Let Me Off at the Top!: My Classy Life and Other Musings

by Ron Burgundy

Should carry lunch in a kid’s lunch box.

  Should live with mother.

  Remembers the birthday of everyone he’s met.

  Listens to transistor radio at bus stop.

  Likes watching softball games in park.

  Enjoys petting rabbits.

  Has rigid daily routine.

  Should smile too much.

  Will try any food.

  Cannot resist waiting in lines.

  Only has tighty-whitey underwear.

  Buys shoes from nursing supply store.

  Is best friends with old people.

  Must have name tags sewn into his clothes with address and phone number in case of an emergency.

  Someone in the room then asked about meteorological understanding but I said no. It was important but not vital, not like these other qualities on the list. A guy could be whip-smart with meteorology skills but what’s that got to do with being a weatherman? It’s a little like saying a smart news reporter makes a great anchorman. Let’s also consider the very real possibility that meteorology is nothing less than wizardry handed down to us from Arthurian times. Was Merlin the first weatherman? I don’t think there’s enough evidence to point to the contrary. If that’s the case, then we have to assume that anyone who studies meteorology is really a wizard. I don’t know about you but I think having a wizard on staff is not very professional. Is it neat? Of course it’s way cool, but is it safe? Wizards are notorious for meddling in affairs they should not meddle in—using potions and spells in harmful ways and just generally engaging in mischief. In my opinion the safety issue outweighs the cool benefits of having a wizard around. I struck meteorology off the list and we went looking for our man.

  The guys spread out, going to city parks, drinking fountains, bus stops, places where there were ducks—no stone was left unturned. Champ brought back a guy who on the surface looked pretty good, but when he was fully vetted it was discovered he had been working in a petroleum refinery and had been exposed to way too many gas leaks. Ed Harken found a timid-looking fortysomething man feeding bread crumbs to ducks out of an Aquaman lunch box but every time he tried to approach him the guy ran away like a scared deer. Brian just took off looking for tail and wasn’t much help at all.

  Turns out lady luck was with me again. She has always favored Ron Burgundy and I have honored her with many burning sacrifices. I found Brick Tamland sitting on a park bench listening to a baseball game through a tiny transistor radio. I knew he was our guy from the moment I saw him. I asked him about the game and lo and behold, he produced a turtle from his pocket and told me his name was “Turtle.” The rest of the conversation went something like this:

  Brick

  I have a head and feet too.

  Me

  What’s that?

  Brick

  I am inside my head and outside my head.

  Me

  My name is Ron Burgundy.

  Brick

  My name is name.

  Me

  I’m a News Anchor.

  Brick

  I know one thing for sure.…

  Me

  What’s that?

  Brick

  It’s a funny sunny funny day.

  Truer words have never been spoken. In fact, since the very first days on record, there never has been anything but a sunny day in San Diego. Every day in San Diego is exactly the same as the day before. Here was the perfect guy. When I asked him where he lived his first response was to point at me and yell, “Stranger! Danger!” But when he saw I wasn’t going anywhere he checked inside his elastic underwear band and read where it said “Brick Tamland, 410 Meadow Lane, San Diego, California, USA.”

  The man was a natural. He stood in front of a map and smiled and told everyone that today was sunny and tomorrow was also going to be sunny. He did fun segments with elementary school kids and old people. He went to petting zoos and raffled weather maps for charity, and every day he did the birthday list off the top of his head. Was he mentally challenged? Sure. Did we know it then? Of course not. We had mentally challenged people playing football, working in aviation, appointed secretary of agriculture. Mentally challenged folks taught high school shop, made excellent nurses and wrote television shows. It was a simpler time. Have we progressed since then? It’s a good question. Brick Tamland is my friend and he’s a retard.

  With Brick in place we had it. We had the entire news team. Our domination in the San Diego area went unchecked for years. We were beyond legendary. We were gods. No statement of fact has ever been more factual than this one: We were the best news team that ever lived.

