Let Me Off At The Top Part 4

Finally, I want to say a word about cats. They are wonderful!

ABOUT WOMEN.

Over the years I've had an ever-evolving understanding of the female s.e.x. I credit Veronica Corningstone, my wife, my lover and my s.e.x partner, as the lady who changed my views on women. Before I met Veronica I had some antiquated ideas of how women should conduct themselves in the world. For the longest time I didn't like seeing a woman in the workplace unless she was getting me coffee or bending over or both. Often I would put a cup of coffee on the floor and ask a woman to get it for me. I know it sounds crazy but I wasn't sure women could read. When I saw them typing I just a.s.sumed they were copying shapes or making noise for no reason. I didn't know if women knew how to count money. I thought women had underdeveloped brains like the brains of softheaded people. Then there was the whole idea of menstruation. It made no sense to me and science didn't seem to have any answers. How could a person dying of blood loss be allowed to work in a man's office? Frankly I'm still having problems with this one. The science just isn't there yet. We need greater study in this area but I'm willing to concede women should be allowed in the workplace alongside men. I can laugh at some of the naive things I used to think, but much of it you could write off because of the times. The times were different. Before 1970 women were here on this earth to cook food and give men b.o.n.e.rs. You certainly couldn't a.s.sociate them with delivering the news. There was the whole credibility problem. I wasn't alone in believing that women could not be trusted. I once bet Edward R. Murrow that a dog would anchor the news before a woman, and I believed it. Women were considered nothing more than s.e.x objects. They were valued more for their legs, their b.u.t.ts and their t.i.ts than for anything else. Times sure have changed! Heck, now in television news and I guess just about everywhere else women are respected for their brains. Appearance means very little! Go figure! When I see a woman walking down the street in high heels and a short skirt I no longer drool like a hungry zombie. I think to myself, "Hmmmm, I wonder what kind of brain that foxy mama has?" Veronica did that to me. She's got brains, all right, and I married her for that reason. Of course Veronica also just happens to have a grade-A dumper and some first-cla.s.s t.i.ts.

For many years I was asked to attend sensitivity training. I got hit with s.e.xual misconduct suits left and right, at least twenty a year for a while. My hands were always leaving me and going places. I stood too close to women. I used words like b.o.o.bies and knockers and jugs and jigglers and melons to compliment my coworkers. At one point I was told by my lawyer that it was safer if I never talked to women. But of course that is ridiculous. My old-fas.h.i.+oned transgressions aside, I do know a lot about the ladies. Without being modest, I've found that women cannot keep their hands off me. It's true. I've slept with more women than six Wilt Chamberlains. I've made love to women in the same room-heck, in the same bed-with Wilt. Wilt and I have-oh no I won't; that's a story for a different kind of book. Besides, the young women we were with that night, Tracy Karns and Debra Sanlinger, may not want me to tell that story. It's pretty dirty.

Suffice it to say I've learned quite a lot about the fairer s.e.x over the years just through experience alone. If you add to that my extensive reading in scientific journals and my interviews with great lovemakers like myself and Geraldo Rivera, you could say that I'm probably the world's greatest authority on the subject of women. I could write a whole book just about women. Someday I will, believe me. It would have a bunch of pictures-not just nude women either. They would be on horseback or in c.o.c.ktail outfits or wearing cheerleading dresses. I would show them in natural settings like offices and beaches, or maybe even on the farm. Each woman in the book would talk about her favorite things, like what turns her on and what her measurements are, stuff like that. Then I would have pictures of these women in their underwear, probably just so you could see a little bit more. After a few photos of the women in their clothes I would then have nude photos of them. Maybe one part of this book I'm thinking about could have a special unfolding-page section in the middle that gives you a big picture of one of the women completely naked. I don't know! The book is not fully formed in my mind just yet. Perhaps if I had chapters about stereo equipment and new suit styles it would be helpful for men too. I bet a guy could put a book like this out every couple of months! I would sure read it. My point is I know an awful lot about women.

Women on the whole tend to be more emotional than men. I may be the rare exception. I'm more better at emotional stuff than women. I'm actually more better than women at a lot of stuff. I can balance a basketball on my finger for more than twenty seconds. I bet I can run faster than most women. Cheetahs are the fastest mammals on earth. I know how to spell Mississippi backward-what am I doing? This isn't a contest. Anyway, women turn on the waterworks for just about any reason but mostly for manipulation. No one likes to see a woman cry and women know it. They use the crying thing all the time to get what they want. It starts when they are babies and doesn't stop until the dirt is shoveled over them. For whatever reason men stop using tears at around seven years old and start using their brains instead to control their surroundings. In scientific terms women's cranial development is said to be r.e.t.a.r.ded but their powers of manipulation are far in advance of most men's by the time they are five years old. This is basic developmental stuff, by the way, and you could read it in any journal of human development. There's a special "manipulation gene" in women that has been discovered or will be discovered. This gene, which surely exists, controls the crying and lying sections of the frontal cortex lobular section of the brain. It allows women to trick men into all kinds of situations.

