Let Me Off at the Top!: My Classy Life and Other Musings (19 page)

Maybe I shouldn’t but what the heck.…

Vice President Walter Mondale and I ran a cockfighting ring for six years. I was just starting out in the news and he was the attorney general for the state of Minnesota. He used state funds to buy an old twin-engine mail plane, which he flew down to El Paso, where we had our ring. We ran twenty fights every Friday and Saturday night. He bred his own gamecocks,
cut off the comb and wattle himself to prepare them for the fights and raked in a small fortune. He named his best cock “Sir Humphrey,” after his good friend Hubert Humphrey. Sir Humphrey still holds the record for consecutive kills at 947. He was almost more eagle than rooster. He remains a legend in cockfighting lore to this day. There’s an old Mexican-style
corrido
that goes,

It was used for many years to scare Mexican children into eating their vegetables. Anyway Walter Mondale loved Sir Humphrey. We both cried the day we ate him.

Now you got me going, so why not spill the beans about this.…

There was a time when Warren Beatty, the movie actor, was quite promiscuous. It’s the truth. I know what you’re thinking—not Warren Beatty! No way! From what I have heard from very reliable sources he would use his good looks and Hollywood power to attract women into the bedroom. Yes, that Warren Beatty. Get over it. He would meet them at parties or while shooting his movies and take it from there.
Believe me, I was as shocked as anybody when I first heard this, but apparently it’s true. I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover! I’ve known some promiscuous men in my time—Brian Fantana, World B. Free and of course myself come to mind—but Warren Beatty? Who would have guessed it?

The stupid old urban legend about Elton John collapsing after a concert and having a gallon of semen pumped from his stomach never seems to die, but I can say with complete certainty that this never happened. I have made an in-depth study of this ridiculous semen-swallowing legend and those falsely accused of it, and I can tell you there are only eleven people who have swallowed more than twelve ounces of semen and had their stomachs pumped because of it. They are: Rod Stewart, David Bowie, Duane Allman, Jeff Beck, Jon Bon Jovi, Andy Warhol, Britney Spears, Tonya Harding, Dick Cheney, Andy Roddick and Anita Bryant. Let the rumors about others stop! This is the complete list as it stands today. We need to set the record straight on this story. It’s important news and we have to get it right.

Here’s some investigative reporting.… After Barbra Streisand ended her relationship with Elliott Gould she carried on a yearlong, torrid affair with a young news reporter then anchoring KNBC-TV in Los Angeles by the name of Tom Brokaw. You heard it here! Fantana and I got the scoop from Ted Koppel, who was jealous of Brokaw’s success at the time. News Anchors can be pretty catty and we knew it. To corroborate, because after all I am an investigative journalist, I broke into Streisand’s room at the Beverly Hilton and snuck under the bed with a tape recorder and a typewriter. I waited
patiently for six or seven hours but then got hungry and left. Meanwhile Fantana spotted the two lovers in the Sportsmen’s Lodge over in the San Fernando Valley. We then decided to disguise ourselves as an out-of-town married couple on our second honeymoon. We checked into the Sportsmen’s Lodge, with Fantana as my wife, and set about looking like a normal older married couple. We sat by the pool, went to the breakfast nook and spent our evenings at the bar. Bob Hope was there every night with a different lady, of course, but that was hardly news. No, we were onto something big. The Vietnam War was still happening and the military was in the middle of the Tet Offensive, but what we had on our hands was the kind of news you dream about as a young reporter but know will never happen. Ed Harken was furious with Fantana and me. He was yelling at us to get back to San Diego and report on the war—but of course he didn’t know the dynamite we were sitting on. So one night after about two weeks of surveillance, we see them. We’re posing as this innocent couple from Decatur, Illinois, and Fantana, dressed as my wife, runs up to Barbra and asks her for her autograph. While he’s making small talk about recipes I slip into their room and place a tape recorder under the bed. The whole thing went off without a hitch. The first half of the tape is just a lot of mumbling and squeaking bedsprings, but then there was this:

Barbra

Tom, I can’t do this anymore.

