[Long stare-down]

Ron Are you not comfortable with wanting to be a woman?

[Something begins to agitate Mr. Spitz]

Ron I've seen men up in San Francisco in heels and dresses that I swear to G.o.d you would think are women. I did. I thought they were women.

[Mr. Spitz nods his head]

Ron I don't know if that's something you're interested in but I should warn you-you can shave your legs and put on heels and the prettiest dress in the world but you'll never even come close to what these men look like. They basically are women.

[Spitz looks off camera, confused]

Ron Hey! Over here. This isn't Howard Cosell lobbing softb.a.l.l.s at you, kid. This is San Diego and I am Ron Burgundy. Answer the question! Does shaving your legs make you feel like a woman? America wants to know!

[Spitz walks off set]

It was one of the few times I lost my cool on camera but gosh darn it, from time to time I let my insatiable need to know get in the way of decorum. I respect the NEWS just too much not to give a d.a.m.n, and frankly he was hiding something. After the broadcast I ran after him. He took off like he was afraid of somebody or something but I gave good chase. I was fast on his heels all the way to the Coronado Bridge but then-again, maybe because something scared him-he dove into the harbor and at that point I threw up my hands in comic defeat. I laughed so all of San Diego could hear me. I certainly was not going to catch nine-time gold medalist Mark Spitz in the water! It made for a good story.

At any rate it couldn't have been Mark Spitz's leg draped over my own, that's for sure. This was before his time. More likely a beautiful woman. That would make all the sense in the world. Really quite simple: a night of drinks, maybe an after-hours gentlemen's club, a dip in someone's pool if we could find one driving around, a stroll through the natural history museum, a private party and then to bed, where Mr. Hammersmith could go to work in all his glory. How many nights have gone like this-every one of them special in its own way? How many times did I awake to this same sweet scene played out like a jazz flute solo with infinite variations on the same chords? I could almost describe the room before my eyes fully opened. There would be women, more than one, lying naked, and empty bottles and clothes. .h.i.ther and thither thrown about in pa.s.sion's full fury. There might also be a half-eaten steak sandwich and some deviled ham. There could even be a fan of mine-a total stranger who had won a contest or something, "A Night on the Town with Ron Burgundy." The tales he or she would tell for the rest of his or her life! It was one of the ways I gave back and also it was one of the ways to get the station to pay for my nights on the town. In those days, '65, '66, a night on the town could run you three to four dollars, which was a good chunk of your paycheck. Newsmen were expected to party. Not like socialites and movie stars but like oilmen and footballers. There was a code amongst the real newsmen. You couldn't report the news till you paid your dues, and by paying dues I mean you had to out-drink and out-screw everyone else in the game. The code was a lifestyle and no one could outdo me. I was simply the best. I once went to have c.o.c.ktails with Lana Cantrell and Bubba Smith. We agreed to meet in the Marina for a few afternoon drinks. I remember ordering something silly like a Naughty Squirrel. I was feeling zesty. I can remember the first sip. The next thing I felt was a boot to my rib cage. I woke up. I was in downtown Laramie with no pants, holding on to a bag of hundred-dollar bills. Another victory for sure. I know today people might look back and say, "Ron, you were an alcoholic."

Where was I? Oh yes, so I had regained consciousness in a strange small room with a naked or dead person in the corner and a female leg straddling my own leg. It was time to put on my thinking cap. First off, and this is something I do every morning to this day, I asked myself, are there any open wounds or bruises? I always like to a.s.sess the damage if there is any. Nope. I was feeling pretty good, maybe a bite mark on my arm but that hardly const.i.tutes a problem. I noticed something gooey on my hand-a gooey substance. I knew I would have to sniff it but that could wait. I also noticed a sound. It was snoring, loud, contented snoring from a man. Aha! Besides the girl and the person in the corner there was someone else in the room with me. I tried to remember the evening. Was there another man with me, perhaps from the news team? We news people tend to celebrate in groups. If you get a bunch of us together, say at a conference, or maybe a big story brings the network affiliates into town, it's Katie, bar the door! Heck, Dan Rather and I aren't even allowed in the Flamingo hotel in Vegas anymore. That was a case where things got out of hand-unpaid bills, property damage, a.s.sault charges, etc. If it weren't for Rather's connection to the mob I don't think we would have left Vegas alive that night.

Rather is one of the best in the business. That is a fact I'm not afraid to report. With that smooth Texas drawl and that s.e.xy I-will-mess-up-your-face-if-you-so-much-as-lay-a-hand-on-me smile, he is one cla.s.sy operator. I've always said if I get caught in a Moroccan back alley and I'm looking at an all-or-nothing knife fight, Dan Rather or Charles Kuralt would be my pick for wingman. Both of these guys are as comfortable with a blade in their hand as a monkey is with his p.e.n.i.s. Kuralt is legendary for quick-handed jabs and slashes, whereas Rather is the natural-born descendant of Gentleman Jim Bowie. He could toss a knife into a charging bear at fifty feet. I saw him do it one time back when bearbaiting was still very close to being legal. A man's bear got loose from his chains and headed into the crowd. Rather happened to be there on a story about Ross Barnett, the governor of Mississippi. Barnett was a big bearbaiting fan and an old-school racist. He had the Freedom Riders thrown in Parchman Farm, where they were strip-searched and humiliated. He said this about Bobby Kennedy: "I say to you that Bobby Kennedy is a very sick and dangerous American. We have lots of sick Americans in this country but most of them have a long beard. Bobby Kennedy is a hypocritical, left-wing beatnik without a beard who carelessly and recklessly distorts the facts."

