Let Me Off at the Top.

Ron Burgundy.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

It took me eight years to write this book. The research alone-fact-checking, reading the source materials, asking questions-was endless and I didn't care for it that much. I just didn't. But I persisted because I knew what I was doing was truly very important. A book is never the work of one man. Many people contribute to its failure, or as in this case, its success. Dorathoy Roberts at the Harvard Widener Library was instrumental in recovering so many facts and nautical terms. Janart Prancer aided my work immensely with her near-encyclopedic understanding of rare ma.n.u.scripts in the Herzog August Library, Wolfenbttel, Germany. Esther Nausbaum, head librarian at the prestigious Kirkland School of Dinosaurs, was instrumental in tracking down indispensable paleoecological records for chapter 15 in this book. Herb Kolowsky was ever watchful and patient, reading over many drafts of the ma.n.u.script as well as cleaning my gutters. I consulted with my dear friend and lover Doris Kearns Goodwin over many breakfasts in bed. Her sharp intellect and sharper teeth found their way into practically every page. Although we are no longer lovers because I don't know why, her knowledge of presidential history is the basis for chapter 12. Her dogged enthusiasm for the project was only outpaced by her enthusiasm for lovemaking, which I could barely equal. I don't know what to say about Doris really except if she's still out there and she would like another bounce, I would be game. Johnny Bench was an invaluable spell-checker. Lars Mankike brought an artistic eye to the project and a kind of European nihilism that was completely unnecessary. We fought often and he got what he deserved, so I'm not even sure why I'm thanking him here, but it's too late now. Sandy Duncan is full of boundless energy. What can I say about Veronica Corningstone, the love of my life? We've had our ups and downs for sure, and usually the downs were because of something stupid she said or did while losing blood. You really can't fault women for being irrational. Blood drips out of them w.i.l.l.y-nilly and there's nothing they can do about it. It's like being a hemophiliac. I suspect science will one day cure them of this blood-dripping disease but until then, Vive la difference. Finally Baxter, my dog and best friend, saw me through many tough hours as I struggled with my emotions during this project. His love and support sustained me through extremely difficult excavations into my past. Only Baxter knows the pain I have lived. Our nightly talks formed the basis for what you hold in your hand now.

WHY WRITE THIS BOOK?.

Does mankind really need another book dumped onto the giant garbage heap of books already out there? Is there some pressing desire for the wisdom of a humble News Anchor in this world? Will it add to the great literary achievements throughout time or will it be lost in a swamp of trivial scribbling like p.o.r.nography-devoured and then destroyed out of shame? I stand here (I write standing up) and I say, "No!" No, this book will NOT be lost! This book is necessary. It's an important work from an important man. I was the number one News Anchor in all of San Diego. My name is Ron Burgundy and what you have in your hands is a very big deal. It's ... my ... life. It's my words. It's my gift to you.

If the truth be told, I've wanted to write a book for a long time, but how? How do you write a book? Oh sure, I know you get paper and pencils and make yourself a pot of coffee and you stay up all night and write one. Seems simple enough, but it's not. There's a very long tradition of book writing going back through history all the way to Roman times, and if you know history like I do you understand that book writing is NOT EASY! Rule number one sayeth the bard, "To thy own self be truthful in regards to yourself." I knew from the beginning, before even purchasing the paper and the pencils and the cans of coffee, I would have to spend a little time getting to know me. I've been so busy being Ron Burgundy the legend that I never stopped to really get to know Ron Burgundy the man. Before I wrote one word of this masterpiece I took long walks through the streets of San Diego trying to make friends with a guy I barely knew: myself. I talked to myself, that's right, in bars, at bus stops, in laundromats, wherever my muse took me. I recommend it. Go out and talk to yourself. Record the conversations like I did. I had a small lightweight twenty-pound Grundig reel-to-reel tape recorder with a built-in microphone. A typical conversation went like this:.

Ron.

Hey, good friend of mine.

Ron Hey right back at you.

Ron What's it all about?

Ron.

It's a good question, Ron. You ask tough questions.

Ron It's my business, I'm a News Anchor by trade.

