Can you tell this, on this channel, right in front of all of us: why can’t the chicken write a blog? The nation wants to know.
The chicken has written the biggest blog since Independence and is now running away from debate. If it allows me to post a comment, there will be an earthquake.
To ask the chicken why it blogs is up to God, but to send it to Him is up to me.
Chicken is not going to write a blog anymore without consequences. Not going to happen.
WINSTON CHURCHILL: The chicken is an incorrigible blogger. Google may ignore it, readers may deplore it, but in the end, there it is.
Without the chicken, neither you nor I would blog about a black hole.
Because bloggers are real, and chickens are real too. They live inside laptops, and sometimes, they whine.
Whenever a chicken blogs, a part of the Internet writes too. Everything the chicken felt, experienced and said melts into the sunset.
Chickens at some time are bloggers of their fates:
The fault, dear Theresa, is not in our iPads,
But in the cerebrums, that are dwindling.
It was one of those chicken blogs where the comments rain hard and the traffic soars: but only in the dreams, and trances of the afternoon.
P. B. SHELLEY:
The bugle of Bloggery! O Wind,
If the frog croaks, can Chicken be far behind?
Chicken flaps, nobody comments, nobody likes, it’s awful!
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere eggs and eggs hence:
Two chickens blogged in a wood, and I—
I ate the one less caramelized.
What does it matter that the chicken is a blogger.
The Facebook is shattered and she is not my friend.
T. S. ELIOT:
In the web chickens drum and ping
Blogging on Xi Jinping.
To cry for footfalls. Till the end.