The bear headed straight for Governor Barnett and Rather dropped him like a sack of old beef. I asked Dan about it a couple of years later. I knew him to be a lefty from way back when we both were members of the Commie Party for a couple of weeks. He said, "I didn't want that bear to make a martyr out of that sack of s.h.i.t." Rather could swear up a storm but I'll save that for later (see chapter 8).

Well, it was coming to me. The whole setup started to make sense. There had been a big story in San Diego that week.

The minor-league San Diego Padres became a Major League Baseball team and it was a huge, huge story! All the big network affiliates were in town. Every newsman-Mudd, Reynolds, Cronkite, Reasoner, Wallace, Huntley, Brinkley-they were all in San Diego to cover the story. So here's what must have happened. We got our stories in and then, because San Diego is my town, I hosted the evening. I took the whole gang out to my favorite watering holes. I'm sure one thing led to another and here I was in a small room with a contest winner, a naked woman or two and another man. All that was left was for me to sit up and survey the room to see who'd survived the night. I did just that. I sat up. My head hit something and I immediately saw that I was in the cabin of a small schooner. Sure enough Walter Cronkite, America's most trusted news source, was snoring away in a hammock three feet from me. His beard was maybe four or five days old. The person in the corner was Korean, a sixty- or seventy-year-old woman (still breathing thankfully), and the woman lying across me, sans undergarments, was none other than a young Barbara Walters. A slow smile formed.

Here I was, the boy from Haggleworth, Iowa, in a boat, drifting aimlessly at sea with two of the greatest newsmen who ever lived. (There's always been some confusion over whether to call a woman in the news business a "newswoman" or the more proper "female newsman." If she's risen to the level of a Barbara Walters, then she d.a.m.n well deserves to be called a "newsman." The end.) I took in the greatness of this important scene. How did I get here? Not the nuts and bolts of how I got on the boat-Cronkite stole the boat off the harbor pier, yelling, "I'm the greatest sailor that ever lived! I'm better than Sir Francis Drake! And that's the way it is!" And off we went. We were four hundred miles off the coast when I woke up. Weeks later we ended up in the Solomon Islands on a remote outcropping, shipwrecked, because Cronkite is NOT the greatest sailor that ever lived. Two months on that island with those three people fighting off monitor lizards is a whole other story. What I'm really getting at is clearly I had reached the pinnacle of success. I was number one in San Diego. Soon I had just put together the news team that would come to dominate that town for nearly a decade and I had just spent a night or maybe a week of lovemaking with Barbara Walters ... and most likely Walter Cronkite and the old Korean woman, but let's focus on Walters. I can hardly think of a more prestigious honor than a night of wine-soaked s.e.x with two respected newsmen like Cronkite and Walters. That morning, with nude bodies spread out in the cabin and the smell of body fluids everywhere, was the moment I realized I had made the big time.

It's no big deal but I'm taller than the guys on the team. I look shorter because I'm kneeling down. If you look, you can tell that my knees are bent. Clearly I'm not standing straight.

I'll be honest, Jackie O gave me the creeps. She looks like Jeanne Tripplehorn though. I'm wishing she was Jeanne Tripplehorn in this picture. No that's stupid. Tripplehorn was three years old when this photo was taken.

Norman Mailer was a real puss and I enjoyed beating him at everything.

Mark Eaton, Utah Jazz.

My great friend who I never shut up about, Lance Bullwright.

Ancient dinosaurs like the Tyrannosaurus rex terrorized the first Mexican peoples.

Having a whale of a time! (I put that in here for laughs because of the word "whale" and there's a real whale in the picture. I've always liked jokes.) My favorite bird of prey, Lady Samantha Hutchinson.

G.o.d's majesty knows no bounds.

Pointing at something.

Caught in the bubble! I go to jail for an $80 billion real estate mix-up. I've done longer stretches for public urination. Only in America!

Baxter refuses to get a job but I still love him.

My wife. My lover and a d.a.m.n fine woman anchorman.

MY TWELVE RULES FOR LIVING THROUGH A PRISON RIOT.

Prison riots are boisterous affairs. You really want to try to avoid them if you can, but at one time or another you can just bet you'll be in the middle of one. I've been in eight of them. Three in this country and another five in various countries around the world. I've even started them! Here are my twelve rules for living through it.

RULE NUMBER 1: Use it now. If you're not an idiot, then you've spent your time in jail wisely, making weapons. You should have at the very least a zip gun, a carved wooden shiv, a broken-gla.s.s-covered soap ball, a garrote wire and a chair leg with some rusty nails in it. A lot of guys will have more than this but if you have these few simple tools you'll be okay. The key here is to recognize this is the moment to use these things. It's a not a collection to take pride in and show the other guys. Prison is not a craft fair. You made these things to hurt other people, so get to it!