Ron No kidding, that's important!

Ron Yeah, it's really nothing. I'm kind of a big deal around San Diego.

Ron It sounds d.a.m.n impressive.

Ron.

It is in a way. It's pretty impressive. Are you hungry?

Ron I could definitely go for some fish-and-chips. Do you know where they have the best fish-and-chips in San Diego?

Ron I do. There's a one-of-a-kind sea shanty called Long John Silver's that fixes up delicious fish-and-chips at a reasonable price.

Ron.

Man, that sounds yummy.

Ron Why don't you join me? I'm heading over there now.

Ron How far of a walk is it?

Ron.

About six miles.

Ron Do you want to discuss life some more while we walk?

Ron No, let's shut it down until after we eat.

Night after night like a ghost I walked the streets of San Diego holding conversations with only myself. Sometimes the conversations were trivial, like the time I got into an argument over which dog breed, Labrador or collie, was better at learning tricks, but sometimes they reached a sublime level of deep thinking, like this conversation I recorded while sitting on a transit bus.

Ron What's it all mean, Ron?

Ron Sometimes I think we're all crazy.

Ron I know what you mean. I feel crazy myself sometimes.

Ron.

I mean, what's to stop me from lighting this bus on fire?

Ron I know! But keep your voice down, okay?

Ron I mean it! There's nothing. What holds us together, Ron? Very little. VERY LITTLE!

Ron.

Ron, you're in your head too much. Breathe.

Ron No but listen to me, Ron, the world is made of strands of particles and atoms that commingle without meaning, taking form momentarily, decaying, finding new form-senseless activity without a guiding center. How can we make sense of it? Burning down this bus with all these people holds the same value as giving birth to a child. Don't you get it?

Ron Keep it together, buddy.

Ron.

I WILL NOT BE TALKED TO IN THIS WAY. I AM NOT A CHILD! I MIGHT JUST BURN DOWN THIS BUS TO PROVE A POINT!.

Bus Driver.

Do we have a problem?

Ron.

Cool it, Ron. You're making people nervous.

Ron.

I DON'T CARE! I DON'T CARE! I'M GOING TO BURN DOWN THIS BUS!.

Unidentified Male Voice.

Get him. Hold him down.

Ron.

I'M RON BURGUNDY! Ow, come on. CHANNEL FOUR NEWS!.

Ron.

He's okay. Stop hitting. He's okay ... he's okay, let him breathe.

I have over a thousand hours of recorded conversations with myself. What was I looking for? What was I trying to get at? I knew if I was going to write a book I would have to call on all of my powers of concentration. I would have to dig deep into the man, not the myth but the man, Ron Burgundy. To begin with I climbed Mount San Gorgonio, the highest peak in all of Southern California, and I called on an old friend, mighty Athena, the G.o.ddess of wisdom and courage, to guide me in this n.o.ble endeavor.

There I stood naked to the stars and the great G.o.ds above and yelled out, "My name is Ron Burgundy and I call on you, Athena, for inspiration! I am going to write a book. It shall be the story of my life, a great novel! I'm not sure novel is what you call a life story. There's another name for life story and I have forgotten it. For it does not matter! Brobalia! It's called a Brobalia! No, that's not it but it starts with a B. It is of no importance, mighty Athena! I stand here alone, naked on this mount with these tourists from Germany"-it's true, there were some tourists from Germany up there as well-"to ask for your guidance and wisdom while writing this Binocular. Nope, that's a word for something different. NO MATTER! Bisojagular! Still not right but I'm getting closer, fair Athena, and thanks for your patience-let all the G.o.ds know, Zeus, Apollo, Poseidon and Hestia, to name only a few, that I will ask for their strength in writing this Braknopod. Way off! My old pal Doris Kearns Goodwin would surely know the name you give a life story. She was a real egghead, among other things. Anyway, Athena, just help me write this thing. I swear to you that I will remember the name people give to life stories the minute I get down from this mountain! Thank you, brave Athena!"

Judging by what I have written here I can say with all confidence she heard my plaintive cries that raw night up on that tourist trap of a peak in the San Bernardino Mountains.

