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?
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