A woman's sneaky and underhanded manipulation can take many forms and can be quite cunning and subtle. Here's a standard conversation I might have with my wife and glorious s.e.xual partner, Veronica.

Ron I was thinking about going out with the boys tonight, maybe having a few drinks?

Veronica Sounds fun.

Ron Just me and the boys.

Veronica You need to get out. You've been working very hard.

Well, you can see how infuriating this kind of subtle manipulation can be! Every word is so well chosen to cause pain. It's like they control your mind! I once wore a motorcycle helmet with a dark s.h.i.+eld on a date with a woman I thought was trying to control my mind. I was too afraid to take it off for fear she might try to change my plans using manipulative word combinations and crying. I literally could not hear or see her the whole date. In the end it worked out. We made sweet and long-lasting love but I stayed inside the helmet so as not to let her connect to me and my mind.

Of course, for most of the women in my life I didn't need a helmet to protect me from their controlling ways. I have an automatic shutoff switch inside my brain that lets me listen to a woman speak without hearing a word. For about a ten-year period, up until I was smitten with Veronica, I used the time that women spoke to me as a chance to think up songs or poems or make up new games. It was a valuable use of my time. A woman would come up to me and maybe start a sentence like "Ron, I need to speak to you...." If she was serious I would nod and look concerned and say "Okay" and "Right away" every so often, but inside I was off thinking about something else, something fun. I made up the game Piddly-Woop while some woman was talking to me. It's a complicated but fun game for the whole family.

I'm not going to lie, I heard this a lot from women throughout the sixties: "Are you listening to me?" A lot. So to be honest I'm not sure I perfected my "shutoff switch" method. I know that my colleague Champ Kind has never listened to a woman talk for more than eight seconds. He shuts off and just smiles and waits for them to stop moving their mouths. If you asked him I don't think he could remember two sentences a woman has said to him. It's remarkable really. For him it's like they don't even exist as speaking animals.

Looking back on it, I think plenty of women thought maybe I was rude. It didn't really matter though. In those days there were so many women who wanted to make it with a number one News Anchor that it was just the law of averages. The way I figured it, if I batted one for twenty, that would make for a batting average of fifty. Those are Hall of Fame numbers, my friend, Hall of Fame.

As a Hall of Fame ladies' man (an inst.i.tution I am lobbying to create, by the way), I don't think anyone in the world would mind if I gave up some of my secrets for how to meet, bed and marry the woman of your dreams.

HOW TO MEET, BED AND MARRY THE WOMAN OF YOUR DREAMS.

Courts.h.i.+p is as old as the earliest days of fire. Men have forever pursued females in poetry and song and with feats of daring. Little has changed from those early days of courts.h.i.+p. We gentlemen still recite poems and sing and try to outdo other men for the hearts of women. I often dream of the medieval days, when men wearing robes made of thick woven carpet lifted heavy goblets of wine and sang to their paramours. Even though the great banquets and royal feasts of olden days are long gone, I feel like I would have been right at home in their giant halls. I've often imagined myself atop the turret of some n.o.ble castle on the Rhine with my falcon, Leander, perched on my arm. I think in a past life I was maybe a baron or possibly an earl and that I had many lands and great wealth and an eye patch. I was known throughout the region as a generous landowner but ruthless when I had to be. I could be quite swift with justice but I was never accused of being unfair. If you've seen my dining room in my house, then you know it's a pa.s.sion of mine to imagine such things. I've commissioned murals on the walls of my dining room with scenes of me throughout history. A local artist by the name of Vincent St. Vincent-Pierre was paid handsomely, perhaps too handsomely, to ill.u.s.trate me in heroic situations throughout time. While dining at the Burgundy house, guests enjoy rich oil paintings of me as an explorer on a clipper s.h.i.+p sailing for the New World. They can turn their heads and I'm represented as a proud slave in the Roman Colosseum, having just vanquished a lion! St. Vincent-Pierre also portrayed me as a n.o.ble savage who first lays eyes on Lewis and Clark from a bluff high above the wide Missouri. Guests often comment on the painting ent.i.tled Justice for All, where I am standing with my arm around my good friend Nat Turner in a field of bloodied and hacked white slave owners. It's really quite a room! On the ceiling, above the table, St. Vincent-Pierre painted his masterpiece, Veronica and me making love in the nude as a panoply of exotic animals look on in wonder. It's the room I'm most proud of in my house. I suspect the room will be carefully dismantled when I pa.s.s and donated to the San Diego fine arts museum. Look at me! I was supposed to be talking about courts.h.i.+p. There I go again. The problem I'm discovering while writing this chronicle is that I'm just too darn interesting!

I don't have the facts in front of me but I'm pretty sure the ratio of women to men in this country is approximately one and one-quarter women to every eight males. It's a problem and we should really import more women into this country-not from England, Jesus Christ, NOT FROM ENGLAND. Some countries, like France I believe, have thirty women for every man, which accounts for why Frenchmen always have beautiful girlfriends and wives. If you put a Frenchman in a country where he had to fight it out with real men for the love of a woman, he would fail miserably and be left with only the dogs.