Now, I'm not going to lie, a searching evaluation of who I am has been an ordeal, not just for me but for those closest to me. It's been hard on my wife, Veronica, and Baxter, my dog, and for anyone who lives within screaming distance of my house and for law enforcement personnel. I went all in on this quest for self-discovery. William Thackeray Th.o.r.eau once said, "Desperate men lead lives of quiet songs that are left unsung when they do end up in their cold tombs." Something like that. Anyway, the point is you only go around once and you really need to go for the gold!

I can tell you this: There were a lot of people out there who didn't think it was such a good idea to write a book. I know stuff about certain people and let's just say that sometimes knowledge can be dangerous. When word got out I was writing a "tell-all" book there were attempts made on my life! This is serious business. Most men would have run for the hills. Not me; I welcome the challenge. There is a chance I may have to go into hiding after this book comes out. I can't say where I will disappear to but more than likely it will be my cabin I purchased with George C. Scott's cousin. Its location can never be known. Scott's cousin is never there and it's less rustic than you think, with a pool table and full bar as well as a washer-dryer combo, and it's within walking distance to the Big Bear Lake general store.

Death threats are an occupational hazard of course for us anchormen. I'm very comfortable living each minute with the expectation of being attacked. It's been many years since JFK told me he used to enjoy Marilyn Monroe from behind while Joe DiMaggio looked on in the corner. The main players have all left the stage, so perhaps now is the time to speak out without fear of reprisal. Maybe telling the truth is more important than any danger I may face. Then again, maybe the truth has nothing to do with it. Maybe I just don't like it when people say, "Ron, you can't write a book, you don't have the courage," or "Ron, you can't write a book, you don't know how to type," or "Ron, have you ever even read a book?" It's the naysayers who get me. I like surprising people. I always have. I think everyone in the world took it for granted that I would not have the b.a.l.l.s to write this book. I've got the b.a.l.l.s, big hairy misshapen b.a.l.l.s in a wrinkly sack. This book is a testament to my giant b.a.l.l.s. If you want some feel-good story about how to live your life, then go look elsewhere. This book is a hard-hitting, no-holds-barred, unafraid account of my exceptional life with some words of wisdom thrown in for good measure. You won't find a lot of fluff here. If you're looking for fluff to take to the beach, check out the Holy Bible. This ain't that book.

So who am I? That's what this book is about. Over the next eight hundred pages (unless some b.i.t.c.h of an editor gets ahold of it with his clammy hands and snotty nose) I will let you in on a very big secret: my life. Of course some of it isn't such a secret. Some of it you know already. I'm a man. A News Anchor. A lover. Husband. A friend to animals on land and at sea. A handsome devil. A connoisseur of fine wine. I have one of the cla.s.siest collections of driftwood art in the world. I can throw a Wham-O Frisbee if I have to, but I prefer not to. I love the outdoors. Nature drives me nuts. I make pancakes for anyone who asks. I take long nude walks on the beach. I play jazz flute, not for business but for pleasure. I'm a world-cla.s.s water-ski instructor. I don't care a lick about the fashion world, although they seem to care an awful lot about me. My best friend is a dog named Baxter. I'm quite famous. I'm a history buff. I collect authentic replications of Spanish broadswords. I smoke a pipe on occasion, not for profit but for pleasure. I've been known to sing out loud at weddings and funerals. I'm a collector of puns. I have over three hundred handcrafted shoes of all sizes. I don't give a d.a.m.n about broccoli. I believe all men have the right to self-pleasure. I carry a picture of Buffy Sainte-Marie in my wallet and I'm not even Catholic. My favorite drink is scotch. My second-favorite drink is a Hairy g.a.y.l.o.r.d. I'm affiliated with at least a hundred secret societies; some of them, like the Knights of Thunder, will kill you just for printing their name. I adore t.i.ts. I will never be persuaded to try yogurt. I'm allergic to fear. Other men have fallen in love with me in a s.e.xual way and that's okay. I have mixed feelings about bicycles. My handmade fishing lures are sought after by fly-fishermen the world over. I've never been one for blue jeans. Sandals on another man have been known to make me vomit. My Indian name is Ketsoh Silaago. My French name is Pierre Laflume. I can never tell anyone about what happened in Youngstown, Ohio, one January night. There are no other people who look like me on this planet; I've looked. Babies, bless their souls, give me the creeps. I own a chain of hobby stores in the Twin Cities I have never seen. I once ate a ham dinner and then realized it was not ham. People tell me I look like Mickey Rooney. Woody the Woodp.e.c.k.e.r cracks me up every time. That's the basic stuff; now prepare yourself for the journey-the journey into an extraordinary life.

