Thursday, June 29, 2006


BIRD: Did you see this, Buff? The Editor of the New Pork Times book magazine said, and I quote, "You two should either win the Nobel Prize or be locked up."


Wednesday, June 28, 2006


BIRD: Wow! We've leapt 74 places overnight, Buff!

BUFFALO: We's a hit!

BIRD: High fives!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Tuesday, June 27, 2006


BIRD: So, whaddya think of that, Buff?

BUFFALO: Great. Er, what place were we last week?

BIRD: Dude, we're a new entry!


BIRD: Must be doing something right.

BUFFALO: Must be.

BIRD: Seen Sparky lately?

BUFFALO: Sparky has just aroused himself and slunk out the door, presumably on his way to The Larry's workhouse. Hmmm, wonder if Sparky's old job is still available? I can see myself now, in the blood smeared apron, a totally gay paper hat on my melon. A zaftig matron approaches the counter, eyeing me warily, clutching her purse like grim Death, lest I leap over the chest-high counter to snatch it away from her. Sensing a sale, I spring into action... "We have some lovely Vienna Boy's Choir sausage this morning, madam. Would you like to try a wee sample? Would you prefer it slathered with mayonaisse or dipped in hot mustard? What's that you say? Two pounds of ground gopher guts? Coming right up, madam. Could I interest you in some lovely Upchuck Steak this morning?

BIRD: Everyone a winner. That oughtta yank us up the charts a few places.

BUFFALO: I aim to please.

BIRD: Write the cheque out, Momma!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Monday, June 26, 2006


BIRD: Wassup, Buff? You seem a bit pissed off.

BUFFALO: I’ve got people hitting me for spare change in my own apartment building!

BIRD: Bummer. Too affable. That’s your trouble. Try scowling.

BUFFALO: I reckon the guy’s a crack head. It would explain why he is often heard bellowing like a wounded rhinoceros for no particular reason. I've decided to invest in a "NO SOLICITING" sign for my door.


BUFFALO: Yeah, right... followed by EVICTION NOTICE stapled to the door.

BIRD: A great way to go, though.

BUFFALO: I can think of a better way to go. Selling one of my screenplays or novels, or winning the Lottery, paying off the lease and handing Sparky the keys, saying "Hasta la vista, baby. Have a nice life." Then moving into a luxury condo on the lake, with a live-in housekeeper/cook. I tell ya, if that crack head shows up again, I'm greeting him with, "Come on in, dude. This here’s mah shotgun. Open your mouth, let’s see if it fits.”

BIRD: That oughtta do it.

BUFFALO: Reckon so. And if that doesn’t get him the Jehovah’s Witnesses sure will.

BIRD: What a terrible way to go.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Thursday, June 22, 2006


Bird: What the heck are fish flies, dude?

Buffalo: You might know them as May Flies. They look like tiny little dragons, with wings. They have many aliases, but they all smell the same - like rotting fish. Every year they hatch by the millions in the lake, near the shore. They only live for about 24 hours - for a fish fly, life's a beach, and then you die.

Bird: So what's the problem?

Buffalo: The problem, Birdy, is that the fish flies that aren't eaten immediately by the fish make a beeline for our apartment complex. Attracted by the lights, you see... and they've got only one thing on their tiny little minds.

Bird: Rumpy pumpy?

Buffalo: You got it.

Bird: Having any success, are they?

Buffalo: About as much as I'm having, Birdy.

Bird: Oh, dear, doesn't look good for the propagation of the species, then.

Buffalo: You'd think so, but they return in hordes every June, so they must all be knocking off a piece when no one's looking. Meanwhile, there's dead fish fly carcasses piled two inches thick on the front porch.

Bird: Have you complained to the management, like?

Buffalo: No need, Birdy. The management elected to become "proactive" this year. They brought in thousands of Purple Martins to eat the fish flies.

Bird: Don't Purple Martins feed primarily on mosquitoes?

Buffalo: That they do, Birdy, but there's no shortage of mosquitoes here. They breed like shit in the swamp that lies between us and the lake.

Bird: Let me guess. The Purple Martins ate all the mosquitoes but wouldn't touch the fish flies.

