Mr Ernest Bazanye regrets thta he will not be blogging regularly this week for reasons beyond control. And almost beyond endurance. Lord! This is going to suck, he said, as he surveyed the task before him.
Mr Ernest Bazanye needs to dedicate all his free time this week to a heinous act of literary humiliation that is going to suck the very soul out of his groove and possibly damage a small portion of his mojo. Mr Bazanye is ghostwriting again.
Mr Ernest Bazanye will not be happy this week.
I, Reginald Veljohnson, (I know what you’re thinking: Where does he get these guys?) will be hosting the blog in the meantime.
Beginning with this blast from the past: The very first piece of nonsense Mr Bazanye ever blogged. Reprised here for y’all.
Something you can’t understand: I could just KILL a man!
Chicken are evil, and must all be killed. Well, eventually, they all are (no hen dies of old age) but I think the authorities need to step up the pace and either kill them all NOW or, at the very least, damage their throats so that they are unable to crow at my window at five goshdarnig a.m. every morning causing dark and gothic and murderous moods that I end up having to take out on little Sidney, the hapless plebe who works at the desk next to mine.
The other morning I punched him to a pulp and he had to have his jaw re-set. And to think he had just returned from hospital. The stitches from the other incident when he was humming Celine Dion and I temporarily lost control had just been removed when he unwisely sat in my line of sight on a morning when the roosters had dragged me out of bed at five thirty.
He says this time he is going to press charges. I hope he isn’t serious. Cos if he is, I may have to take drastic measures. I may have to take him out.
And I don’t mean take him out for dinner.