With such a low ratio of women in this country it makes it hard to meet and then court them. Hanging out at the ball game or the Elks Lodge is not going to do it. You could go where they go-the hair parlor, for instance, but you end up looking pretty stupid in a hair parlor. I've sat in women's hair parlors before. It's only a matter of time before you are asked to leave. The best places to meet women are places where both s.e.xes mingle-churches, parks, department stores and supermarkets. There's a strategy for each location.

For instance, let's talk about supermarkets. Women like a man who is confident, and nothing says confidence more than beef. When I'm in a supermarket, whether it be to pick up a gallon of milk or to get some coffee, I take my cart straight for the meat department and pile it full of steaks. Make sure the cart is overflowing with steaks. Don't worry, you don't have to buy them. It's only for show-you can ditch the cart later in the bread aisle, but while you're in the supermarket, for two to three hours, you need to push around a cart weighted down with cuts of red meat ... and NO CHICKEN. Maybe some pork, but make sure you have lots of sirloin and ribs. Women go nuts! They see all that beef and it triggers within them something from the cavemen days. They just start thinking of procreating. I promise you if you push around a shopping cart with two hundred pounds of meat cuts in a supermarket you will get respect from women. I like to throw in a few cans of beans and twenty or so packages of bacon to add some variety. A box of condoms is too suggestive and shows a real lack of cla.s.s. No, the best course is to simply walk around the supermarket, humming along with the piped-in music, pus.h.i.+ng your cart of meat in front of you like you don't have a care in the world. You can sometimes "accidentally" b.u.mp into a woman and then say something like "Sorry, it looks like my meat got away from me!" If the woman smiles, then follow her-by all means follow her. Some won't smile. The crabby ones will look at you like you're some kind of homeless man and recoil. They are not worth the effort. They're not real women anyway. They might even be lesbians. More than likely women who do not fall for the ole meat cart routine are lesbians.

In a department store you can't walk around with a cart full of meat. It's stupid, and frankly you look crazy because most department stores don't sell meat. The thing to do in a department store is to carry around eight or nine suits. Go straight to the suit department and get eight or nine suits and then start walking around the whole store. Purchasing power alone is a real turn-on for all women, but when they see suits they react like they've seen a shopping cart full of meat. You have the money to buy eight suits. You have the cla.s.s to wear a suit. You are desirable. It's simple. Some guys will head over to the women's wear section, maybe grab a bra to hold, and start crying and talking about the "breakup." It's a good ruse. There are women who fall for it but ultimately you need to look secure, and bawling on the floor with underwear in your hand is not very secure looking. If you need to shout out, "I'm buying eight suits today," that's okay. Imagine being a woman (not putting on the clothes and walking around in front of a mirror; I mean just imagine it with your brain); now imagine you're in a store and you see some handsome man with a new toaster in his hand and you are intrigued, but then out of nowhere you hear a loud voice proclaim, "I'm buying eight suits!" And around a corner comes a man holding eight suits. I rest my case.

PTA meetings are real winners. It doesn't matter if you have a kid in the school. Walk in, sit down and wait. When people start popping up and talking, stand up and talk, maybe cry, but whatever you do make it pa.s.sionate. I usually try something like "We need to address the issue of safe zones. I know it's controversial but I am for it!" I blabber on for a bit about keeping children safe and then I might wrap up my speech with something like "... and one more thing: I drive a Chrysler LeBaron." Women love that you care about children but it's even better when they hear you drive something like a LeBaron or a Stratus; they get wet down below. It also helps to have a step stool. You really want to tower over everyone else in the room. If some nosey body gets in your face and asks you what grade your child is in at the school, you need to run away. No harm no foul, just keep running until you are safely out of the neighborhood. If you're jumping fences, look out for the bigger dogs.

Fortunately for me meeting women has never been a real issue. I am a very big deal. I have been for some time. When you are the number one News Anchor in San Diego you are basically a rock star. When you make it to the network you are a G.o.d. Women just want what I have. They want to be close to it. They want to be a part of the magic. Brian Fantana, who does a lot of reporting from the street, literally has to fight the women off with a stick. He once confided in me he's never m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed-not once-because it has always been easier for him to just go ahead and have s.e.x with a woman. In fact he sometimes fantasizes about masturbation while having s.e.x with women. That's what being in the news game is like. Just ask Brian Williams. That guy uses Velcro to keep his pants shut. He doesn't have time to keep b.u.t.toning and unb.u.t.toning them with all the cla.s.sy tail he gets. Being a News Anchor is so close to being a G.o.d on so many levels that you start to think like one. You start to believe it's your right to descend on women and impregnate them with demiG.o.d babies. Those were simpler times, of course, when G.o.ds could just come down and have s.e.x with any mortal they wanted. I would give my right nut to live in those days with the G.o.ds, but no such luck; I got stuck in this age of horses.h.i.+t. Anyway, I digress. Once you've got the woman interested it's time to think about stage two: How am I going to get this woman in the sack?