THE BOY FROM HAGGLEWORTH.

The story we were told as children went something like this.... On June 27, 1844, Joseph Smith, the great Mormon martyr, and his brother Hyrum were killed by a mob in Carthage, Illinois. In the middle of the mob was a smooth opportunist named Franklin Haggleworth. Haggleworth was on his way to Keokuk, Iowa, and the Mississippi River to cheat people out of money. As the mob grew outside the jail where Smith and his brother were held, Haggleworth stirred up the crowd with anti-Mormon slogans and songs. Up to that point the crowd had been a peaceful a.s.sembly of reasonable people willing to discuss whether Smith or his brother had transgressed any laws. Haggleworth saw an opening. With his honey-tongued skill for oratory he was able to cajole the law-abiding citizenry into a frenzied pack of murderers. Within minutes of his opening his mouth, the crowd stormed the jail and shot the two brothers. Haggleworth ran off to the Mormon camp to report the sad news that their leader had been shot. Feigning sympathy with the now-distraught Mormons, he produced a dirty dinner plate and proclaimed Joseph Smith himself had given it to him right before his death. According to Haggleworth it was the last plate given to Smith by the angel Moroni. But unlike the plates Smith "translated," this new plate had never been translated. Pretending to read the plate, a fairly c.r.a.ppy piece of pottery that sits in the Haggleworth Museum to this day, he told the crowd that a new religion would be born out of Mormonism-a new religion dedicated to worshipping the p.e.n.i.s of Mr. Franklin Haggleworth. He went on to explain that this new religion required up to twelve but no less than three women "who didn't have to be virgins because that seemed kind of overused" to frequently see to the needs of his ever-demanding p.e.n.i.s. For the most part the men and women in the Mormon settlement were not convinced of Haggleworth's "vision." But try and remember-this was a strange part of American history and folks were dropping everything to follow men with heaven-born plates. There were nudist colonies and polygamist silverware-making colonies and people going to seances left and right-not like now, when reason holds sway. This was a wildly superst.i.tious time and so it should come as no surprise that eight women of various ages believed the plate and followed Haggleworth up the river to worship his p.e.n.i.s. He landed on a bald, shale-covered sc.r.a.p of earth not far from the river in northeastern Iowa. Because it could not be farmed Haggleworth was able to buy the property for a dollar and fifty cents. Three days into the new colony, tragedy struck. A great famine overtook the settlers, so the angel ordered Haggleworth to send some of his women to the river to worship other men's p.e.n.i.ses for money and food. It worked! Haggleworth was in business! A steady stream of boatmen beat a path to Haggleworth's church of p.e.n.i.s worship over the next thirty years. Haggleworth lived to the ripe old age of forty-eight and died with a b.o.n.e.r. That's what we were told anyway growing up in Haggleworth.

About ten years after Haggleworth's death, the Valley Coal and Iron Company bought the town for seventy-five cents and began mining for coal. Although the company changed hands many times over the next fifty years, Standard Oil of Iowa took over the operations in 1922 and successfully mined forty miles of intersecting tunnels of coal beneath the town. In 1940, the year I was born, Latham Nubbs flicked a half-chewed, still-lit stogie into the street outside of Kressler's Five and Dime and the town of Haggleworth caught on fire-a fire that still burns to this day. Deadly carbon monoxide gas and plumes of h.e.l.l-sp.a.w.ned black smoke appear and disappear at random. The smell of sulfur, literally the smell of Satan himself, permeates the air, sending visitors and lost strangers to emergency rooms all over the state. In 1965 the governor of Iowa, Harold Hughes, condemned the town and relocated its remaining twenty-eight residents.