  THE NIGHT I MADE LOVE TO BRUCE LEE

  Here’s a quick story that I just have to tell. In 1973 martial arts champion and actor Bruce Lee came to San Diego to promote his new film, Enter the Dragon. I’ve always been a fan of the martial arts. I love the kicking and the flipping and the hitting. It really gets the heart pumping. I can’t say I’ve mastered martial arts. I’ve taken karate classes and I do have a green belt. The problem for me is if I get into a fight I tend to improvise a lot. The karate goes out the window and I end up throwing O’Leary and Johnson around like a drunken idiot. I wish I were a karate expert like Bruce Lee. Sometimes I imagine myself in a situation with a briefcase full of important top secret documents and seven Asian guys have surrounded me in an attempt to steal the briefcase. I then pretend that I must fight them off using martial arts. I usually win, but not always.

  I was a little nervous about meeting Bruce Lee because I am such a fan. His nunchuk work alone is simply legendary. Nunchuks, or “nunchaku,” as the Chinese call them, are two sticks connected by a chain and used as a weapon in martial arts. If I’m in a room with nunchuks you might as well forget it. It’s like putting down a plate of peanut butter cookies, I cannot resist picking them up. I will invariably grab those nunchuks and start flipping them around, whirling them through the air and within seconds my whole face is bruised and bleeding. I can’t work ’em. I just can’t. Don’t even let me hold them. I will start swinging them all over the place and bonk. “Bonk” is the wrong word. You can’t get taken to the hospital when you are “bonked.” It’s like a team of horses has trampled me.

  So I go to meet Bruce Lee in the lobby of the Hilton in downtown San Diego. Sure enough, as soon as I’m seated across from him for an interview I notice the nunchuks. I remember reaching for them. I remember Bruce Lee smiling at me and the next thing I know I’m lying in a room at the Hilton with welts on my face. Those darn nunchuks! Apparently I hit myself five or six times in the head and then went down. Bruce Lee, the perfect gentleman, suggested I be taken to his room until I came to. When I finally regained consciousness it was well into the evening and frankly I was a little embarrassed to be lying in bed in his hotel room. It’s not important to say it at all but the Hilton has the finest bedding, the best thread count and firmest pillows of any of the hotel chains. Oh, and the service is excellent.

  When I came to, Mr. Lee was washing my feet in the tradition of a Japanese samurai warrior. It’s traditional for the samurai to sponge the feet of honored visitors. I noticed that all my clothes had been removed. Mr. Lee was also naked—in the tradition of the samurai warrior. Humility, respect and hospitality are some of the traits of a true samurai along with courage, quickness and strength. Their ability to move gently and stay secretive, striking at the opportune moment, is a result of hours and hours of disciplined study. I respect these ancient Japanese warriors and their customs so when Mr. Lee explained to me in his broken, frankly awful English that he needed to make love to me, I understood the cultural significance. Historians tell us that the samurai warriors would seek out village men for a night of lovemaking before heading into battle. It was a great honor to be chosen thusly. I didn’t know this historical fact at the time but Mr. Lee explained this to be the case. I pointed out that he was Chinese not Japanese but he brushed this aside saying it didn’t really matter. Our eyes locked. He was, without a doubt, a beautifu
l man. The musculature alone was something to behold but the eyes were where he got you. Those dark pools were just too enchanting, like two warm baths, you could not but be enticed to take a dip. There was a part of me that wanted to look away but I knew that would be a sign of great disrespect.

  The lovemaking was lightning quick, like his fighting style. His efficiency and flexibility were stunning. There were hands and feet all over the place. With all the biting and scratching it was like wrestling with three hairless wolves. Keep in mind this was 1973 and long before homosexuality was invented. I’ve made my stance pretty clear on how I feel about that and how I’m A-OK with the whole business but this had very little to do with anything of that nature—this was two warriors going at it with great respect and admiration for ancient traditions. Was there tenderness? Of course there was. Was it sexually gratifying? Yes. Did fingers find their way into places reserved for baser functions? You bet. But all of it happened in the fraternal spirit of male bonding, just like in olden times when men did stuff like that all the time. It was very manly.

  When it was over we both felt the triumph of having worshipped at the altar of heroes. We were two proud warriors: he, the ancient Chinese samurai, and I, like some noble Greek champion of yore. We enjoyed a couple of cigarettes and lay next to each other in the quiet peace of a job well done. We were just a couple of guys.

  As I left the room that morning he turned to me and said in his terrible English, “Mr. Burgundy, we like golden boat in river that have no current.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “My feewings to you are like night bird afwaid of light.”

