bag of poop? I was busy making my model.
“I heard you yell out your own name!” he barked. (It’s true; I do sometimes yell my own name when I’m running and when I’m overly excited.) “Half the neighborhood saw you running from my house. What is wrong with you?”
