It's Ron Burgundy!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused quite a ruckus at Saint Cody's school for talented, old codgers with an IQ of 9 or higher. The ancient prodigies, expend much grey matter trying to invent something that is better than the sliced loaf. One old relic claimed to have invented perpetual motion. But tests showed it was just a chronic case of gastroenteritis with little or no regard for penicillin. "Drat!" croaked the old relic, as he was raised from the hunkering position and helped into bed. "For a moment there, I thought I had solved the world's energy crisis."
Tommy my cat came over to the chair where I sat, drew out the hair which grew from the mole on my chin, picked up a bow and played a haunting, plaintive refrain which tugged at the heart strings like a pale-faced,child-ghost looking out of an attic window. Tommy released the hair which sprang back like a coiled watch spring and said, "What about that then? Not bad for a lump of a cat!"
"OH Tommy," I enthused. "It was lovely, so eerily sad, so haunting, so beautiful in its sad, haunting, plaintive melancholia Pray enlighten one as to the name of the piece."
"The old buck goat's hind leg," said Tommy, as he broke three large eggs over my head and scrambled my brain into a maelstrom, a malevolent, malfeasant vortex, spinning, every spinning in the canyons of my mind. But it was just high spirits. I promised Tommy's mother I would never take him to see a psychiatrist, or a man who sold potatoes by the road side.
"FRANK!" I Yelled. "FRANK! FRANK" FRANK!"
Frank Mitchell stopped on his way out of the chemist, clutching a large bottle of "Honey-Voice" for broadcasters and hissed. I know, I couldn't believe it either. Frank Mitchell, of all people hissing in the street.
"Keep your voice down," hissed Frank. "You're making a show of me. I am not one of your saloon bar chums. I have my reputation to think of. I met the Queen you know. I am Mr Frank Mitchell. I am a meteorologist and dapper, little dandy. Go away. I don't consort with people like YOU!" I was stunned. My hero had spurned me. A red mist came over my eyes and I yelled, "Ron Burgundy! That's what you are, a thick-as-two-short planks, Ron Burgundy!"
"I AM NOT RON BURGUNDY!" roared Frank,to the amusement of passers-by. "If anyone at UTV is Ron Burgundy, it is "The Shoe Man" Paul Clarke. I AM NOT-RON BURGUNDY! I AM NOT, RON BURGUNDY!" Then a van with black windows pulled up and Pamela Ballentine said. "Get in Frank. A cup of tea and a gypsy cream and you'll be fine. Now what did I tell you about going out alone? Next time ask Paul or me and we'll take you by the hand to the chemist."
"RON BURGUNDY!" I yelled after the van. "RON BURGUNDY! And your name is not Frank Mitchell, it's--RON BURGUNDY!!!!"