RULE NUMBER 2: Look for weakness. There's always fear in the air. You might as well accept it and embrace it. Some men can't handle it. They buckle under the fear. These are the ones you need to attack. Hit them fast and hard and often and if they get back up, then you didn't do something right. Hitting a weaker man will gain you confidence when you have to go after the really big cats.

RULE NUMBER 3: Use a verbal a.s.sault. Different theories abound here. Do you come across as more fearful without talking? Are a few choice words all you need? The scariest man I ever came across inside or outside of prison was a man who could squish a human head in a fight and all he ever said was, "I'm going bananas!" He didn't open his mouth for any other reason but to say those words, and if he was saying those words, it was too late, my friend! So sometimes a man of few words can indeed be a terrifying thing. However, I like to yell out a torrent of threats while running right at my victim. You should practice these in your cell at night. Practicing lines with your cell mate is fun and helps pa.s.s the time. "Here comes the face eater" is a good one. I've also said this: "I will rip your b.a.l.l.s off and saute them in garlic b.u.t.ter with basil and ground pepper. I will then add a garnish of shaved orange peels and a side of fresh-cut sliced beets misted with lemon juice. I will beautifully plate it and enjoy a gla.s.s of white wine with it while dressed in a tuxedo. It will be a Michelin three-star meal and you will not be invited to join me! Do you understand?"

RULE NUMBER 4: Go naked. Take your clothes off as soon as possible. It adds to the insanity of the whole scene. When watching scratchy security tapes of the riot later it's always a moment of pride and levity when someone yells out, "Who's that crazy naked m.o.f.o?"

RULE NUMBER 5: Paint your face. This is a must-do. When you walk out into the yard with a painted face you already have an edge. I like a simple "one side black, the other side white" look, but have fun! I've seen skulls, clowns, Jackson Pollock paintings, Egyptian symbols, brown paint that may or may not have been feces (see rule 8) and many more. If you can't do it yourself most prisons have a face-painting station for a cigarette or two.

RULE NUMBER 6: Play dead. It's not the strategy to use right out of the gate, mind you, but about midway through the riot there's no shame in curling up on the ground like you're dead. You might need to stab yourself to make it convincing but it's worth it. You get to watch all the pounding and kicking and sticking with sharp objects from a nice safe place. Again, afterward there's nothing funnier than one of the guys in the infirmary saying, "Ah s.h.i.t, Burgundy, you wasn't dead!" and then having a good hearty laugh over it.

RULE NUMBER 7: Stay with your group! A prison is a population of men organized around different social groups. There are men who are uncomfortable around black people and other races. There are men who belong to various urban societies and motorbiking clubs. Each one of these groups can be very protective, so join! Be a joiner! I'm a loner, which is not the way to go in a riot, so I try to side with the h.o.m.os.e.xuals. These crafty she-hes know how to survive and thrive in a b.l.o.o.d.y riot. They are some devious tricky b.a.s.t.a.r.ds and if you turn on them, out come the claws and the metal shivs and other stuff they hide up their b.u.t.ts.

RULE NUMBER 8: Have p.o.o.p ready. Save up bags of your own p.o.o.p and be prepared to throw it everywhere. No one likes to be hit with p.o.o.p. Make sure you have lots of it too. The closer it can be to diarrhea but still be held in your hands, the better off you are. It's just basic human nature, going back to when we were monkeys. All animals, except dogs, try to avoid getting hit by p.o.o.p. Aim for the face. It's magical stuff in a riot.

RULE NUMBER 9: Try reasoning. If you're cornered by a few thugs who want to stomp you to death, now's the time to try to reason with them. Every man carries within him a sense of fair play. We all have it, be it from our fathers, our ball-playing days or just spending time out in the world with other men in daily combat. You can count on this one basic truth. All men will see the logic in your argument and give way to a more peaceful, alternative solution. I am clearly messing with your head. (Something you learn to do in prison.) Prison riots are the very definition of unreasoned mayhem. You need to be on your toes at all times and trust no one.

RULE NUMBER 10: Be prepared for a life sentence. It doesn't matter if you've killed a man or if you're only doing a ninety-day stretch for forgery; you have to go into the riot believing you will never leave jail and like it. If you're dreaming of the day you leave, your opponent might smell hope on you. Hope is just another word for fear. Destroy all hope and turn yourself into a killing machine.

RULE NUMBER 11: m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e. Never tried this one but I saw it once in a Colombian prison, and let me tell you, everyone just left the guy alone. It's a bold move-not my style, but effective.

RULE NUMBER 12: Have fun. This might be the most important rule but so many people seem to forget it. It's a prison riot; have fun! Make a game of it. Sing to yourself. I sing songs from the musical Hair. Get punched and punch other people and smile. Don't forget to smile.

MY NEIGHBOR RICHARD WELLSPAR.

