of BHH and moving house

…
Pause for dramatic tension.
…
Yes, BHH rocked. It was the Antipopness!
Actually, it was the Antipopness shy of being bigger than the one in which the lovely Miss Fyne graced us with her presence, leading to a mad manly stampede of testosterone at the singular most happening event in BHH-dom. Moto Moto style.
Spartakuss word-up! Dawg you almost broke a chair, dayem!
Come on guys, no hatin’.  Y’all know ya’ll turn(ed) up in droves just to check out the fyne ladies.
Both times.
Fo sho.
I ain’t complainin’ either. Them girls be fyne!
Now, without further ado.
We, the management of this auspicious blog, on the 24th of July in the year of our Lord 2009, AD, convened and reached an amicable consensus in which we deemed the worthiness and readership value of aforementioned blog to have been irredeemably diluted by mushy, painful, sentimental and irrevocably redundant mind-numbing pseudo-intellectual dribble, said dribble having drastically reduced on the potential financial proceeds we expected to get from our faithful readers by way of donations of small currencies and exchangeable trinkets of obscure value. And the occasional Alvaro.
We therefore unanimously (albeit under a very small amount of self-inflicted duress) declare that this blog shall be cleansed of all its non-weak evils, and such non-weakness shall be relegated to the depths of focus (aka our sister blog, The Rogue King) where they shall pass the remainder of their days in mirthless oblivion.
SoloDawgKing, wassup! No hatin player!
It’s aaaall part of a plaaaan. Let’s put a smile on that face!
Cue ominous music.
Cue cackling maniacal hysteric laugh.
Cue spluttering cough.
Cue muffled curses.
Fade to black.
E&OE. All you journalists, newspaper editors, and wanna be writers, thou shalt not judge my impeccable grammar, elocution and diction. Yes. Diction. Sue me.