Here again it helps to be a number one News Anchor. Women just want to jump in bed with me. I can't help it; it's just something I live with. Every once in a while a woman comes along who does not want to sleep with me. It's weird but it happens. My first reaction is always the same: Do I look like the man who killed her dog? If it's not that, then I know she's just a psychologically damaged frigid woman who needs a little Burgundy thaw. I start by asking her out on a date. Now is not the time to be cheap. Take her to an Olive Garden or a Red Lobster. If you have a skill, like playing the flute, or you can juggle, now is the time to spring it on her. The mystery you have inside you unfolds. She's probably thinking, if you can juggle, what else can you do? She's going to be intrigued. I sometimes will hit a woman with my amazing knowledge of dinosaurs. I might tell her that birds are considered a subgroup of dinosaurs by many paleontologists or that the word dinosaur means "terrible lizard." Women can't believe what they are hearing. They see how smart you are and then you tell them it's just the tip of the iceberg! This is also a great time to blow hot air her way. Women respond well to humid, pungent hot air (see chapter on effective breath).

Get them talking. Women love to talk. You don't have to listen, as mentioned before, but you do have to let them talk, and believe me, they will yammer on like howler monkeys. Pretend you are interested if you can. It's not a deal breaker if you can't, mind you, but it helps. Most women understand that you are not interested. Scientists have proven that by the time a woman is in her late teens she knows that men will not pay any attention to the noises coming out of her mouth. That's not to say women have nothing to say. Please, don't misinterpret me. The last thing I need is a bunch of angry feminists picketing my house and throwing pies at me. I know what that feels like and I don't like it. You would think I would like it! Pies are delicious, but pies can also be hurtful. There have been some great women talkers over the years. I could list so many! Smart women have made their mark on history and I know the names of many if not all of them. (NOTE: Find list of smart women for later draft.) Anyway women love to talk and if you can manage some fake interest it's a great way to get them comfortable.

Once she is comfortable it's time to be direct. Nothing works quite like leaving a lady in a room for a few minutes and then returning wearing only your best Nordstrom or Crabtree and Evelyn bathrobe. Talk about a winning strategy! Women will react in different ways but believe me, you will always get a reaction! Leave the bathrobe open for a hint of what awaits within. A glimpse or suggestion of chest hair, maybe a little belly, can send a girl to the moon, wild with antic.i.p.ation-not all women, mind you, but a select few. Keep in mind these time-tested strategies are all from before I married my best friend and s.e.xually adventurous wife, Veronica. The bathrobe ploy, as I called it, was used many times to great success in the home or outside just walking around. I sometimes wore the open bathrobe through the supermarket or at work. I think now there are laws that prohibit open bathrobe wearing in places of business. I don't know, it's hard to keep up with all the laws people make. Sometimes I think people who can't build stuff or report the news or do anything useful spend their time making up laws. The world would be a better place if men and women could walk around in open bathrobes.

Once you are in the sack there's very little I need to tell you that you can't find out on your own. I was lucky to have Jenny Haggleworth, sixeen years my senior, for my first go-round. She knew what she was doing all right! For most young men learning to make love I recommend cruising retirement villages to see if they can scrounge up some old tail. Women in their seventies and eighties make great guides through the complicated world of the sensual arts. A young man of twenty can really benefit from a few days in the sack with an old prune or a French wh.o.r.e. Of course, where are you going to find a French wh.o.r.e in times of peace, huh? Anyway after a night d'amour you can usually sneak away unharmed. Unless you have fallen in love. If that's the case you might have to start thinking about marriage.

The Holy Bible teaches us that marriage was invented by Helen of Troy to keep men from ruling over Canaan. It's in Deuteronomy somewhere, I believe. The exact quote is, "So sayeth Helen of Troy that unto her Joseph shall be husband to the woman soeth he hath not manly poweres hence forth and the woman shall have dominion over the domain." Something like that. I'm paraphrasing I think, or I made it up. It doesn't matter. Most historians believe the King James Bible was written by Shakespeare anyway, and we all know what kind of ladies' man he was. The real point I'm making here is you need to go into marriage lightly, my friend. The two s.e.xes were never meant to live together and that's just a fact. I don't have the numbers in front of me but I believe that all marriages in this country end in divorce. I can't for the life of me think of a marriage that hasn't ended in divorce. There must be one. It would be interesting to find that couple and ask them what went wrong. Why did they stay together when they obviously needed to get away from each other? Are they lying? Are they secretly divorced but they just wanted to be on the news? How could they look each other in the face for so long? This is all hypothetical of course. We don't even know if such a couple exists. Go ahead, get married, I don't care. Get married over and over again. It's very American and for that reason I am for it.

MY NEIGHBOR: THE PLOT THICKENS.

My neighbor, the one who borrowed my leaf blower and didn't return it, is dating an old broad that I slept with thirty years ago. Cynthia Spaller is her name and honestly she's still got it. I want to shake the hands of the plastic surgeon who kept those two boulders up in the air. Frankly she's too good for him. Anyway he's throwing a block party and he didn't invite me. How do you not invite Ron Burgundy? I'm a living legend. Okay, Wellspar, let's see where this goes.

MY HISTORY OF MEXICO.