Last night around dinnertime I took a bag of dog c.r.a.p that Baxter and I had conspired to save and set it on Richard Wellspar's front doorstep. I lit it on fire, rang his doorbell and ran away. Sweet revenge! I hurried back in the house and got to the window just in time to see Wellspar stomping out the fire on his stoop! What an idiot! It worked perfectly. Baxter was ecstatic! I said very loudly to Baxter, "That'll teach him to borrow something of mine and not return it." So about five minutes later, Richard comes to my door with the charred bag of p.o.o.p.

"What is the meaning of this, Burgundy?" He's obviously very angry.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Richard. Is something the matter? I've been working on this airplane model for the last two hours." He didn't expect that, I'm sure. That was my strategic mind at work! I had gone to the hobby shop that morning and purchased a Grumman Bearcat World War II fighter plane model and put about half of it together. It actually was starting to look pretty good with the two wing pieces attached but I left it half-done and when I appeared at the front door holding the half-finished model it looked like I was in the middle of something that demanded great concentration and time. How could I have been involved in the flaming bag of p.o.o.p? I was busy making my model.

"I heard you yell out your own name!" he barked. (It's true; I do sometimes yell my own name when I'm running and when I'm overly excited.) "Half the neighborhood saw you running from my house. What is wrong with you?"

"I'm a respected News Anchor," I said to buy some time while I thought of a better response. "Here's the situation, Richard, I am afraid of fire ... so when I saw the burning bag of p.o.o.p on your doorstep I rang your doorbell to warn you and then ran away in fear. You see, my daughter ... Richardessa"-I came up with that fast!-"whose name is sort of like yours when you think about it-you two would have really hit it off-she died in a terrible awful fire about a week ago."

"Stop it, Burgundy. I don't like what you are doing and I want you to stop it. It's not funny."

"I wish I knew what you were talking about, Richard. We are neighbors and good friends. We say h.e.l.lo in the morning and borrow stuff from each other and return stuff. We're neighbors."

"You're not being a good neighbor, Burgundy. Just stop it." And he walked away. The leaf blower? Didn't even come up. So now I have determined that he means to steal my leaf blower. I am furious. It's time to put this little feud that he started into overdrive.

FROM HUNTING TO PROTECTING: BURGUNDY AND THE ANIMAL KINGDOM AND THE DAWN OF THE JACKALOPES.

I went jackalope hunting with Peter Lawford and Bobby Kennedy. I was in beautiful Las Vegas, where the women are loose and the slots are tighter than a librarian's v.a.g.i.n.a. Pardon my French! Anyway, I had an opportunity to meet both gentlemen when they took a fancy to the lady I was escorting. I was invited up to Lawford's private penthouse suite, where the three of us traded stories and sang show tunes all night long. Bobby was an excellent piano player before we lost him that blackest of days in California. I shall miss him dearly! He was a good man, ethical to the core-not like some of these politicians you see today. All of the Kennedys were made of the highest blue-blooded moral fiber and Bobby was no exception. Anyway we pa.s.sed around three or four women between us, rotating and changing our styles, and then decided it was time for breakfast. They have the most sumptuous and amazing breakfast buffets in Vegas. If you've never been to one you are simply an idiot, an idiot to your friends and family and an idiot in the eyes of G.o.d. If there was a higher form of idiot, like a circus idiot's illegitimate child with an idiot donkey, then that would be you. Here's why: They have meat like you've never seen before! Three or four different types of bacon. They have Canadian bacon. They have regular or hickory bacon and thick-cut bacon. They have ham. They have steak. They have pork. Don't get me going on the merits of a Vegas buffet. Seriously! Get this, there's usually an omelet station and you can choose your own ingredients, be it ham or bacon or beans or cheese or all of it. The breaded material is limitless. Crescent rolls from France, sweet breads and doughnuts. Oh, and pancakes! Big fluffy, b.u.t.tery pancakes like you've never tasted before. There are some fruit cups, for women I guess, but not really necessary. Two kinds of sausage, flat patties and wiener shaped. Holy Moses, I forgot the best part. When you are done scarfing all this down you simply hand the waiter your dirty plate and go back and get another clean plate for another round, free of charge! You heard me. It's all-you-can-eat! I would not lie about this. I know what you're saying: "Ron, some of the stories you tell in this novel are unbelievable." This buffet story is absolutely true. It's not the main gist of the whole story. It's really a story about hunting jackalopes with Bobby Kennedy and Peter Lawford, but I wasn't going to tell the story without the buffet part.

So there we were eating breakfast from the buffet when Kennedy starts talking about the legendary and elusive jackalope. A jackalope is a stronger and faster jackrabbit with antelope horns. They are believed to exist only in folktales and postcard shops throughout the Southwest. Anyway, Kennedy is going on and on about jackalopes when-wait one second, I forgot something about the buffet. The pancakes, I did them a real disservice. Yes they are fluffy and b.u.t.tery, but they've also got different flavored fruit syrups you can pour over them, strawberry, blueberry, peach, whatever! AND-and this is big-whipped cream. So these pancakes are more like dessert than breakfast food. Just thought I should mention that. Also free refills on the coffee!

