Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬
 Ron Burgundy & Robin Thicke “Ride Like The Wind”
 Michael McDonald “Sweet Freedom”
 Ron Burgundy & The Channel 4 News Team “Afternoon Delight”
 Herbie Mann & Phil Woods “Bohemia After Dark”
 Kansas “Carry on My Wayward Son”
Anyway enough about you, how about some Ham ‘n Eggs Ron Burgundy style? That’s right, you did hear me correctly and no this is not a drill so please don’t adjust your televisions. My suggestion instead would be to drink me in like a fine Cognac, swill me around your palate some, then dribble me down to your cleavage and I’ll take things from there. I’m sorry, is my approach a little too new age for you? Okay then, let’s dial things back to coitus and we can work our way up to small talk gradually. I have a hot tub you know. Where did that come from? I must assure you that I don’t make a habit of bragging about my … had I mentioned that it’s got three speed settings? HOT, DAMN HOT, and just plain old DAMN for the completionists.
There I go again. Where are my manners? You didn’t come here just to take a long naked soak in my personal spa. Or did you? I’m just saying that I’ve got you covered if you forgot your swimming costume. You see a gentleman never peeks, I know that as I met one once and he told me I was doing things all wrong. Did I take his advice on board? No actually I karate chopped him straight in his Adam’s apple. Then I recorded an EP of love songs and made sweet unprotected sex with his wife beneath the twinkling stars. Needless to say, she thanked me and I accepted this token of gratitude as it seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do.
I know what you’re thinking right now. Actually I don’t but I’ve whittled it down to three possibilities. Either you’re wondering which one of the gods groomed my mustache, hoping that just one percent of my cool rubs off with the rough side of a scouring pad, or trying to figure out what excuse to give your husband tomorrow morning when you fail to prepare his pancake breakfast. It’s quite alright, all three are acceptable in my book, as I tend to have that kind of effect on women and sometimes men too. What can I say other than that I’m Ron Burgundy and, if you look up burgundy in the dictionary, then there’s a picture of me right beside it.
You see, burgundy was invented in 1947 by Mongolian settlers and went on to become one of the most sought after commodities in the Western hemisphere. In a recent survey, it was discovered to be three times more precious than mahogany and, to this day, there have only been several recorded sightings of burgundy anywhere in the world and one of them is happening right now so you can count yourself decidedly lucky. Roughly translating to “he who sips malt whiskey from a plimsole”, it also has a whole host of unofficial meanings. My personal favorite is “the balls” as that’s pretty much me in a nutshell.
So how do I plan to back up these claims? Well how about we call on the facts as they love to speak for themselves and I try my darndest not to break their flow. The year was 1974, The Godfather Part II was doing tidy business at the box-office, youngsters were digging the sultry sounds of Joni Mitchell, and Richard Nixon had just resigned from office after entering into an illicit affair with a Golden Retriever. The United States of America was crying out for change and desperately needed a new hero to aspire to. Meanwhile, the city of San Diego was where it was at and KVWN Channel 4 was making all kinds of hot noise. Never before had the country felt so united.
You see, if there’s one thing that never stops to catch its breath, then news would be that thing and it just so happened that my staple diet comprised precisely that. As I prepared my morning muesli, I made sure to sprinkle it with current affairs, and it would be accurate to say that nobody had their finger on the pulse like Ron Burgundy. However, while the ratings were soaring almost entirely on account of the handsome chap presenting the headlines, I was also fully aware that there was no “I” to be found loitering in team.
Enter my award-winning news team, two and a half men who had been with me ever since my very first chest hair. I was seven-years-old in case you were wondering and quite the champion it was too. Anyway, about that entourage. Well there was lead field reporter Brian Fantana, sportscaster Champion “Champ” Kind, and chief meteorologist Brick Tamland, all of whom I shall get to in turn, and together we made up a most formidable quartet. The ratings were in and KVWN was on top of the trifle, way ahead of the competition, and edging further that way with every broadcast much to the disgust of our competitors. Occasionally this all boiled over into a brawl and I was forced to bring Jack Johnson and Tom O’Leary out of semi-retirement.
