Bird: I see Hugh Heffner’s 80, then.
Buffalo: Yo… that’s what a taste of the good stuff can do for ya.
Bird: Even if he does look like an embalmed corpse.
Buffalo: Looks are irrelevant – he’ll still be getting laid even AFTER he dies.
Bird: Nothing wrong with his prostate, then. How’s Sparky’s?
Buffalo: Dude, I’m totally serious, Sparky has a prostate the size of an Idaho potato and the bladder the size of a circus peanut. Takes him fifteen minutes to pee. I’m buying him a catheter for his birthday. He’s not stimulating the old tallywhacker on a regular basis, lad… you know, “use it or lose it.”
Bird: Really? I thought he was doing that bird Judy down at the Atomic Dog Café?
Buffalo: The bowling alley? Judy? Dude, it’s a miracle my dipsomaniac roommate can drag his withered arse out of bed to make it to the bloody bathroom. A tree sloth looks vigorous by comparison.
Bird: Poor Sparky. And how’s your prostate doing?
Buffalo: Never better, praise the Lord, knock on Norwegian wood… according to the minxy Dr. Feelgood. Sigh. Last time she gave me a complete physical she said "So, no erectile dysfunction here, then.”
Bird: Er, just exactly how did she establish that fact, dude?
Buffalo: Off the record, at age 18 I had surgery for an "undescended" testicle…
Bird: Pisswilly, Buffalo! For real?
Buffalo: Yup, but it wasn’t really “undescended”. It was totally Kosher, I swear, but for some bizarre reason it elected to withdraw back into the womb, so to speak. It came on gradually, over a period of several years. I kept it to myself because I figured God was punishing me for excessive stimulatory activity, y’know? Then one day in the Post Office, my first job, my old mentor Dutch Walters swung a steel mail rack in my direction and I caught a corner of it smack dab on the offending ballock. I folded like a cheap accordion, writhing on the floor in agony. A week later I went under the knife.
Bird: Bloodcurdling, mate…
Buffalo: Wait, it gets better. . . after the surgery, they put me in a semi-private room and then this Harry Belafonte-looking gay male nurse comes in with what looked like an Oklahoma credit card, see?
Bird: A what?
Buffalo: A length of red rubber hose, like the kind we used to siphon gas – petrol to you – out of other dudes’ gas tanks, when times were tough, like. He said he was going to stick the hose down my johnson. I laughed myself silly. He laughed too. I thought he was putting me on, right? But no, he was putting it IN, dude. All the way in.
Bird: Jesus Christ…
Buffalo: Must’ve drifted off then. Woke up with old Willy standing at attention, as usual. Well, I didn’t want to waste it, and besides, I was a bit paranoid after being violated and all, and I wanted to be sure the surgery hadn't rendered me impotent. I’ll never forget the surgeon’s name – Dr. Tom Sawyer – God’s truth, dude. Weird, too, because Harry had leaned over me the night before and whispered in my ear while feeding in the old hose, “I’m your Huckleberry, honey.” But I digress. In short, I thought it prudent to take it for a test spin, so to speak.
Bird: Well, of course, perfectly logical.
Buffalo: Things were going swimmingly. I was fantasizing about the exquisitely hot nurse who checked my vitals while Willy was making a pup tent. She was a Jenny Agutter look-alike in a traditional starched white uniform… translucent stockings, you know the kind? Her blouse was unbuttoned a bit, she wore a cream-colored brassiere with Italian lace. Chanel Number Five perfume…
Bird: Holy mother of God…
Buffalo: All of a sudden, just like downtown, Old Faithful spouts like a Humpback whale off Nantucket Sound. A beautifully high parabolic arch. And right at the apogee, the curtains fly open and there stands a snarling bull dyke nurse, or a Methodist, hard to tell, and interrupts me mid-stream, in flagrante delicto!
Bird: Gott in Himmel!
Buffalo: Well, her eyeballs nearly popped out of her head, the old flag pole fell to half mast, and then she bellowed in the voice of a Marine Corps drill instructor - "I'm here to give you a sponge bath!" I almost soiled myself, lad. Then she proceeded to administer said sponge bath, starting with the very thing that most required sponging. I tell ya, I thought she was going to yank my twanger OFF. Dude, that woman desperately needed a good shagging – by an elephant.
Bird: Impetuous… Homeric!
Buffalo: Aye… well, once in a while the old scar tissue causes me a bit of discomfort. Feels like there’s a ferret gnawing on the damned thing. So I made an appointment for a physical, and Eleanor – sorry, Dr. Feelgood - was checking out the landing gear… it was an e e cummings moment. She was ever so softly fondling my poor, tender Matzo ball, and my eyes went crossed, and Willy snapped to attention. She looked up at me from her stool, affording me a splendid view of her award-winning cleavage. She gave me a wry little grin and complimented me on the healthy condition of my prodigious tool, with not a clue how close she came to getting sploodged in her lovely sea green eye. And on departing, she said “I’ll make sure you have ten minutes of privacy before you get dressed.” She winked at me and slipped out into the corridor. . . and the rest is silence, Horatio.
Bird: Write me the cheque, Momma! Have to take care of some sick cats now. Film at eleven.
Buffalo: Righto, Birdie. Don’t take any wooden Indians, lad. . . arf, arf!