Tom

Why? Why not?

Barbra

I won’t be a home wrecker. You love your wife. This is nuts!

Tom

I’ve explained it over and over again. I’ve got too much passion in me for one woman. Don’t you see I need you and Joey? [He was having an affair with Joey Heatherton at the same time.]

Barbra

I need more. I need a man who will be there for me.

Tom

I’m here. I’m right here, baby.

Barbra

Tuesdays and Sundays! It’s not enough, Tom. I want love. Love like you read about in the dime-store books.

Tom

I’ll leave my wife. I’ll go on the road with you. I’ll learn to sing or dance. I could be in the chorus.

Barbra

It would never work. You would only resent me.

Tom

Oh, Barbra!

Barbra

I need you to know something else.

Tom

You’re cheating on me?

Barbra

No, of course not. You need to know I’m pregnant with our child.

Tom

Nuh-uh! No way! Couldn’t be mine—you’re pretty loose, you know—I’m guessing there’s been a lot of guys—could have been Donald Sutherland. There’s just a lot of guys. NO WAY! I’m not responsible for nothing! Not a chance. Don’t put this shit on me, Barbra.

Barbra

Don’t worry, Tom. It’s okay. No one will ever know. I want to have the baby. I’ll put her up for adoption and the two of us can watch over her. We can see to it that she gets breaks in this world, breaks she might not even deserve, but we’ll look after her. She will be a living testament to our secret love.

Tom

That is beautiful. Barbra, I will always love you. One more time for old times’ sake.

Then the bed starts squeaking again for about another two hours. We had it. The biggest scoop in decades. We were sure to get the Pulitzer. We drove back to San Diego with the evidence but somewhere along the freeway Fantana and I made a big decision that has affected the news business ever since.
We decided that this was a private matter between Brokaw and Streisand and it really wasn’t news. It was a huge shift in the way we, and ultimately America, thought about news. Our decision and subsequent focus on hard news rippled across the country until Americans simply lost their taste for salacious gossip and celebrity news. One more thing about this story. The love child? Her name is Jennifer Aniston and she is America’s sweetheart.

I spent the night in jail. As you know, I’ve been at war with my neighbor Richard Wellspar over my leaf blower. He borrowed it and then never returned it. It’s been three weeks. Enough said. Anyway I crashed his little block party yesterday. I brought some very interesting pictures of his girlfriend, Cynthia Spaller. I had some old photos of her I took on a boat nearly thirty years ago. Bob Guccione would have paid me American money for them, if you know what I mean. So I start passing the photos out to everyone there, moms, dads, children, etc., and Wellspar flips his lid!

“Burgundy, this is the last straw!” he yells. “This woman is my wife!” (That I did not know, but I’ll admit it: Sometimes I can be pretty unobservant.)

“Well, this woman and I did stuff on a boat that everyone needs to know about!” I yelled back.

“I’m calling the police!”

“Not before I make it plain to everyone at this party that
your wife, Cynthia Spaller, and I did stuff in every position imaginable with absolutely no regard for safety for hours and hours. We did not make love! We did it like zoo monkeys with no compassion and no end in sight but multiple dumb orgasms. It was debasing and humiliating and we enjoyed it! That is all. My name is Ron Burgundy.”

I stormed out of there, only slowing down to key his car. I did spend the night in jail but I think he got the point. He won’t be borrowing anything of mine anytime soon!