This was by the bye as the good people of San Diego dropped everything when the team and I took to the screen and counted on us for the scoop on anything whatsoever deemed newsworthy. However it wasn’t simply the top headlines that they tuned in for but also the small public interest stories that other stations failed to report on. If there was a ferret spotted hang gliding across the beach of Coronado, then we wanted to know about it goddamnit, and would move heaven and earth to grab ourselves the exclusive. Naturally we weren’t everyone’s cup of herbal tea, but that’s just the way the pastry crumbles when you’re number one.
Slick city boy Brian Fantana was our man on the frontline and, aside from his questionable taste in cologne, was the kind of cool cat that ladies go moist for with a simple raised eyebrow. He learned that trick from yours truly by the way. Boasting the second finest facial furnishings in all fifty states, Brian was my go-to guy for advice on whether to opt for satin or velvet bed linen and the closest I had to a gunner. He swore blind that people called him the Bry man and I didn’t have the heart to burst his bubble. That said, he did have pet names for his penis and both of his testes, and that made him alright in my book. While he once went on record proclaiming himself the style guru of the group, Brian knew his place was number two in the pecking order and could only ever hope to exude six tenths of my coolness. This suited him down to the ground as I’m seven times more happening than the average American male and there’s no shame in being right-hand man to one so dripping with the sexual perspiration of panthers. Actually that’s a bit of a sore subject with Brian so I’d rather that remain between me and you. Is this going out live?
If a homer was being struck anywhere in California, then Champ was your man in the dugout. His legendary coverage of some of the finest sporting achievements the city had ever seen had earned him this nickname but, it has to be said, it wasn’t terribly inventive given that his birth name was Champion. While physical recreation was his specialty, Champ was no idiot when it came to little-known facts and fascinating tidbits. For example, did you know that chickens originate from caves? Why are you looking so quizzical? Has one of my mustache hairs slipped out of formation? Is it a booger? Tell me it’s not a booger. Baxter only licked my nostrils clean this morning. He’d better not be slacking. More about my four-legged friend later as I let him sleep in on Sundays. At any rate, Champ was a real man’s man, the kind of cool cat who would eat a tangerine without peeling it and fart in a test tube just to see if it cracked under pressure.
This leaves only Brick Tamland to make up the numbers and he supplied living, breathing proof that being mentally retarded didn’t mean you couldn’t be a man of stature. Once the proud and vaguely oblivious owner of an I.Q. of 48 until he dropped ten points during the great I.Q. crash of ’67, Brick made up for what he lacked in a solitary functioning brain cell with a loyalty rarely seen outside of the animal kingdom. It was all too easy for folk to take his lack of intelligence as a sign of weakness and he admittedly didn’t help his cause by taking his name a little too literally and using wet cement as brylcream. However, when the chips were at their lowest, it was Brick who would fight your corner until the bitter end and his sheer dedication alone made him an incalculable asset to the news team. Possibly the only man ever to have an injunction placed on him by his own mother for attempting to climb back into her womb after one too many stems of ginger beer, Brick was also rather adept at predicting the weather and could hear a storm brewing in Qatar just by raising one leg off the floor.
Sounds like a real dream team doesn’t it? Well I guess it kind of was and life was pretty sweet there for a moment. It felt good to be number one and be recognized everywhere I went but there’s more to life than being incredibly handsome, charismatic, and the best damn anchorman ever to straighten his tie. For me it has always been about the creature comforts and this is where Baxter took centre stage.
