Well, mes chers amis, things have been busy of late. As you know I have a lot of responsibilities leading BAFFLED Labs to greatness while also managing my terrible-but-improving staff at home. Then there is of course the responsibility to counsel and support celebrities – thankfully shared with my dear friends and colleagues Haas and Katrijn – and being a full-time head tilt practitioner.
Busy times, but everybody is having fun. Mostly. Not sure I can vouch for waitress some mornings though. Quite inexplicably she get her grump on at times while serving me brekkers.
Non, the real reason I have been quiet of late is because I have been busy doing lagomorph diplomacy at international level. You all know who I’m talking about, right?
Putin. Puters. El Puterino. The Pute. Putain. He whose whose name is spelled in poo-coloured font.
Now, Puters here has been badly behaved of late. You all know about his antics, I am not going to encourage him any further by expanding on these, because I know he is an avid reader of the Bunnington Post and the man doesn’t need his ego stroking by more media attention.
Plus, it upsets his heavies, still living in our garden shed, feeling much more comfortable now that it is winter and we enjoy frosty nights. They’re a homesick bunch of which I have become strangely fond. Their weekly press conferences are getting a bit out of hand, though.
No, it’s the bombers that are starting to annoy me, see. Last week, I sent my waitress on an errand to buy me some Miffy toys and a couple of Chantenay carrots from the Albert Cuyp market.
While she was flying over the Oxfordshire Mountain Range about to descend into London Oxford Airport, guess what she saw?
Tout à fait unnecessary to bother my staff thus.
Get this, Putain, as much as my waitress enjoys the spectacle of bare chested men showing off, her tastes do not run to megalomaniac dictators with a personality deficit.
Keep your your birdies in their cages, I thank you. We invite you to think of something a little bit more interesting than sending your bombers around to Cornwall.
Or perhaps not. Hm…