So Kennedy is going on about the jackalope when Lawford shouts out, "Let's go jackalope hunting!" Next thing I know I'm in a convertible Mercury Monterey rolling outside of Vegas in the high desert with Peter Lawford and Bobby Kennedy. Each one of us holds a service revolver handed to us by Kennedy's security team. Lawford swears that the only way to hunt jackalope is with handguns. I know what you're thinking: Ron Burgundy is a friend to animals; he wouldn't want to hunt them. Very true, I am, indeed, a great friend to all the Animal Kingdom, but I wasn't always. In fact there was a time when I just loved to hunt. You heard it here! Ron Burgundy, nature lover, hunted and killed animals for sport. Crossbows, rifles, knives, snares, traps, throwing stars, slingshots, dynamite, my bare hands and of course guns-I used them all. My l.u.s.t for the blood sport was only outpaced by my l.u.s.t for lovemaking.

Some weekends the whole news team would pack up the camping equipment and head up into the mountains for a few days of relaxing and hunting. I would bring the chow. Brian Fantana would bring various scents he said were useful for attracting "prey." It was usually just an a.s.sortment of his various colognes but they were also highly effective in attracting animals. I would say many of his colognes were better at attracting animals than women! Bears especially liked Night Stalker.

Funny story: One night we were all out on the town having a few drinks, seeing what we could stir up, when Fantana walks in drenched in Night Stalker. It's a heavy scent. Not all women go for it. It smells like cat box and old meat. This is downtown San Diego, mind you. Anyway Brian hits the dance floor, where he can show his moves to the ladies. Suddenly everyone is screaming and running for the doors. It's a bear, not a grizzly but a pretty big black bear. It probably traveled a hundred or two hundred miles to get to what it was smelling, Night Stalker. Poor guy quickly became disoriented and angry in the dance club. Bears are not cool with disco lights and Donna Summer. That's a bear fact not everyone knows. Suffice it to say it was a real mess! After that, San Diego made it illegal to have Night Stalker within the city limits.

Anyway, back to our hunting trips. Brick Tamland would usually pack a lunch box full of yarn or secret notes, and Champ Kind, who to this day enjoys shooting and killing animals of any sort, would bring about forty to fifty guns of all sizes and makes. Too many guns really. (We once got pulled over by a state trooper in Nevada because Brian was driving 130 miles an hour through downtown Reno. The trooper asked to search the camper and was surprised by-and I think maybe a little scared of-what he found. None of the hundred or so guns we had in the camper or the trailer were registered. More than a few of them had been used in violent crimes and were sought after by prosecutors throughout the Southwest. There were even some grenades back in the trailer and a Russian-made rocket launcher. Luckily it was Nevada. We got out of there with a slap on the wrist and a twenty-dollar fine. That particular trip turned out to be a huge disaster, which is an entirely different story! Let's just say there's a big difference between hunting and insurrection.) Mainly our little hunting excursions didn't amount to much more than four drunk guys in the woods shooting off guns and eating cans of soup! I don't even remember bagging many animals when the news team got together to hunt. It wasn't about that. It was more about friends yelling and not shaving. However I do recall one time when we probably killed a mountain lion, or maybe more than one. I say that because we spent a night in Montana fighting off mountain lions. Once again Brian had one of his colognes with him, I think it was something he called Erotic Dawn. Whatever it was, it sure attracted mountain lions. I don't care what naturalists say, mountain lions are not solitary creatures. They can organize and work in groups if the need arises. They can even work with other animals, like racc.o.o.ns and hawks, if they want something bad enough. They wanted Erotic Dawn real bad. We spent that night completely sober shooting semiautomatic weapons out into the dark, just praying we were hitting the lions. Scary stuff. Fond memories. I can now look back on those days and laugh! I'm a different man today and soon enough you'll see why. My transformation happened almost all at once at a point in my life I still call "the Dawn of the Jackalope."

So back to the jackalope tale. Me, Kennedy and Lawford are driving in the desert. There's plenty of booze in the car-this was back in the days when you could legally drive drunk. Most men in the late sixties who were responsible and held down respectable nine-to-five jobs drove home drunk every night. No one said anything then! I don't know. Times change. Frankly it would not have mattered if we were swerving all over the highway, because we were definitely off the main roads in the middle of nowhere. At one point I remember asking Lawford if he knew where we were going and he said, "To h.e.l.l!" Kennedy just laughed and shot his pistol into the air. After about five or six hours of driving through the desert we came to a spot where we parked the car. Lawford got very quiet. He whispered, "We are in the land of the jackalope. Keep all of your senses alive." We got out to walk. We carried whatever bottles of beer and bourbon we could find in the car along with some flares and boxes of ammo, then headed out on foot. We walked for hours, only stopping to drink the bourbon. The heat was punishing. The sole force pushing us on under the brutal sun and over uneven desert terrain was the chance encounter with the vicious and fast-attacking jackalope.

I'll tell you this. If you want to get to know a man, I mean really get to know him, go jackalope hunting with him. We three got very close out there as we slowly started to die from heatstroke and dehydration. Bobby confided in me that he was responsible for Marilyn Monroe's death. He had been in love with her long before his brother John but if he couldn't have her, then no one could. He forced pills on her and left her to die. Peter told me he once had a three-way with Frank Sinatra and his daughter Nancy.