I was born into a simpler time. Environmental concerns wouldn't come into play until hippies and weirdos started crawling the earth. For us, growing up in Haggleworth, the fires were a way of life, a hazard like any other. The smell went unnoticed because it's what we knew. The black smoke rising from the hot earth was a daily reminder of the h.e.l.l pit below the surface. I was born into this town of three hundred hardheaded Iowans whose only way of life was mining, and of course drinking and burning to death. Mining was especially hard because of the fire, and drinking wasn't any easier, also because of the fire. The more you drank alcohol, the more likely your chance of igniting yourself. It was a cruel irony, but the only way to stave off that horrible impending feeling of one day burning to death was to drink more ... a vicious circle, really, but one we enjoyed with gusto.

In this carefree community the Burgundys were a proud clan. Claude and Brender Burgundy had eight boys. I was the last one born. The plain fact of the matter is we all hated each other equally. There were no alliances within the family. It was every man for himself. The day I was born was the day I received my first sock in the face. My brother Lonny Burgundy smacked me the first time he saw me. I couldn't speak yet, as I was only a few minutes old, but I do remember thinking to myself, "So that's the way it is." I grew to like the uncertain antic.i.p.ation of being pounded on by my older siblings and by the occasional explosion of fire that jumped up out of the earth. In grade school, my best friend, Ca.s.sy Moinahan, and I were walking home when a sinkhole opened up and down he went into the fiery pit that was Haggleworth just below the surface. His screams of pain could be heard coming through the floor of the hardware store for two days. I came to recognize a kind of fluidity to life that has stayed with me from those early days. Every man takes a beating and every man gets dumped back into the earth ... so why cry about it? Right?

My father, Claude Burgundy, was a learned man, educated in Oxford, England. He came to Haggleworth out of a deep respect for its unlivable conditions. His wife, and soul mate for life, Brender, was all cla.s.s with t.i.ts out to here. I didn't much care for either of them but they were my parents and I loved them both dearly. On Sat.u.r.day nights they went dancing over at the Elks Lodge. They never missed a Sat.u.r.day night at the lodge. Just as soon as they were out the door it was every Burgundy for himself. Fists, chair legs, frying pans, railroad spikes-whatever was lying around the house we used to pummel the other guy. We all had our tricks. Horner set traps all over the house. Lonny carried a whip. Bartholemew welded himself a whole medieval suit of armor. Jessup had attack dogs. For me it quickly came down to Jack Johnson and Tom O'Leary, the names I gave my left and right fists respectively. With Johnson I was able to fend off most of the blows, but with O'Leary I could mete out my own share of pain. By the time I was ten years old even my oldest brother, Hargood, knew to keep away from O'Leary's leaden punishment. Johnson had them on their heels quick but O'Leary was the one that put them to sleep. Even to this day I've been known to call on O'Leary to clear up an argument or end some nonsense.

Years back I was in New York City and I found myself in a tricky situation with professional blowhard Norman Mailer. He and I had occasion to mix it up from time to time and I always had no problem stuffing his face back in his shirt. But he caught me off guard on this occasion. We were at Clyde Frazier's place on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Mailer must have been waiting in a broom closet for me for more than an hour when he jumped out and began whacking at me with a hammer. I took as many blows as I could until I unleashed the Ole Doomsday from Dublin, Tom O'Leary. That was all she wrote for Norman. He probably took the nightmare of my knuckles to his grave. No sir, I've never been afraid to resort to fisticuffs. Not my first option, mind you. I've stepped on too many loose teeth to want anything to do with violence ... but if it comes my way I know what to do.