  “You feel for me like a bat? Okay. See you.”

  I walked out never to see him again. He was to pass away two weeks later in Hong Kong. I miss Bruce Lee—he was a great fighter, a decent actor and a great lover. Anyway, that story gets told at least once a day, sometimes twice, to just about anyone I meet.

  MY LOVE FOR THIS COUNTRY

  I don’t often talk about it because I don’t like to brag but I am a real patriot. It’s a pretty controversial opinion, I know, but I love the United States of America and I’m not afraid to say it. There was a time, from about 1967 to 1974, when I would make phone calls to people I didn’t know all across this land and tell them that I loved the United States. Imagine you’re sitting in your home, lying in bed or in the kitchen enjoying a meal, and the phone rings. Now imagine picking up that phone and the first thing you hear is “I love the United States.” It must have been great. My phone bills were through the roof! I didn’t care. It was my way of giving back. Some guys went off to war, some gave to charities and still others had red, white and blue belts. I called people at any hour of the night in cities all across this nation to let them know how I feel.

  If you don’t love this country you need to go and spend a half an hour in Canada or Mexico. Here’s two countries, literally right next to us, that really blew it. I get down to Mexico from time to time. San Diego is a just a short way from the border and it can be a fun day to drive down, hit Tijuana, take in a show, maybe watch a bullfight, and eat some tacos. I’ll usually also have a drink or two. Here’s what always happens. After the show or the bullfight I’ll have a couple more drinks. Well, that just about does it. The rest of the night is a circus blur of colorful piñatas and distorted toothless laughter. I don’t know how it happens but somehow, after the bullfight or the show, I get drugged. It happens every time. Some sneaky Mexican puts something in my drink and good-bye, Ron Burgundy. How long am I out? Sometimes weeks. Ed Harken, my good friend and station manager at Channel 4, sent a team of navy SEALs into Mexico one time to see if he could find me. In the end they did find me but what they found was a surprise to all, including myself. I wasn’t even Ron Burgundy. My name was Señor Big Jones and I was the mayor of a fishing village on the Baja Peninsula. I had been mayor for almost a month, establishing new literacy programs and public works projects, giving the town a real sense of pride. I worked like the devil, pushing through important legislation not just for well-heeled residents, of which there were none, but for the simple man in the street. I think I could have easily won a second term—I had plans for a new light rail transit system—but Ed had me airlifted back to San Diego and the town fell back into the hands of the shitbird who ran it before. Maria, my wife during this period (go figure!), tells me that the Big Jones Library still stands, with one of the finest collections of original incunabula in the world, including two complete copies of the Gutenberg Bible, whatever the heck that is. Oh well, I have been known to do some pretty dumb stuff when I’m on a bender.

  In general, and this is only part of the problem with the country, Mexico is not a place to go on a bender. Apart from my colorful time as a mayor and the year I was a hill bandit, the usual Mexican bender ended with me in jail. Traditionally I’d wake up and some squat polistero (Spanish for “policeman”) would be pointing his pudgy Mexican finger in my face yelling something about me throwing punches. I don’t doubt it. I have thrown a lot of punches in Mexico. When you get the whole news team down there, Brian, Champ and Brick, you are talking about a human tornado of irresponsible fists. We don’t go looking for fights, but gosh darn it, those Mexican guys down there can’t take criticism. I mean, you open your mouth about how their food smells, or how they speak American worse than children, or how there isn’t one of them with blond hair—reasonable and fair criticism—and they just go crazy! Do I love Mayan art? Yes. Do I love Cortés? Yes. Do I love Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass? Of course I do. I love the Mexican peoples but they can be a proud, fiery race. One theory, which I believe will one day be taken as fact, explaining why their passion often outstrips their reason is related to brain size. Due to a bean diet and other environmental factors, like their proximity to the sun and its powerful shrinking rays, their brains are just not that big. Has this theory been proven? No, but sometimes it’s not prudent to wait for all the facts to come in. You have to quickly sign up for a theory so you can say, “I was there first.”