Buffalo: Oh, no, the little bastards ate everything in sight, Birdy - mosquitoes, fish flies, lady bugs, grasshoppers, you name it. They stuffed themselves till they couldn't fly anymore. Dropped out of the trees in battalions and splatted like over-ripe figs on the freshly mowed meadow.

Bird: Gosh. And then they just lay there?

Buffalo: Oh, God, no - the management, in its infinite wisdom, sent a huge truck to the animal shelter and came back with every stray cat within a ten mile radius.

Bird: Yikes! And turned them loose on the gluttonous Purple Martins?

Buffalo: Aye. The carnage was mythic. The birds screeching like Banshees as they were devoured alive by hundreds of ravenous felines, many of them in estrus, and women and children fainting in coils on the sidewalks, traumatized for life.

Bird: Sacre bleu! And what has become of the cats, pray tell?

Buffalo: The damned things were so stuffed full of stuffed birds that they couldn't move. Their paws wouldn't reach the ground anymore, you see, so they just rolled back and forth, burping, belching, farting, and mewing a lot. Horrible racket. Of course this cacophony attracted the attention of the packs of roving feral dogs and raccoons from the neighboring woods.

Bird: Blimey!

Buffalo: It was like something out of a Sam Peckinpah movie, Birdy... hamburger all over the highway, so to speak. The rotting fish flies were bad enough, but decomposing cat entrails are something a man doesn't soon forget. The dogs and the raccoons had a real taste for blood now. Thank God they went first after the more obese tenants and their ugly young, much like hyenas attacking the stragglers in the herd, like. Otherwise, we'd all be dog meat by now. Then the management came up with the final solution, so to speak.

Bird: The mind boggles...

Buffalo: See, it turns out that dogs and raccoons can't stand the stench of fish flies, so...

Bird: Good God, man, they brought back the fish flies?

Buffalo: In great buggering droves. And now they're...

Bird: Don't tell me. Two inches thick on your front porch?

Buffalo: Right.

Bird: It's Homeric, Buff - like the worm Ourobourous eating its own tail, like.

Buffalo: Aye. Better go. Gotta wash the old octopus.

Bird: And the sick pussies are calling me.

Buffalo: Arf, arf!

Monday, June 19, 2006


BIRD: Did ya see this, Buff?


BIRD: The Aussies are going after the Cane Toads again. They're talking about using Cane Toads for army firing practice. The first sniper to explode 1,000 Cane Toad rectums gets a year's supply of Castlemaine XXXX lager.

BUFFALO: Jeez, that's a lot of rectum.

BIRD: Sure is. Says here "Unofficial spokesperson for the World Cane Toad Community, Two-Jags Prescott (who bears an uncanny resemblance to the much hated species) pleaded with the Australian government for understanding of the Cane Toads' plight: 'They're sweet little creatures that jump a lot. Can't you give 'em another chance?'"

BUFFALO: Hey, isn't he the dude who's going to play Toad of Toad Hall in Michael Winner's vigilante remake of Wind In The Willows?

BIRD: None other. He gets to spills his guts over the closing credits.


Wednesday, June 14, 2006


BUFFALO: You there, Birdy? I gotta tell ya, dude, I had the weirdest dream. Sigourney Weaver came unto me and...

SIGOURNEY: That's right. I received a frantic call from that randy Buffalo in the middle of the night. I think he needs some serious therapy, Birdy. Apparently he wakes up every morning thinking he's ME. He was ranting about "awakening with an octopus on his face" - which is bad enough - but then added that sometimes it's an octopus and sometimes it's ME astraddle his cookie duster.

Actually, that doesn't sound half bad... I haven't exactly been getting a lot of action lately, if you get my drift. No "pearls" in the old oyster bed in a blue moon, if you take my meaning. I'd report your drooling mate to the Bolgani except for the fact that I do rather know how he feels. In other words, the octopus trauma is not exactly an alien concept to me, Ridley. On the contrary. I've had some dreams that border on the Sapphic, shall we say? Dreams worthy of the immortal Alice herself, populated by the odd ravenous, hairy walrus and gluttonous carpenter companion. Culinary visions replete with rue, salt, pepper and vinegar, oft times accompanied by that classic bar-room ballad "Eat Bertha's Mussels".