Of course in writing a novel about my life I realize that much of my story has already been told. I’ve starred in two factual documentaries about myself. The first one I titled
Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy
. It covered a period in the news business of great change. It was the battle of the sexes, and you know what?…We all won! It’s a better world with female anchormen. It also was a delightful retelling of my courtship with the lovely Veronica Corningstone, who then later became my wife and the woman I do it with. The documentary was a great success enjoyed by billions of people across the world and it quickly spawned a sequel, which
reveals an even more adventurous time for me. I’ve titled this one
Anchorman 2: The Legend Continues
. This documentary also covers a game-changing moment in the history of televised news reporting, namely the epoch of twenty-four-hour cable news. As both these documentaries do an excellent job of chronicling my life in those tumultuous eras, I see no reason to waste the reader’s time with descriptions of what they can see in color for a few bucks extra. I highly recommend
Anchorman 2: The Legend Continues
. It’s very accurate. We stuck to the facts with no bullshit. I tip my hat to the filmmakers and my own acting ability. I’m no film critic writing for one of these vitally important Internet blogs, but I will say it may just be the finest film ever made. It bears a second and third screening to be sure, for there are many nuances that are only enriched by multiple viewings. These two documentaries combined with the facts I’ve presented in this book form an accurate picture of my life up to a certain point. I shall not embellish on the years covered in the documentaries other than to say documentaries are not a complete life! During that whole period I ate cereal, I blew my nose, I shit my pants, I costarred in a movie with Sylvester Stallone called
Over the Top
and I went to the grocery store. So much of life is not worth spinning into tales that we forget that tales themselves are little more than omissions of choice. For instance, during the period chronicled in
Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy
, Brian Fantana and I ran a very successful car-detailing shop in San Diego. This was in the original thousand-page script, along with a very funny story about the day I bought a comb that then broke. Well, some of this delightful storytelling
just had to be omitted in the interest of time. The comb story was a real doozy and if I ever get a chance to do a documentary about that alone I will take that opportunity, but you know what they say about letting go of things you love in a script: “When in Rome.”

Sadly even here in this sweeping tale of my many adventures and wonderful deeds I am forced to omit details in the interest of space. What needs to be told and what needs to be left out? People still want to know where I was the night of the O. J. Simpson conspiracy. I have some details that would shed new light on the whole mix-up. Is it worth throwing in here? Did I barter a peace between Bears quarterback Jim McMahon and Commissioner Pete Rozelle? Was I best man at the wedding of Sean Penn and Madonna? Did I squeak some bedsprings in the Ozarks with a governor’s wife by the name of Hillary? I mean, what is a good story and what is just more stuff that happened? In point of fact there’s a good story everywhere you look. During a short separation from my wife and sex friend, Veronica, I took a run at every Spice Girl. I’m not the kind of guy to kiss and tell but Scary Spice was the very best in the sack and aptly named. I was terrified and aroused the whole time. I invented the Wonderbra and the Super Soaker on the same day. I was minutes away from preventing the whole Chernobyl disaster while doing work for the State Department in Russia. Is that a story or is that just a guy doing his job? Anyway, you can see my problem here. What stands out?

One thing comes to mind I’ve never talked about. In fact I’ve never written a word about it for fear of reprisals. I did
some government work in the early nineties for George Herbert Walker Bush. I’ll admit that politically we didn’t always align but I’m nothing if not patriotic, and when the president calls on you to do a job, well then you do it and you don’t ask questions. You just do it. You blindly march into battle because he’s the president. That’s just what being an American is all about, my friends.