I decided to do it. I'm going to write a history of Mexico. Someone's gotta do it! I figure it's my gift to the Mexican peoples. I'm pa.s.sionate about history and I'm not sure we want to leave it up to Mexicans. I brought it up in an earlier chapter and I just couldn't let the idea go. This is just the first chapter and the book is in no way designed like I would like it. As I said before it will definitely be bound in rich Corinthian leather, about two feet by three feet in size and about eight inches thick. It will have many fine ill.u.s.trations and smell like a new pair of cowboy boots. So without further ado ... here is the first chapter of my long-awaited history of Mexico.

n the beginning there was only the land. A great land that stretched on and on as far as the eye could see. Savage dinosaurs roamed the earth unaware they were even in Mexico, for it did not exist as a country then. Thunderous fights occurred between mighty sauropods and crafty spinosaurs. It was a wild land full of pa.s.sion and brute l.u.s.t. Two hunters, Kah and Miko, cautiously walked through the forest in search of sustenance for their families. They were dressed only in small loincloths. Miko was nervous, for he had seen a herd of hadrosaurs not far from where they made camp the night before. Neither hunter, although they were skilled in hand-to-hand combat, was a match for a hadrosaur. The two hunters were tired. It had been a long day and they had come up empty. Soon the rainy season would be upon them and it would be time for the great migration. Kah was the stronger of the two. He reached out his arm and rested it on Miko's shoulder. It was a rea.s.suring touch for Miko. He had been worried that they would find no food. Kah wanted Miko to not worry. He suggested they make camp and went about finding kindling for a fire. The two men did their tasks with well-rehea.r.s.ed precision and soon they had a suitable camp. They had hunted in these pre-Mexican woods often. As the blazing hot sun sank into the blue mountains outside of current-day Mexico City, Kah once again put his hand out to rea.s.sure Miko that everything would be all right. He rested it on Miko's bare shoulder. Miko could feel the big man's hand on his shoulder and felt comforted by it. Kah then slid his hand along Miko's muscular back, stopping right before his firm buns. Miko instinctively stepped away but Kah held him and pulled him in. Within seconds the stronger man was pressing his hungry lips onto his friend. Miko struggled to get free but Kah was strong. He held Miko in a tight hug and now both his hands firmly held the smaller man's round b.u.t.tocks. Miko was terrified and strangely aroused at the same time. He had often stayed awake dreaming about what the big man would feel like and now it was actually happening! As Kah pulled Miko into his broad muscular chest Miko could feel his willpower draining. He would give over to his desire once and for all-but suddenly there was a great cras.h.i.+ng in the forest. A Tyrannosaurus rex burst through the trees and wrapped his mighty and awesome jaws around Kah and snapped his body in half. These were dangerous times. They were the best of times if you could avoid the dinosaurs but the worst of times if you could not. Miko never could erase the image of his friend mercilessly slung back and forth like a rag doll in the mouth of that Tyrannosaurus. He hiked back to his village and became known as Mikothelan, lord emperor of the Incas.

The Incas were the first inhabitants of Mexico. Where they originally came from remains a mystery. Many historians believe aliens brought the Incas here from a planet outside of our solar system, so if you were thinking Mars or even Pluto, think again; you're way off. I'm not buying it! Aliens did not bring the Incas to this planet. The Incas were just too dumb. More than likely, as more and more research demonstrates, the Incas probably just grew up in Mexico naturally and built some cities and lived good lives, occasionally eaten by dinosaurs. There really isn't much we can learn from these people. They weren't cavemen but they weren't rocket scientists either. They enjoyed about a million years of peace and tranquility and then the Mayans came, and that's when the s.h.i.+t hit the fan.

The Mayans probably were brought here by aliens. They were too smart to be born in Mexico. They invented a calendar. A calendar? Really? That's not something you invent every day if you're born in Mexico. They "built" pyramids. Right! Earthlings living in mud huts built pyramids. Sorry, not buying it. The Mayans were definitely aliens. They were much more civilized than the Incas. They wore suits and went to work and made up games like football played in giant stadiums. I once had the opportunity to visit one of their stadiums. Not really that great but considering it was built by people whose average height was two and a half feet, you can't help but tip your hat to the Mayan people. They slaughtered the Incas in no time flat. They took them from their houses and whacked their heads off and used the whacked-off heads in their football games. (Don't worry, they get what's coming to them later. What goes around comes around.) They built great cities and established trade routes. They grew as a race and were said to be numbered in the millions. Their king, Esteban, was considered to be a G.o.d. Scholars now believe that he had contact with the aliens and so he had more knowledge than everyone else, but this is only reasonable speculation. What we do know is that he was a boastful and proud man who ruled with an iron fist. He had been a great footballer in his day and a star athlete in the school system. If my reading of the Florentine Codex is correct, then he studied law and went on to marry a woman with great wealth. (Not too bad on the eyes either!) With her wealth and his natural good looks and grace they quickly climbed the ladder of success in the backstabbing, drama-filled world of the Mayan court. They were natural-born politicians, so when election time came rolling around they had run such a smooth campaign that they easily had the votes to be declared the new king and queen. They would stay atop the throne for many a year until a politician so smooth and fun to be around, the kind of guy you would drink a beer with, entered the city and won the hearts of everybody.

