There was a time, a time before cable. When the local anchorman reigned supreme. When people believed everything they heard on TV. This was an age when only men were allowed to read the news. And in San Diego, one anchorman was more man then the rest. His name was Ron Burgundy. He was like a god walking amongst mere mortals. He had a voice that could make a wolverine purr and suits so fine they made Sinatra look like a hobo. In other words, Ron Burgundy was the balls.We are on a three week winning streak at the Antelope's quiz night, but I was still woodshedding last night watching Anchorman which seems to come up in the film round more often than infinite dimensional analysis or quantum probability might suggest.
I need all the help I can get. Even though we emerged victorious at the last clash, a point was squandered with the MC's laughable ruling that the African animal that kills the most people each year is the crocodile rather than the mosquito. When I called for a Stewards' enquiry, he suggested I bring a crocodile and a mosquito along next Monday, lock the door and see which kills the most patrons.
Fair enough I suppose.