Rescued from a canine sect at the tender age of three dog years, my companion meant everything to me and a little bit more besides. We’d laugh together, cry together, watch old Jane Russell movies in matching p.j.’s together, and the only thing that could ever hope to keep us apart was a woman. Thankfully, this was never a concern as the ladies were like passing ships in the night and, after one night of passion with Ron Burgundy, needed months of intensive rehabilitation before they could walk again without a limp. This made for a high turnover of personnel and, while Baxter didn’t always approve of my choices, I made sure I always removed my socks during such afternoon delights so the little guy could lick the balls of my feet and not feel like the odd one out.
I like good things and never could get my head around why they always have to come to an end. However, that is precisely what happened when station director Ed Harken took it upon himself to squander the momentum we’d built by introducing a new player to the ranks. When I read the name Veronica Corningstone on the Monday memo, I naturally presumed it was a typo and prepared an inspirational speech to deliver to Vernon on his arrival. I wasn’t exactly overjoyed about The Fantastic Four becoming The Slightly less Fantastic Five but that’s progress for you and we’d had a decent run so there seemed no valid reason to resist those gusts of change. Imagine my despondency then when Ed informed me that his spelling was correct and, in the self-same moment, an intoxicating scent filled both my nostrils. My sense of smell is acute and I knew only too well of the aroma doing the office rounds. Indeed, Little Ron (he ain’t that little by the way), confirmed this intelligence and I found myself adjusting my slacks to accommodate my newly crowned erection.
Brick once told me that bears can smell the menstruation of the fairer sex and, if that’s the case, then I guess that makes me a love grizzly. I believe my exact words were “by the medium wave frequency of Trevor Baylis, who goes there and why aren’t you warming up the cold spot in my bed as we speak?” You guessed it, the hunter was all set to close in on its prey and this Veronica Corningstone character was darned well gonna get it. When I turned around, slowly enough to allow the light to bask in every last one of my facial contours, the winning Burgundy smile was soon wiped off my face and promptly replaced with the narrow eyes of suspicion.
This had to be some kind of sick joke at my expense and, to be totally honest, I didn’t find it funny. Ms. Corningstone was undoubtedly a grade-A piece of tail, indeed she put the “F” in fine and not the silent kind either. But there was no place for her in the KVWN news team unless she was prepared to take off her blouse, attach nipple tassles, and become our mascot.
I was a five-time Emmy award-winning anchor dammit, the cream on top of this frothy latte, and not about to share top billing with a fe-male. That said, sweet stocking tops of Sheena Easton she was sexy and it took every ounce of my man resolve not to begin gurning like an infant. I think it’s fair to say that I had mixed emotions but far be it from me to shoot her down in flames the moment she walked through the door and leave her bloody remains for the jackals to feast upon. It was clear that I would be required to keep a watchful eye on Ms. Corningstone until I had worked out her angle and, if that meant taking her out for a nice steak dinner and making her pay, well then so be it.
Looking at the rest of my team, it was plain to see that her arrival was causing unrest in the ranks, and Daddy Ron wasn’t about to stand by and let some career-minded tramp come along and spoil this party, no matter how succulent the hiney. Just to be clear, it did appear to have been designed by Eros during his “experimental phase” and I couldn’t help but marvel at the craftsmanship. Indeed, had it been an ark, then I had two throbbing testicles just crying out for a window seat.
I had to think fast before the entire station was placed in jeopardy and racked my brains for a solution to this quandary. It was then that I remembered an ancient quote from fifties pop icon Walt Whitman – “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” – and knew precisely what needed to be done to remedy this. Of course, I would be required to seek Baxter’s approval but, providing he was down with it, then I’d follow this glorious rainbow wherever it led and all signs were pointing directly to Pleasure Town. They know me there. They also know me at Tino’s and this seemed the ideal place to commence our foreplay so I booked us a table and wowed her with my extensive knowledge of ancient Polish literature. Within minutes she was putty in my hands and it just so happened I had something else tucked away up my sleeve to seal the deal. Seizing the moment, I took to the stage and dazzled my fair lady with the kind of jazz flute expertise that simply cannot be taught. Fifteen minutes later we were back at my condo, doing as Veronica assured me the Romans do, and I believe they referred to it as the “horizontal nasty” but don’t quote me on that as it may have been the Egyptians now I think about it.