It wasn't all fistfights and terror in Haggleworth. There were many days and nights of pure unabashed fun. For instance, for some unknown reason that really makes no sense at all, Haggleworth had the finest jazz supper club west of Chicago. It was called Pinky's Inferno. It made very little sense-it's almost unbelievable really-but there it was, a jazz club in a town of three hundred in the middle of nowhere. At age eleven I got a job as a busboy in Pinky's and a pa.s.sion was born in me-a pa.s.sion so strong I feel it to this day whenever I make love to a woman or see a sunrise or smell thick-cut Canadian bacon cooking, or whenever I report the news. It's a pa.s.sion for jazz flute. It all started for me in 1951 at Pinky's Inferno. Diz, Bird, Miles-they all came through Haggleworth, unbelievable as that sounds, to play at Pinky's. Even typing it now seems stupid. I was there at the time and I still want to fact-check this. I made my first flute out of a length of steel pipe my brother Winston tried to beat me with. Winston was my least-favorite brother, and that's saying a lot. He would beat you while you slept-clearly against the rules, but he didn't care. He was a union strike buster for many years before he was brained by a rock. Now he sells pencils in a little wooden stall in downtown Omaha. I buy twenty every Christmas. They say hatred and love are two sides of the same golden coin.

THE END.

I loved that homemade pipe flute. Dizzy Gillespie used to make me get up onstage with him and play that thing until my mouth would bleed. Maybe I'm misremembering this part. I'll fact-check it one more time before I finally commit it to paper though. Dexter Gordon, Art Blakey, even the older guys, Louis Armstrong and Sidney Bechet, came by. Hey, I get it, if you don't want to believe any of this I can't blame you. Anyway, I picked up a little something from each one of these jazz masters-you know what? I think the whole "jazz flute" stuff should stay out of the novel, come to think of it. It's too ridiculous even if it did really happen. I will simply say this: Chet Baker and Gerry Mulligan taught me, an eleven-year-old boy, the rudiments of jazz improvisation in the alley behind Pinky's Inferno one night in Haggleworth, Iowa. That's solid enough information that is very believable. (I have no idea if this is going to hurt or help my credibility here, but just down the alley from us Jack Kerouac was getting a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b from Allen Ginsberg. More than likely this can be corroborated in their own writings. Those guys wrote an awful lot.) With all these hep cats coming through Haggleworth in the fifties I became the source for their drug habits. I had an in with some of the dealers in the area and I would score smack for the musicians in exchange for music lessons. I quickly learned to cook it so they could fix up before their sets. Forget it. This sounds impossible to me. I know what happened but none of this reads real. I'm just going to go with this: I have a pa.s.sion for jazz flute. I got it from somewhere. It's part of who I am. There.

When my brothers and I weren't beating on each other we would roam the streets looking for any other kind of fun we could get into. These days you would call us a "street gang" but in those days it was just considered horsing around. The regular folks of Haggleworth, when not scared of falling into the hot ground below their feet, were quite comically terrified of the Burgundys. There was a saying around Haggleworth that mothers told their children. It went something like this: "Eat your vegetables or the Burgundy boys will beat the living s.h.i.t out of you." Silly really. Men would sometimes refer to a black eye as a "Burgundy." Derrick Burgundy, the second-oldest of my brothers, did do acts of violence that transcended the usual fun boy stuff and he was gunned down by a posse, which absolutely n.o.body had any objection to ... but that was only one Burgundy in eight who was a bad egg. Our reputation as town bullies didn't mean much to us. We just laughed it all off and had a good time. The only townsfolk who were not scared of the Burgundys were the Haggleworths. They were the only other prominent family in Haggleworth and because of their last name they felt they owned the whole town. It was nonsense of course. Sh.e.l.l Oil owned Haggleworth. (That's why there was no real government or police or any order whatsoever. It was the reason why my father, a strict Darwinist, loved the town.) But the Haggleworths erected a museum in honor of their founding father. Some of them still practiced their pious religion of p.e.n.i.s worship, but for the most part they were an uncultured, rangy bunch of derelicts who ate cat food and lived in caves. Some others lived on Willow Street in large Victorian houses. They did manage to build one impressive building downtown, a great big marble and granite Roman-looking thing. It was a sort of clubhouse and harkened back to a more forward-looking time in Haggleworth when money was flowing into the city from foreign investors and s.e.x perverts. They called this huge building "the Courthouse." They even carved the name "Courthouse" into the stone above the door. No one recognized it as an actual courthouse unless you had to pay a ticket or get a marriage license. Sh.e.l.l Oil certainly had no use for it. And no Burgundy ever stepped foot in it as far as I know.