There's a chance none of this was true of course. Men say strange things before they are about to die of heatstroke. Our brains were like hot cream of barley soup. I confessed to both of them that I stole dinosaur bones from the Museum of Natural History in New York City. (That actually was true. I did steal those bones, but I needed them.) We wandered aimlessly for days. When the beer and bourbon ran out we experienced a new kind of torture. Bobby Kennedy would not shut up. He was a bit of a Boy Scout and a know-it-all. He was arrogant, like every Kennedy. The kind of arrogance you admire and appreciate and look up to until you have to listen to it all day. Lawford and I quickly grew to hate him and his endlessly blathering mouth. Unfortunately we also knew he was our best chance at survival. He found us water underneath the sand and sustenance in lizards, snakes and cacti. He was an excellent marksman with a revolver as well. Crossing him might have cost us our lives, so we toed the line and nodded our heads when he talked. The sun came up maybe six or seven times on us while we were out there. Buzzards began circling on day five. Meanwhile we hadn't seen one jackalope. Lawford was beginning to scare me with his Captain Ahablike declarations. "Gentlemen, there's jackalopes afoot." Or "I smell jackalope." I was beginning to think maybe the jackalope was some sort of hoax made up for tourists!

Without upsetting Peter Lawford I walked Kennedy out into the desert where we could talk alone. We sat on a rock under the moonlight while Lawford painted his own blood on his face. I quietly spoke to Bobby of my doubts. He confessed to me he hated politics and that he really wanted to be a maintenance man in a luxury hotel but that his father, Joseph, was a real a.s.shole. I tried to stay on point with my concern about the existence of jackalopes and whether we needed to be out in the desert at all. He confided in me that Jackie O was a better lay than Marilyn and that the woman had a mouth on her that could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. I wanted to listen to his concerns and confidences but I really felt we needed to form a majority opinion so we could talk Lawford into heading back toward civilization. He understood, I think, but wanted me to know that his brother Ted was gay and couldn't handle it and so he drank. I took this in-that was a big one-but I straight-up asked him if he thought jackalopes were real! He didn't answer for a long time. I could hear coyotes howling off in the distance. They would be getting close soon. Somewhere a desert owl announced his loneliness with a mournful hoot. The desert is a cold mistress. Finally, Bobby sat up and said these words to me from the poet Aeschylus: "Wisdom comes alone through suffering." He then walked out into the darkness. I didn't see him again. Like everyone I was shocked and saddened by his death. I had the solemn duty of having to report it on the evening news. I ended the night's broadcast with another Aeschylus quotation that maybe Bobby would have appreciated: "Call no man happy until he is dead." When I awoke the next morning Peter Lawford was standing over me holding a pistol to my face. "Where's Kennedy?" he yelled. I told him that he'd walked off into the night but he was having none of it. He was sure I had eaten him. Lawford had smeared a clown's smile on his face and three lines across his forehead. He also had blisters all over his head from the sun. He was nude. I tried to reason with him. I told him how much I liked Bobby and that I would never eat him. Peter was not convinced. He told me he was going to have to kill me to see if he could get his friend Bobby out of my belly. This was nonsense, I thought, but he c.o.c.ked the gun aimed at my face. Now, here's where the story gets kind of unbelievable, but it's absolutely true, as is every word of this novel. As I was about to get shot by Peter Lawford, a voice so smooth and soothing came from the wind and spoke these words: "Kill not this man!" Lawford and I were stunned. Who spoke? Peter started spinning and shooting into the air. It was no use. There was no one there. Both of us were trembling in fear ... but then we saw it: a jackalope! And then another, and soon we were surrounded. Thousands of jackalopes, squealing and thumping. It was unbearable. Then after several minutes the squealing and thumping stopped. The biggest jackalope of all approached us and spoke. "My name is Sekannawan, son of Kokatah, cousin to the wind, king of the jackalopes. This violence you wish on each other cannot happen on our sacred ground. You, the one called Ron Burgundy"-he looked at me-"why does this man wish to bring you into eternal darkness?"

"This man," I said to the jackalope, "believes I have eaten Senator Bobby Kennedy. He believes Mr. Kennedy is alive and in my belly."

"Is this true, Peter Lawford?" asked Sekannawan.

"Yes, proud mythical beast. I believe the senator has been eaten by this man."

"Not so," said the jackalope king. "Bobby Kennedy was given permission to walk free from here and with our aid he made it back to civilization. He is enjoying the breakfast buffet at the Desert Inn even as I speak."

Well, you can imagine how this really burned my britches. Suddenly I didn't care a lick about this talking jackalope king and I let him know it. "Now, you listen to me! My name is Ron Burgundy and I'm not going to sit here listening to any half rabbit, half antelope blabber on while Bobby Kennedy is enjoying a delicious breakfast buffet. I WILL NOT STAND FOR IT!"

"Then you have no choice but to enter the Ring of Lost Horns and fight me unto the death!" said Sekannawan the jackalope king.