Now there are three things in life that I love dearly. The first is poetry, the second is scotch, and the third had to sleep in the spare room this particular evening as the bedroom was no place for one so impressionable as my sweet Baxter. That is to say that we soared the skies atop a magical unicorn, picked ripened cherries from the vines of the heavens, and her falsetto perfectly complimented my baritone. When two people come together with such enthusiasm, the heart gets precisely what it wants, and ours now appeared to have amalgamated into one pulsating vessel of everlasting devotion. My performance in the sack has never been in question but, what impressed me tremendously, was her willingness to keep up and ride each magnolia wave as though her life depended on it. Needless to say, we decided to keep our feelings under wraps in the workplace, and I’m reasonably certain that I kept up my end of the bargain. Which is why the following series of unfortunate events infuriated me so.
This filthy hooker (whom I adored with all my heart) had devious designs on becoming my co-anchor and there was no way on Mother Teresa’s earth that Ron Burgundy was about to offer endorsement to such misinformed endeavor. Granted, her breasts were somewhat perky and I’d even stretch as far as exquisite, and she could do things with a French tickler and a jar of pickles that I wouldn’t see again until Cable was invented years later. But she needed to know her place and that wasn’t on my coat tails, regardless of her spirited display in my bed chamber. To make matters worse, this mutiny coincided with the most heartbreaking turn of events I had ever been forced to suck up, as my beloved Baxter was punted off Coronado bridge by some bearded heathen in a biker’s helmet. I was deeply devastated, so much so, that I cried real tears which hadn’t happened since I discovered that Sammy Davis Jr. was a robot. And my perfect little world began to crumble right before my disbelieving eyes.
Anyway, we managed to patch things up eventually, and she went on to become an invaluable part of the workforce it has to be said. Meanwhile, the rest of the team came round to my way of thinking over time, and the five of us ended up inseparable. She laughed at Champ’s jokes even though they invariably had sexist undertones, hosed Brian down every time he tested out a new fragrance, and read Brick a bedtime story every second Thursday until which time as he knew why the dish ran away with the spoon. Sure she was a filthy slut and there were times when my greatest desire was to punch her straight in her ovaries and twist my knuckles. But love is a rocky road my friends and you have to take each rough with its corresponding smooth. The main thing was that she was dynamite between the sheets and, with Ron Burgundy lighting the fuse, you just know there are going to be fireworks. Better yet, Baxter then returned with tales of adventure that would make Marco Polo want to go back and do it all over again. With crisis now averted, I could get back to being the best damn anchor ever to grace the screen.
Ladies and gentlemen, everything I’ve told you today is at least 84% authentic and I’m kind of a big deal so you really should take it as gospel. Moreover, I plan to release an audio book of my exploits as soon as they get around to inventing it. Until then, you know where it’s at. KVWN news has you covered and we’re dedicated to bringing you each headline hot off the press and make your sorry existences a little more joyful. Failing that, we can remind you of what can be achieved with a spot of impeccable grooming.
The world we live in is constantly evolving, attitudes are changing, and it seems only right that we move with the times and make the best of things as the rollercoaster stops for no man (or woman either come to think of it). Even a dashing flamenco wizard such as Ron Burgundy has to make the odd sacrifice from time to time and the upside is always staring right back at me in the mirror. To the residents of this fine city, I have only three things to say before we wrap things up. Firstly, be kind and respectful to voles as one day they will inherit the earth. Secondly, go easy on Brick if you ever spot him casting his fishing rod into a frozen lake as he really doesn’t know any better. And last, but by no means least…
No I’m pretty sure that’s not it. Dammit Vernon, have you been messing with the teleprompter again? On behalf of KVWN Channel 4 News Team, you have my humble apologies for any technical difficulties, what I meant to say was…