The Haggleworths really stuck their noses up at the rest of us ... which was laughable really, because they were descended from wh.o.r.es mainly. A Burgundy, upon encountering a Haggleworth in the street, would make a point of reminding the Haggleworth of his or her ignominious lineage with something pithy like "How's it going, son of a wh.o.r.e?" To which a Haggleworth might come back at a Burgundy with something like "When was the last time you took a bath?" (It was a fair blow as we never took them growing up.) Then a little boxing might ensue and depending on the number involved in the conflict some more pushing and shoving, and then usually a kind of riot would break out with fires and broken gla.s.s and such. Totally predictable small-town-type stuff. A bygone era really. Apple pie. Fishing villages. I had a lot of respect for the Haggleworth boys and girls. They could fight like devils. Many nights after a riot I would find myself limping home because they had gotten the best of me. I can laugh about it now. Heck, I laughed about it then.

And then there was Jenny Haggleworth. She was simply a dream. Every boy in town was in love with her. She was the kind of girl that if you saw her at the malt shop, your heart just stopped-fiery red hair, long legs, the softest hands, like two dove wings. Her eyes were like enchanted emeralds. She was a cross between Rita Hayworth and Grace Kelly, and me being twelve years old I was head over heels in love with her. She was twenty-eight and had a job in the mining office.

Because she was a Haggleworth and I was a Burgundy it was a forbidden love but one that I knew I would risk. I also knew that if ever my secret was revealed the whole Haggleworth clan would chase me down and throw me into Dutchman's Dungeon-a fire pit so deep and terrifying that years later when the Army Corps of Engineers were called in to cap it off they turned tail and ran out of there faster than baboons running from a ghost lion. To this day its location isn't on any map and is a well-kept government secret. I know how to get there, of course, as does anyone who grew up in Haggleworth, but we have all signed a presidential oath of secrecy demanding that we never reveal its whereabouts. Among many others over the years I took noted tennis legend and feminist Billie Jean King up there one night with the intent of throwing her in. I was steaming mad at her-I still am but I'm not a murderer. Billie Jean King knows the whereabouts of Dutchman's Dungeon; so do famed quarterback Roman Gabriel and legendary funnyman d.i.c.ky Smothers and many more. Jenny and I would meet in a small clearing in the woods that was unknown but to her and me. The sunlight splashed through the leafy canopy of maple and oak, dappling spots of light on a quiet glade no bigger than a bedroom. It was our hideaway. We talked and held hands, and occasionally I was rewarded with a kiss from her soft lips. I lived for those kisses. I saved our correspondences, which one day I will publish as The Love Letters of Ron Burgundy and Jenny Haggleworth. I think mankind would benefit greatly from reading them, with the disclaimer that these are the simple yearnings of a twelve-year-old boy addressing his love sixteen years his senior. Here are just a few exchanges.

Dearest Jenny, Each hour I spend away from you is another hour in torment. I cannot bear the distance our hearts must suffer! Purgatory knows no pain like the agony of our separation. My minutes are filled with anxious longing for a mere glimpse of your beauty. The ruby ringlets in your hair, like ribbons adorning a Christmas gift, await my unfurling! A poem I write to you! "So soft the cheek, so smooth the shoulders, the liquefaction of your clothes rippling over your huge boulders." Ron Burgundy, Haggleworth, Iowa, 1952.

I must see you. Until then, my heart beats only for your answer.

Your love servant, Ron Burgundy.

Ron, Got your letter. Meet in make-out woods after work.

Jenny.

PS: Bring gum.