"Then I shall fight you!" I cried.

"Be careful, Burgundy." Peter was back on my side. "He will tear your limbs off and eat your liver while you are still alive. He will feed your eyes to his children while you can still feel the pain. The raw sound of gnashing baby jackalope teeth on your eyes will drive you to insanity before you die!" It was truly the most emotive I had seen Peter Lawford since his turn as Theodore Laurence in Little Women. I told him as much and he was grateful for the notice.

We were paraded some miles to a circular patch in the desert. The ground was littered with the horns of dead jackalopes. It was a gruesome sight to be sure but my mind was focused on that buffet. I couldn't stop thinking about maybe one day possibly wrapping two pancakes around a western omelet in the shape of a huge spongy burrito. I would call it "the Breakfast Burgito" and it would be enjoyed the world over. In my reverie I hardly heard the sounding of the jackalope yell signaling the beginning of the fight. Sekannawan came at me fast. His little jackrabbit feet exploded his muscular body off the ground. His antlers pointed right at my face as he flew through the air. It was like a grenade had gone off and the shrapnel was coming at me. I had time for one move and one move only. My two hands went instinctively to guard my face. The antlers. .h.i.t my hands with surprisingly little force. He was a lightweight. I grabbed ahold of both antlers and tore him in half. The fight was over. A thousand jackalopes stood in mute silence, stunned by the death of their king. But soon the silence grew to a murmur and then a growl. "Kill him!" they yelled! And just like that they were on us, Lawford and me. Ripping and gnashing and tearing, they tried their best, but we were killing jackalopes faster than you can say omelet fixins.

"ENOUGH!" came the cry of a female jackalope. Suddenly they all stopped attacking. When she spoke I knew that she was their queen. "My name is Kokenta, queen of the jackalopes. I say free this man! He has honored the law of the Ring of Lost Horns. He is worthy of our respect and admiration and shall hereafter be known as Ron Burgundy, king of the jackalopes." I think she was trying to save face, because clearly Lawford and I were going to rip up their entire population in about ten minutes.

"Great queen," I said, "I do not wish to be worshipped as your king but only to return to the Desert Inn for their breakfast buffet."

"You can return, Ron Burgundy, under one condition," she spoke.

"Name your price, wise jackalope queen."

"From this day forth you shall harm not beasts of the wild for any reason other than survival of thyself."

I was slow to answer but when the words finally came I felt a great relief, like a magical feeling of being one with the universe had overtaken me and I was suddenly free. I answered her demand thusly: "I will indeed honor your condition and from this day forth, this dawn of the jackalopes, I, Ron Burgundy, son of Claude Burgundy, will harm not any beasts of the wild unless my own life is challenged."

"Go in peace, Ron Burgundy," my new friend Kokenta said. "Your name will forever be sung in our epic songs. Your deeds will not be forgotten by the jackalopes! Make haste. The breakfast buffet ends at eleven thirty." And off the thousand jackalopes went, racing into the desert. I have not seen one since. But, yes, they have seen me.

My experience with the jackalopes was deep and life altering. I began a journey of new understanding in relation to the Animal Kingdom as a whole. Baxter, my very best friend and dog, was my constant companion and guide through this new consciousness. I am a sensitive man unafraid to express my feelings. I have been known to cry from time to time. I've never made it through the movie One on One with Robby Benson because I get too choked up. It's so very emotional. If you haven't seen it, do so, it's a real treat. A young college basketball player with great one-on-one skills is forced to play in a system of offense and defense that severely constricts his style. It's torturous to watch. The overbearing coach, played by G. D. Spradlin, simply won't let the kid create on the court. Whatever you do, don't tell me how it ends. I have never seen the ending and I doubt I ever will. The waterworks start flowing as soon as I hear the Seals and Crofts song "My Fair Share" and because of my loud sobbing, almost screaming really, I am always asked to leave the theater. Annette O'Toole plays a b.i.t.c.hy but softhearted tutor-Oh boy ... I'm having a hard time getting through this right now! Forget I brought up the movie One on One. It's just too d.a.m.n emotional for me to even write about it.

My point here is simple. I am a sensitive man. I'm not afraid to pick a flower or delight in a b.u.t.terfly or go for a skip. I care about the world around me and all of its creatures. Now when I see a manatee or a dingo or a hyena or a toucan or a giraffe or a leopard or a tortoise or a cow or a baboon or a Gila monster, I have no desire to kill it. Take the wild baboon for an example. If you run at a baboon with your arms waving, yelling with your shirt off, which I have done, the animal will see it as an act of aggression and run full speed right at you. His only thought will be how to get at your face and tear it off so he can eat your head meat. I don't speak baboon. I confess I don't speak any animal language. However, Baxter can communicate with almost all of G.o.d's creatures and I can converse with him. On that particular safari when I ran out to a baboon to play a joke on him I was nearly torn to shreds. He was feet away from chewing off my whole face when Baxter barked out, "No, proud race of ape! He is your brother!" To which the baboon responded, "This thing is no ape!"