But, be that as it may, I can't very well have your cunning bi-lingual friend, that bifurcated anguis in herba as it were, disturbing my beauty sleep. Bill Murray has suggested that shock therapy may be in order - to wit, that I should "act out" Buff's fantasies for him and thus bring them to a final and satisfactory climax. But you know this itinerant pud-puller better than me. What's your take on this?


BIRD: The Buffalo won't be in today. Apparently, a fresh octopus fell on his face in the night. Couldn't find the bagpipes in time to subdue the little blighter. Get well soon, Buff.

Monday, June 12, 2006


BUFFALO: You there, Birdy?

BIRD: Yeah. Just.

BUFFALO: Wassup?

BIRD: The World Cup's on and we're in the middle of a heatwave.

BUFFALO: World Cup?

BIRD: Football, dude. Sorry, soccer. Very exciting. Your team are ranked fourth in the world.

BUFFALO: What about your team?

BIRD: Dunno, but we're second favourites to win it.

BUFFALO: Does this mean you ain't gonna be around much for the next three weeks?

BIRD: Yep.

BUFFALO: What's gonna happen if England win?

BIRD: The whole country will go fooking crazy, like.

BUFFALO: Sure like to see that.

BIRD: You and me both, dude.

BUFFALO: Just tell me this. What's World Cup Willy?

BIRD: The England mascot from the 1966 World Cup, which btw we won. He might be making a comeback.


BIRD: And it'll be fun to see what Google Ads make of it, too.

BUFFALO: Willy, Willy, Willy...

BIRD: Out, out, out!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Monday, June 05, 2006


Bird: Now it's advertising a friggin' portaloo. How are we gonna build up a young audience now?

Buffalo: Hey, everybody's gotta go sometime, right? Maybe it ain't such a bad idea.

Bird: I'm betting they're gonna advertise a cure for haemorrhoids next.

Buffalo: Don't say that, dude. It analyses our every word so it can target the next ad.

Bird: OK, Googly, let's see what you come up with now. Blonde chicks with big melons and short skirts that ride all the way up to heaven. Lovely.

Buffalo: Can I trumpet?

Bird: You sure can.

Buffalo: Brrrrrr-brrrrrrrrr-woooooooooooooooo!

Bird: Write the cheque out, Momma!

Buffalo: Arf, arf!


BIRD: You're not going to believe this.


BIRD: Doris, at Number 22. I tell you, it's hilarious. This is what happened, verbatim, like...

DORIS:(on telephone) Oh, Estelle, I’m so nervous.

ESTELLE: (also on phone) I don’t blame you, dear. I’d be nervous too if I was about to be impregnated by a strange man from a government agency. How does Larry feel about it?

DORIS: Resigned to it, I suppose, being infertile and all, poor man.
Doorbell rings.

DORIS: Oh, dear, Estelle, there’s the doorbell... it must be him. He’s ten minutes early.

ESTELLE: Well, he’s eager, I’ll give him that... do try to relax and enjoy it if you can, dear. Ciao!

DORIS: Bye...
She hangs up the phone and answers the door.

DORIS: (nervous) Come in, please... I’ve been expecting you.

RANDY: Oh? Well, great! Thank you...

DORIS: I’m Mrs. Baron... and you’re...?

RANDY: Randy Wellington at your service, ma’am.

DORIS: Please,... call me Doris... I mean, under the circumstances.

RANDY: Uh, yes, well, certainly... Doris.

DORIS: What’s in the case... if you don’t mind my asking?

RANDY: Oh, my samples... may I?

DORIS: Samples? Yes... I suppose so... uh, please have a seat. Some tea or coffee?

RANDY: Perhaps later?

DORIS: Later? Oh, yes, I see... of course.
Randy snaps open his sample case.

RANDY: Well, then, here we are, this is some of my best work...
Doris flips through photo albums.

DORIS: Oh, my, what beautiful babies... all your work, you say? So many. How long have you been, you know... at it?

RANDY: Five years now. Slow going at first, until the word got round, but now I’m averaging five or six sessions a day, six days a week.

DORIS: My God. You’re extremely... prolific.

RANDY: Eh? Oh, well, tons of experience, you know. Gets to be second nature after awhile.

DORIS: Yes, I imagine... but it must be awfully fatiguing.

RANDY: Depends. Sometimes it’s difficult but more often it’s a piece of cake. But there’s more to it than meets the eye. You see, there’s often a misconception...