  There are many great things about Mexico. If it wasn’t a huge waste of time a guy could write a whole book about Mexico. They got history. I mean, somebody made those pyramids, right? (I’m revealing stuff I said I never would, so I would prefer it if you read this next sentence after I’m dead. Those pyramids were built by aliens. That’s a fact. The pyramids in Egypt were built by the British in the seventeenth century and the pyramids in Vegas were built by my good friend Steve Wynn. These are all facts. They are disputable for sure but facts just the same.) Mexico is very rich with history. If I were to write such a book, a gigantic waste of my time mind you, but if I were to write it I would bind it in sumptuous Corinthian leather and illustrate it with paintings by my very best friend, LeRoy Neiman. The book would weigh at least twenty-five pounds and would make a great addition to any fine library, and if you’re into pressing flowers between the pages of books this would be the one. I have a book of poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the undisputed champion of American poetry, that I purchased in an old curio shop called B. Dalton for thirty-six dollars with beautiful etched illustrations and golden pages bound in the most expensive absolutely real leather available. It’s probably a first edition and I own it. I make sure people see it and talk about it when they come in my house. You can’t miss it. The display case I built for it makes it impossible to open the front door all the way but it’s worth it. I’m sure this Mr. B. Dalton is pretty steamed I walked off with a first-edition Longfellow, our greatest poet, for thirty-six bucks! Guess what? He’s not getting it back! Anyway, if I was to write a history of Mexico, meaning if I was willing to take time away from picking my nose or watching Jeopardy! or sitting on the toilet, it would be that kind of book—a big luxurious book with old-timey Spanish-style letters. I would call the book The Fabulous Fables and Rich Tales of Olden Mexico and Its Regal Peoples. I would like to see that title written in gold! I’m beginning to think I may just write this book. I bet everyone in Mexi
co would appreciate it—to have a book written specifically about you by a legitimately important American! Who wouldn’t want that? The Mexicans may not deserve such a book but I’m going to give it some serious thought. Can you imagine waking up one morning in that godforsaken, dust-blown country and then hearing that Ron Burgundy has taken the time to write a book all about you and your land? Incredible. It would be incredible. I’m going to do it.

  The fact is the United States of America is better than Mexico not for all the reasons above but for this simple fact: The Mexican people are THE most self-centered people I know. Here’s a little test I throw at your average Mexican. I have five questions locked and loaded that I will spring on them just to prove my theory from time to time.

  Question 1. Who signed the Declaration of Independence first?

  Question 2. How many original colonies were there?

  Question 3. Name three Hostess baked-good products.

  Question 4. Order these five cities by population, highest to lowest: Toledo, Mobile, St. Paul, Salt Lake City, Orlando.

  Question 5. Sing the national anthem.

  As you can see, no tricks here, just plain simple questions anybody on this green earth should be able to answer, especially Mexicans. Notice I don’t just ask culturally specific questions. These are questions to which everyone in the world knows the answer. Of course in this country children can answer these questions! In Mexico hardly anybody knows the answers. Who doesn’t know the original colonies? Who can’t say three Hostess products? Cupcakes! Twinkies! Ho Hos! Easy! It’s not like I’m asking some poor Mexican guy off the street to recite the Constitution. Heck, I can’t even do that. But really? You grow up a few miles from the greatest country in history and you don’t even know “The Star-Spangled Banner”? That’s either stupidity or willful ignorance. I go back and forth on this one. I used to only believe it was willful ignorance, which got me into a lot of fights and a lot of jail time. Now I see the Mexican as a simple man without much capacity for learning. It goes back to my theory on brain size. In some ways I feel sorry for him. As a great nation we should do something, but what? What can you really do if the people themselves don’t want to learn American history so they can better themselves? What can you do! It’s terribly frustrating! Goddamn it, I just threw my typewriter out the window! It gets me so frustrated though. You’re not going to believe this; I threw another typewriter out the window. That’s two that have flown through the air while I’ve been writing about Mexico. I gotta cool down. Typewriters are heavy and could cause a lot of damage down below. I took a shower. I shouldn’t get so worked up. Anyway, I challenge you to find a nation wallowing in its own stupid patriotic pride more than the Mexican nation. Everywhere you go idiots are waving flags and bragging about how great they are. Okay, if you’re so great, how is it you can’t even sing the national anthem? Grrrrrr! Hard to believe but I threw out my last typewriter. Luckily Sears was open, where I have a card, and I was able to purchase THEIR last typewriter. No more writing about Mexico!