Baxter would have none of it and he said to the baboon, "He is an upright ape, no more dignified than you, great baboon, but simply one that can drive a car and uses small sharp knives to cut the hair on his face."

"Why is he running at me?"

"The human man is not smart. He does not understand basic body language."

"He could have gotten killed," the baboon warned. (All of this conversation was related to me later by Baxter on the plane ride home.) "I have had to save him many times from all sorts of animals in the Animal Kingdom," said Baxter.

"I don't understand, what's in it for you?"

"He puts dry dog food in a bowl for me."

"A devil's bargain!"

"He is my friend. I sleep with him when he has not 'scored.' I sleep with him often."

"What is your name?"

"My name is Baxter and his name is Ron Burgundy."

"Well, Baxter, you tell your friend Ron Burgundy not to run at baboons the way he did. It's weird."

"I shall relate that to him. You are a gentle soul."

"And you are a wise dog. Go now. I am hungry and I will want to eat either you or the Ron Burgundy."

"We will take our leave. Can I smell your red b.u.t.t?"

"Of course."

An animal that understands that you respect him, from the fearsome white shark to the impulsive and grumpy bear, will be more willing to treat you with respect.

Over time I have come to understand the Animal Kingdom as one great hierarchy. The n.o.ble eagle sits at the top. He is G.o.d's greatest creation, soaring through the skies with magnificent splendor and grace! His watchful eye looks over us all. I am in awe of the eagle and I believe one day when the skies fall and great chasms of doom open up to swallow mankind, it will be the eagle that rescues and guides those of us worthy (that would be me and my news team for sure) into the next land. I have several wood carvings of eagles in my home for this reason. One of them has a removable head and a hollowed-out body where you can hide some keys or half pencils like the kind you get at a golf course. If the n.o.ble eagle is at the top of the Animal Kingdom, then surely the lowly sea otter is at the bottom. They are the dumbest, most stupid animals out there. I can't even imagine what kind of h.e.l.l we would be in for if the sea otter ever took control of the world. Simply put, they would ruin it. I don't hate them but I sure wouldn't trust them with maintaining order. Baxter confided in me once that talking to sea otters was like talking to aerobics instructors. I don't doubt it. They are self-centered and boring and all they want to talk about is fish. Meanwhile Baxter tells me that most eagles think like ancient Greeks with minds sharper than Socrates'. Baxter has also told me on several occasions that eagles intimidate him. His small dog brain is no match for the cerebral majesty of the eagle.

As a kind of sidebar I would like to say wild eagles do not make great pets. I was offered a wild eagle by a Russian I had come to know through the world of high-stakes archery. We both had an interest in falconry. (I have owned several world-cla.s.s falcons over the years.) This man-I will call him "Glavtec" because he would definitely not want me to reveal his true ident.i.ty-had six bald eagles in the trunk of his car that he was trying to unload. He was in to me for a lot of archery money. I REALLY wanted one of those eagles but I knew it was illegal to own a bald eagle in this country. I decided if I kept the eagle inside my house no one would be the wiser and I could have my cake and eat it too. I threw the eagle in a pillowcase and took him home. Well, day one the eagle tore up everything in my house. Day two he scratched up Baxter and me pretty badly. Day three he got caught in a fan and while trying to rescue him I got scratched up worse than before. Day four he sat on the couch almost lifeless, watching TV and possibly contemplating suicide. Day five he began working on a strategy for escape. Day six he was polite and even ate dinner with us at the table. Day seven he allowed me to place a small Uncle Sam hat on his head and posed for a picture with me and Baxter in our red, white and blue swimsuits. Day eight I taught him to drive a miniature fire truck in a comical way and he looked like he was enjoying himself. On the ninth day Baxter and I decided to take our new best friend for a walk on the beach. The minute I opened the door he flew away. He had been planning it all along! He was just playing with me to get free. Ingenious! He still, to this day, attacks me when he sees me. I'm forever watching the skies. He truly is a magnificent bird.

Where does man fit in this great chain of being? I'll tell you. Right between the narwhal and the puma, and that's pretty close to the top, my friend. I would say humans are positioned maybe a hundred or so animals from the top. Pretty good considering there are more than a thousand animals. Things like cheetahs, hermit crabs and salmon are definitely higher than us, but then donkeys, parrots and daddy longlegs are below us. It really puts things in perspective when you come to understand the science of the Animal Kingdom and where we as humans stand within it, or Human Positionology, as it is known in science circles. I try not to lord it over the dumber lower animals, like horses and woodp.e.c.k.e.rs, because I always know there are more intelligent animals, like the squirrel and fruit bats, that can look down on me! Through my experiences with the jackalopes and my understanding of the great chain of being I have become a friend to all nature. I no longer hunt for pleasure. I don't condemn those who do. Champ Kind, my friend and an award-winning sports journalist, kills, on average, around five to six hundred animals a year. He loves to hunt. He would hunt caged chickens if it were legal. Maybe he does anyway! I know every year he goes off on his annual hunting trip to some secret island with a group of men known only as the Dark Watch. I don't know what they hunt. I don't want to know. I say live and let live, which might not be what they say at all. Funny situations.