Sweet Jenny, I am beside myself with joy! Your encouraging words of our antic.i.p.ated reunion and our innocent pleasures have placed me in a transcendent mood! G.o.d surely works a spirit through every living being and only love can open the window to its ebb and flow. I shall wait upon the hour in joyous antic.i.p.ation. Your thoughts of shared love shall remain forever locked in my bosom awaiting a key that only you possess. Oh, Jenny Haggleworth! How the name itself floats and flutters like a b.u.t.terfly over the fields of flowers. Our reunion cannot come fast enough. Not even Mercury himself with winged foot could bring about our conjoining with the speed my heart so desires. I am forever at your mercy and your undying worshipper, Ron Burgundy.

Ron, Might be late. Gotta get some oil for my car. See ya.

Jenny.

PS: Bring gum.

Pages and pages of suchlike correspondence poured forth from the two of us. Volumes of letters, enough to fill at least forty leather-bound books. Some years back I saw an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the popular fashion magazine Jiggle for a book-binding device. It came with leather sheets, needles, high-test threading and plans for a build-your-own press. I don't know what I was thinking! I'm all thumbs when it comes to crafts! Many of you may recall I did the news with my hands bandaged for a three-month stint. I explained on air that I had rescued a child from a hospital fire. We found a baby and a mother who needed a couple of bucks and set up a story, all in good fun. What really happened was that I tried to bind those letters with that complicated binding setup! I tore up my hands pretty good. I got a chuckle out of that.

Eventually the lovers were discovered. In a town of three hundred it's hard to keep a secret. The Haggleworth clan found out I was diddling their sister and I was jumped and roped and dragged behind Jenny's car as she drove through the streets of Haggleworth. These were lawless days when men took it upon themselves to impose justice. Jazz great Erroll Garner was in town doing a two-week stint at Pinky's Inferno. He saw me being dragged through town and went off to get my brothers. I guess their hatred for the Haggleworths was greater than their hated for me, because pretty quickly all eight of the Burgundy boys were in town. A verbal back-and-forth rapidly escalated to a situation where the National Guard was called in. Some people were burned pretty badly, that I do remember.

After the bloodiest day in Haggleworth history, Jenny and I agreed it was best to take some time off. She left town one night with jazz great Thelonious Monk and then was married to Jack Paar for a while. I can't say for sure why Jenny Haggleworth, a twenty-eight-year-old model and Miss Iowa, was so infatuated with a twelve-year-old boy, but I had a couple of theories. One was pretty basic. At twelve I was already beginning to show signs of the future girth for which I would become somewhat legendary. I could see, looking down into my pants, something I would enjoy looking at and talking to for many years to come. Some women have called it Pegasus, after the winged horse of Greek mythology. The Lord Jesus Christ works in mysterious ways when he hands out lower body parts! Some men are blessed with extraordinary length but not much girth. Others have been awarded great girth but less length, and then ... there are a select few who are granted the whole wonderful package, girth and length. I'm one of those guys who got just the girth. I wouldn't trade it for nothing-except more length. I know for a fact Jenny was transfixed by my reproductive parts because in some of our more tender and romantic moments she would yell out, "Show me that stack of pancakes!" or "Gimme that can of beans!" My understuff was and has been a source of great pride for me but not my greatest. If I had to guess at what body part Jenny Haggleworth and a million other women were attracted to most I would have to say it was my hair.

MY HAIR.

First of all I'd like to dispel the nine most popular myths about my hair.

MYTH NUMBER 1: My hair is called Andros Papanakas. It is not. I have no name for my hair.

MYTH NUMBER 2: My hair was bestowed upon me by the G.o.ds. This one is hard to dispel. It would have been just like Zeus to make such a gift, or Hermes, but even though I have called on these two G.o.ds many times I have never been told specifically by either one that I was given my hair, so I have to say no to the gift-from-the-G.o.ds theory.

MYTH NUMBER 3: My hair is insured by Lloyd's of London for one thousand dollars. Nope! It's fifteen hundred, thank you.

MYTH NUMBER 4: My hair won't talk to my mustache. This is basically true but I would hardly call that a myth.

MYTH NUMBER 5: My hair starred in the movie Logan's Run. It was definitely up for the part of Logan but that eventually went to Michael York. He did an excellent job in the film and to this day it's still considered the best film of all time.

MYTH NUMBER 6: My hair on my head is the exact same as the hair on my crotch. Don't I wish!