Because I was such good friends with Manuel Noriega, the leader of Panama, Bush 1 asked if I could broker a deal between Noriega and the U.S. This was before Operation Just Cause, which sent twenty-four thousand troops down into Panama to broker a different kind of deal. Before that deal, which wasn’t really a deal at all but just a military invasion to take over a country, there was a much more complicated deal involving
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, Noriega, Saddam Hussein and Margaret Thatcher. I flew to Panama, where I had a summer house near the palace and where I enjoyed the bounty that came with being great buddies with the misunderstood Noriega. While in his company I was to offer him
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, among other things, including a Land Rover with custom Kenneth Cole leather seats. To help navigate the complexities of the deal I was accompanied by Secretary of Defense Richard Bruce “Dick” Cheney. I did not like him. From the very beginning we fought. There was something so cold and calculating about the man that I immediately sized him up as a world-class idiot who was surely going to blow the whole thing. His judgment in all matters of foreign policy was counterintuitive to natural reason. For instance, in a meeting with Saddam Hussein, Cheney suggested
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loved boiled eggs
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. Thatcher was insufferable; she insisted that
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at an advance showing of
The Bodyguard
with singer/songwriter Dolly Parton and King Fahd. Also present were General Norman Schwarzkopf, VP Dan Quayle, rock guitarist and presidential adviser Ted Nugent,
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and myself. The meeting was a lively one, with
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as a suggestion. Pat Robertson, who was also in attendance, indicated that he would
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several other S & M followers
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Glenn Miller
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having
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wistful
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forty kilos of Panamanian
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because Thatcher loved the smell of it. I was taken to a room in Kuwait with a hood over my head. I knew that Soviet general secretary Mikhail Gorbachev was going to play ball but I also knew that I had to act fast. I handed over
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! I couldn’t believe it! Dan Quayle, probably one of the handsomest politicians I’ve ever met and a great doubles tennis partner, was behind the clandestine handoff from the beginning. He was carrying the briefcase with
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. How Ted Nugent gained such access was not my concern, but Thatcher said, “
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went
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fifteen
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hammerhead sharks
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dead with one word. A chill went through the room. Only Dick Cheney was laughing. Noriega looked sweaty and I felt sorry for him. I gave over my package to
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. We got on a plane, James Baker and I, and flew to Saudi Arabia, where Afghan freedom fighter and American ally Osama bin Laden were waiting with
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. We went out to dinner. James Baker ordered the
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. I must say I’ve never been one for Mexican food in foreign countries. If you’re going to have Mexican food it’s best in America. The conversation centered on
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in
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. Bush had agreed to
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without reservation.
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any
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before
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Runnin’ Rebels Greg Anthony and Stacey Augmon. Fahd, of course, was a huge booster for UNLV basketball and a personal friend of Jerry Tarkanian. This was all going nowhere fast and I had had enough. I called Dick Cheney from
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. He was not happy and he let me know it. “If you can’t
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patriot
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water-board
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American way of life
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my legacy
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to buy Liz a toaster oven. Son of a bitch, Burgundy, I thought we had a deal.” And then he hung up. It was the loneliest I’ve ever felt. To be stranded in Kuwait holding all that
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. I went to Noriega and warned him. Thatcher would
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Harrier Jump Jets
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nuts
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Armen Gilliam as well. I knew if the press got ahold of this they would have a
field day. It put me in quite a bind as a committed journalist. I had the entire three-hundred-page brief in my hotel room. I was asked to
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not because but
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Parton’s song
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nudity included. The
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glass
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. “Holy balls!” I shouted. “Is this where
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?”
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but Schwarzkopf tried to take a swing at him and I stepped in. The outcome was
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mission
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not in the Bush library.
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paper-shredding machine on the eighth floor running nonstop for days. CIA operative
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stepped in to
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gloves
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disposed of the
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like lumpy soup
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field of unmarked graves. That’s where it turned. Suddenly I was in real danger. It’s a feeling I cultivate. Like sexual pleasure, danger sets off certain life-affirming emotions in me. I quickly sprang into action. The drugs were in my suitcase. The money was in the hands of
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.
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wet
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New York Times
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firing at me and Jerry Tarkanian. The plane was one hundred yards away. Dolly Parton and
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heels and red leather
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. I hadn’t even flown before but there I was in the plane with
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, Cheney, Thatcher and
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. Back in the States I locked the documents in a private vault I had hidden under an auto junkyard outside of Gary, Indiana. I believe in transparency. I believe we the people should know what our leaders are up to when it comes to
vitally important foreign policy. Now the story can be told, and let the consequences fall where they may. If
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grapes in the ole basket!