Montezuma grew up in the farming community outside of Tijuana. He wasn't a Mayan but an Aztec. He had wanted to be a town planner and to some degree that's what he was-maybe the greatest town planner in history. He built Mexico in a few weeks. He was no Thomas Jefferson, mind you, but he was pretty good. Jefferson was our greatest thinker when it came to cultivating the land. He understood the delicate balance between the growth of civilization and croppery. I consider myself a gentleman farmer in the Jeffersonian sense. Before I was asked to leave San Luis Obispo I had a nice half acre of land with about a hundred head of donkey. They were a stubborn lot of animals and a half acre inside the town limits is not enough land for them to really stretch out on. They needed way more land and way more food than I supplied. A day didn't go by without a donkey in my kitchen. They ate me out of house and home until Baxter talked them into making a break for it. They stampeded through San Luis Obispo and headed up into the Sierra Nevada mountains. Technically, by California law, I still own them, but I'm happy enough to let them roam free.

Montezuma had bigger fish to fry than donkeys! He marched into the town where the Mayans were and quickly set up shop as the new guy in town. He was a cool customer from what we historians know. He had the ladies dripping wet with his handsome looks and self-confident att.i.tude. In no time at all he was the most popular guy in the region. Archaeologists claim he loved the ladies. He had many wives of all shapes and sizes, although legend has it that he enjoyed huge knockers. If you go to certain areas in Mexico today women with really big jugs are said to have "Montezuma's Bazumas." I think there's a limit to how big a set of b.r.e.a.s.t.s should be. Some of the women in Mexico have t.i.ts way out to here-floppy big'ns that make them so top-heavy it looks like they are going to fall over. No thank you, Mr. Montezuma, you can keep your size 50 E-cups for yourself; I like mine big, but not THAT big. If I'm going to have a pair of b.o.o.bs jangling in my face I don't want them to threaten me with suffocation! I like to get my hands on 'em and enjoy the ride.

Under Montezuma, Mexico and the new Aztec empire grew to magnificent splendor and opulence. Gold adorned every woman who walked the golden streets. Elaborate parties were given every night, with giant ice sculptures and fountains of hot gold. The excess saw no boundaries, for these were the "go-go" years, when everyone overextended themselves and cheap credit was the name of the game. On the top of this all-too-fragile wealth and lavish lifestyle sat Montezuma without a care in the world.

Meanwhile, a million miles away in Spain, at the court of Fernando Valenzuela, a young, handsome adventurer by the name of Hernn Cortes was dreaming big and shooting for the stars. Valenzuela had just granted the stout explorer a legion of s.h.i.+ps and casks of red wine to set sail for Mexico in search of gold. Cortes was a hard man. His chiseled features and rugged good looks suggested a soldier of fortune, which he was, but he turned out to be much more than that. He was a conqueror of lands and a loyal subject to the queen of Spain. He was also a ruthless bully who tamed a people and forged a destiny for Mexico that would last even to this day. He set sail on Tuesday, July 5, 1776, unaware that a far greater country than his own had just declared its independence. The s.h.i.+ps were stocked with casks of red wine and goblets for drinking. For drinking fine red wine was the sailor's life in olden times. Also each man had his own broadsword made from the finest iron ore mined in deepest, blackest Africa. These swords were so great they often were named. Names like La Legion, Excelsior, Magnifico, El Cartagena, Beatrice, Fontanello and Esmeralda ring out among broadsword collectors far and wide. At the Sword and s.h.i.+eld, a high-end-replica sword shop specializing in rapiers and broadswords, a group of us meet once a month to discuss these ancient weapons. We often make up our own wondrous deeds done by these legendary swords. I have several replicas and I've created histories for them that I enjoy telling to people if they're over at the house. Cortes sailed with many fine broadswords and horses and leather and casks of red wine. The wine poured down the Spaniards' bearded faces under the hot sun but they had not a care in the world, for soon they would be in Mexico with all the gold they desired.

Montezuma, the dumb Aztec, never knew what hit him. Cortes was a man who knew what he wanted and he just reached out and grabbed it. He had a l.u.s.t for life and he showed it. Using his broadsword, Gabriella, he cut a hole through Mexico, hacking and chopping off faces and limbs and enjoying his red wine with a hearty laugh. The smell of sweaty leather and dried wine hung in the air like the smell of s.e.x in a wh.o.r.ehouse. Soon all of Mexico would smell of the Spaniards, and they would like it. Pungent were the days of Cortes! His men were ripe with l.u.s.ty doings and bold adventure. They had hearty laughs and enjoyed roasted mutton chops dripping with olive oil. They would just toss the uneaten parts of the mutton in the street like they didn't care. They were a band of brothers known only as "the Conquistadors" and they were the true Mexicans. Their more handsome European looks were an instant draw for all of the Aztecs and the Mayans, who were not a great-looking race, but they had one problem. Although not much scientific record exists concerning p.e.n.i.s size, we can judge by ancient Aztec drawings and paintings that the Aztec people had huge p.e.n.i.ses. Some of them appeared to be two feet long! With that kind of size, how could any man compete for a woman's affection? The Conquistadors quickly realized they would have to cut off every p.e.n.i.s bigger than their own in the land. If we can believe oral history, this period was called the Time of the Great Castrata! Soon the Aztec women forgot their desire for giant p.e.n.i.ses and settled into comfortable lives with the much smaller Spaniards. But could a memory be extinguished so easily? Hardly. It explains why even to this day Mexican women secretly l.u.s.t after that which they lost, a truly giant p.e.n.i.s.