DORIS: I’m sorry... did you say “misconception”?

RANDY: Well, er, I meant that one acquires a certain technique, you know. It’s not just a matter of popping off a few shots at the hip and hoping it turns out all right.

DORIS: Good grief...

RANDY: There’s a lot of preliminary work, if you know I mean. You can’t just jump in and hope for the best... you’ve got to be patient and wait for the right moment... and of course the angle has to be just right... and the lighting... ah, that’s the most important thing of all. If you’re overexposed, it’s a complete washout. On the other hand, a shot in the dark comes out muddy every time... and often you only get one go at it.

DORIS: Lord... Lighting... yes, for the mood, I imagine. Well, I’ve got some scented candles. Will that do, then?

RANDY: ‘Fraid not. We’ll need two or three good floodlights. The more light the better. I like to see what I’m doing... especially for the more intimate close-ups.

DORIS: Oh, my...

RANDY: Yes, Doris, you see, with lots of light you can close the old aperture down all the way, for a really tight shot. You get more depth of field that way, better penetration... higher resolution, if you get my meaning?

DORIS: (swooning) Yes, I think I do... I had no idea it was so... complex.

RANDY: Well, it is, rather, but don’t worry, you’re in good hands. Babies are my business, Doris, says so on my card. So, where is the little darling, then?

DORIS: I beg your pardon?

RANDY: The little bundle of joy. Sleeping, is it?

DORIS: Well,... resting, more like.

RANDY: Let me have a peek. Is there any hair, by the way? A little, or a lot?

DORIS: I don’t know... about average, I guess... I trimmed it this morning...

RANDY: Marvellous. Tell you what, how about you give the little darling a tickle or two to wake it up, see if it’s gone moist, do what you need to get it ready and I’ll pop out to the van and get my equipment in order.

DORIS: Equipment?

RANDY: Yes, my cameras and what-not.

DORIS: You’re going to take pictures?

RANDY: (laughs) That’s the general idea. I thought we’d bang off a few shots for starters - get a feel for it. Puts the little one at ease before I set up the old tripod.

DORIS: Tripod?

RANDY: My equipment is much too heavy to hold for long. Without the support of a good sturdy tripod I have trouble maintaining focus, you know. If you like, we could do it outdoors. The light in the park is exquisite today. Had my first session there already. One of your neighbors, actually... Mrs. Somerset.

DORIS: Lucinda Somerset? But, good heavens... she has twins.

RANDY: And a strapping pair of lads they are, too. Some of my best work. Repeat customer, you know.

DORIS: Oh, my lord... well, that’s good I suppose, that she asked for you again... but in the park?

RANDY: Oh, we had a lovely session. A good half dozen shots on a blanket by the band stand, a couple in the altogether... attracted quite a crowd, in fact.

DORIS: I’m sure it did... and Lucinda, she didn’t mind?

RANDY: Mind? She was delighted. Several women there asked me for business cards... nothing like popping off a few shots in the fresh air. Invigorating. The only drawback, of course, is the ruddy squirrels...

DORIS: Squirrels?

RANDY: Yes, they sneak up on you and start nibbling on the old batteries. Short circuits the old flasher, and bang! Another shot down the old drain.

DORIS: Good heavens!.
Doris faints dead away on the floor.

RANDY: Omigod! Doris, are you OK?
The doorbell rings. Randy rushes to answer it.

RANDY: Mr. Baron?

MR PLUNKETT: No, I thought you were Mr. Baron. I’m Rodney Plunkett from the Ministry of Fertility. Mrs. Baron and I are on for ten o’clock. I say, is that her sprawled on the floor? What have you done to her?

RANDY: Nothing, I swear! It’s all been a horrible mistake! I take photos of babies and stuff. I wondered why she was expecting me...

MR. PLUNKETT: And she thought...?

RANDY: Yes. Think I’ll be off now.

MR. PLUNKETT: Oh, before you go, would you mind awfully helping me carry Mrs. Baron upstairs to the bedroom?

RANDY: Not at all, always glad to help out a civil servant...


BUFFALO: Laffing me ass off here, lad. btw What's with the Google ad? "Overactive bladder?" ? Just HOW old is our readership?

BIRD: Average age... Mature, dude. Mature. Gotta go and look after some sick cats now. Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!