But who was their leader? Who was Hernn Cortes? And how did Maximilian get into this picture? Read on, dear reader, for more glory and excellence follows in chapter 2 of The Fabulous Fables and Rich Tales of Olden Mexico and Its Regal Peoples.

END OF CHAPTER ONE.

My Favorite Doodles Doodles are a unique form of expression for me. A way to release stress and clear my mind ... and if I don't say so myself, some of these are pretty darn good.

I DISH THE DIRT!.

I've enjoyed a great life with many friends and wonderful acquaintances. My time in local news and cable TV gave me great access to personalities from every walk of life. Far be it from me to turn this n.o.ble chronicle of my life into a s.m.u.t-filled smear campaign against those who confided in me over the years, but I will not stand by and allow these same people to drag my name through the mud without putting up a fight. Even if they haven't tried to bring me down, I know that's what they're thinking and I'm a firm believer in the preemptive strike. If it's good for American foreign policy, which clearly it has proven to be, then it's good for Ron Burgundy.

For starters, just to put to rest a rumor floating around, I did make love to Katie Couric. It was wonderfully slow and filled with pa.s.sion. This was about two months ago. Veronica and I had rented a secluded cabin up in the Finger Lakes district in upstate New York. Nights were alive with the sounds of crickets and cicadas and the trees bending in the breeze. You could hear the gentle lapping of the water on the hulls of the boats across the lake. It was like we'd stepped into a more genteel time. It was the kind of peace we both desperately needed. I spent my days relaxing by the lake and my nights on the porch with my pipe and brandy and my best girl. On the third day we were awakened by a thunderous sound exploding across the lake. I took out my binoculars, and by the teat of Arachne, what did I see? It was Katie Couric in a cigarette boat called the Blazin' b.i.t.c.h bouncing over the water. I knew that she was a bit of a tramp, but this was a ridiculous breach of decorum! I got in my golf cart (everyone up at the lake has a golf cart, okay?) and I drove around the lake to the dock. Sure enough, Katie roars in, paying no attention to the "no wake" signs, and as she's coming into her mooring she sees me and starts waving. "Ron! Ronny! Ronny! It's meeeeee, Katie."

Knock me down with a feather! I come all the way over ready to chew her a new one and gosh darn it if she isn't the cutest little bug there is. She just radiates health and beauty. I can't help it. Every time I see Katie Couric my insides just go to mush. I don't know what to say.... I manage a "Hi, Katie, it's me, Ron Burgundy." She laughs and then yells back, "Get over here, you dog. I have some Natty Lights in the cooler down below." So next thing you know I'm making my way across the deck of the Blazin' b.i.t.c.h and heading for the cabin. Katie's about ten steps ahead of me. When I get down into the cabin she's got a marijuana cigarette and a bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum in her hand. The whole cabin is upholstered in Ed Hardytooled leather. John Mayer is piped in over a built-in Bose sound system. "Money. Makes it all happen, right, Ronny?" she says to me.

"So I've been coming up to the lake for a while now and I haven't seen you before," I venture.

"s.h.i.+t, Burgs, I just go where the Blazin' b.i.t.c.h takes me."

"Where's your new fiance?" I ask.

"We all gotta break away, right, Ron?" And then she puts her foot on my crotch. And that's as far as I'm going to take this tale. There's still a little friction over this incident in the Burgundy household. Besides, I've never been one to kiss and tell-but since there was no time for kissing, suffice it to say Katie Couric is a real wildcat with an insatiable desire to be loved, and I loved her. Enough said.

What else...

George Stephanopoulos wears women's underwear when he delivers the news. There is absolutely nothing intriguing or interesting about him at all except for this strange anomaly. Is it s.e.xual? Is it wrapped up in some kind of ident.i.ty crisis? Is he a thrill seeker? Nope to all three. He just confided in me that wearing women's panties while delivering the news lets him stay in touch with his feminine side. He also said women's underwear is made from softer materials and it feels better on his ball sack.

Or here's one...

If you remember the Captain from Captain and Tennille, he's always claimed he wasn't a real captain, but hold the boat! He was a captain. I was on board the Angelica Nora when he quite drunkenly guided it into some rocks off the coast of South America. The rusty old s.h.i.+p was overladen with stolen Chinese art and an a.s.sortment of international spies. I had agreed to work in the engine room in return for pa.s.sage home to San Diego. How I got to China is a whole other book. Anyway, we spent the nights on deck drinking rum until we pa.s.sed out. The Captain-his real name is Daryl Dragon but he went by Scardworth in those days-left the navigation of the s.h.i.+p to his pet seal. I know it sounds ridiculous, like I'm making the whole thing up, but seals make great navigators. This seal, Stinky was his name, just happened to be unfamiliar with the Southern Hemisphere and he got confused. When the Captain woke up he thought we were coming into San Francisco when in fact we were off the coast of Peru. Those are some of the toughest waters to navigate for seal or man and, well, Scardworth wasn't up to it. We hit rock and tore up the hull good. Only the Captain and I survived the sinking. In the lifeboat he tried to eat me but I grew to like him anyway. I told him his secret was safe with me but I warned him never to become a captain again. I guess the pull was just too great.

Maybe I shouldn't but what the heck....

Vice President Walter Mondale and I ran a c.o.c.kfighting 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 Sat.u.r.day night. He bred his own gamec.o.c.ks, cut off the comb and wattle himself to prepare them for the fights and raked in a small fortune. He named his best c.o.c.k "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 c.o.c.kfighting lore to this day. There's an old Mexican-style corrido that goes, Sir Humphrey, Sir Humphrey Has entered the ring No one can beat him For he is the king His beak is a razor His feet are like knives He's come from the devil To take G.o.d from our lives.

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 s.e.m.e.n 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 s.e.m.e.n-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 s.e.m.e.n 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, d.i.c.k Cheney, Andy Rodd.i.c.k 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sion 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 s.h.i.+t 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 s.h.i.+ft 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.

MY NEIGHBOR: BREAKING NEWS.

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 pa.s.sing 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 un.o.bservant.) "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 compa.s.sion and no end in sight but multiple dumb o.r.g.a.s.ms. 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!

THE REST OF THE STORY: THE NINETIES.

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 doc.u.mentaries about myself. The first one I t.i.tled Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy. It covered a period in the news business of great change. It was the battle of the s.e.xes, and you know what?...We all won! It's a better world with female anchormen. It also was a delightful retelling of my courts.h.i.+p with the lovely Veronica Corningstone, who then later became my wife and the woman I do it with. The doc.u.mentary was a great success enjoyed by billions of people across the world and it quickly sp.a.w.ned a sequel, which reveals an even more adventurous time for me. I've t.i.tled this one Anchorman 2: The Legend Continues. This doc.u.mentary 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 doc.u.mentaries 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 bulls.h.i.+t. 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 doc.u.mentaries 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 doc.u.mentaries other than to say doc.u.mentaries are not a complete life! During that whole period I ate cereal, I blew my nose, I s.h.i.+t 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 doc.u.mentary 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 s.e.x 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 Chern.o.byl 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 , 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 , 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 "d.i.c.k" 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-cla.s.s 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 loved boiled eggs . Thatcher was insufferable; she insisted that 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, and myself. The meeting was a lively one, with as a suggestion. Pat Robertson, who was also in attendance, indicated that he would several other S & M followers Glenn Miller having wistful forty kilos of Panamanian 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 ! 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 . How Ted Nugent gained such access was not my concern, but Thatcher said, " went fifteen hammerhead sharks dead with one word. A chill went through the room. Only d.i.c.k Cheney was laughing. Noriega looked sweaty and I felt sorry for him. I gave over my package to . 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 . We went out to dinner. James Baker ordered the . 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 in . Bush had agreed to without reservation. any before 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 d.i.c.k Cheney from . He was not happy and he let me know it. "If you can't patriot water-board American way of life my legacy to buy Liz a toaster oven. Son of a b.i.t.c.h, 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 . I went to Noriega and warned him. Thatcher would Harrier Jump Jets nuts 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 not because but Parton's song nudity included. The gla.s.s . "Holy b.a.l.l.s!" I shouted. "Is this where ?" but Schwarzkopf tried to take a swing at him and I stepped in. The outcome was mission not in the Bush library. paper-shredding machine on the eighth floor running nonstop for days. CIA operative stepped in to gloves disposed of the like lumpy soup field of unmarked graves. That's where it turned. Suddenly I was in real danger. It's a feeling I cultivate. Like s.e.xual 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 . wet New York Times firing at me and Jerry Tarkanian. The plane was one hundred yards away. Dolly Parton and heels and red leather . I hadn't even flown before but there I was in the plane with , Cheney, Thatcher and . Back in the States I locked the doc.u.ments 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 grapes in the ole basket!

Throughout the rest of the nineties I turned more and more toward investigative news. I hosted an hour of television on PBS called The Burgundy Journal. The whole news team stayed together as we tackled big subjects well beyond our ken. We were out of our league over there on PBS. There were guys in the mailroom who knew more about the state of the world than any of us. So we told the news the only way we knew how: directly, forcefully and without substance. It was, as always, a hit. The highest-rated show in the history of PBS. Unfortunately the pay was ridiculous. Champ had more restaurant ambitions. Brick wanted to run around on gra.s.s and I was beginning to feel like an old man in a young man's game. After about a half a year of The Burgundy Journal I retired from the news business and walked away on top-a champion and a winner, the number one guy of all time.