Monday, July 31, 2006


Yvonne had a boyfriend, a sailor
Who sailed her all night in her trailer
There was blood on the sheets
Crimson jam on her teats
And the bounder shipped out on a whaler

copyright 2006, Buffalo

Sunday, July 30, 2006


BUFFALO: I had to bash open Sparky's door with my bowling ball, dude. Inside, Sparky was lying serenely on his bed, his iPOD in his lug holes, covered in blood and jam.

BIRD: Yikes! Is he dead?

BUFFALO: No, just hard or hearing. I warned him before about eating jam sandwiches on his duvet. Stoopid idjit cut his finger with the knife when he was scooping the last bits of strawberry jam out of the jar.

BIRD: Blood and jam - a perversion of "This is my body, this is my blood." Christ saying 'This is my body, this is my jam. Take ye and eat."

BUFFALO: Yeah. Like I've got the toe jam, who's got the peanut butter?

BIRD: Er, no, not like that at all. So Sparky's OK?

BUFFALO: As ripe as a bushwhacker. And now I've got another fookin' door to replace.

BIRD: Never rains but it pours.

BUFFALO: So says Aquarius.

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Saturday, July 29, 2006


BUFFALO: It's true.

BIRD: I don't doubt it.

BUFFALO: Sparky's been scoffing pure ozone all afternoon. Thinks he's an otter being hit by a glass onion.

BIRD: Sure would like to see that.

BUFFALO: All in good time, lad. Feelin' kinda light-headed mah-self. Which rewinds me. Sparky hasn't eaten his soup that I made him over an hour ago as a supreme gesture of reconciliation and understanding. Neither are there any sounds emanating from his cave. AND I've found this note: "Goodbye cruel sea. The fish aren't what they used to be." Dude, I've got a snakey feeling Sparky's taken this passive-aggressive shit just that little bit too far this time. Better go check on the auld dinger winger.

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Thursday, July 27, 2006


BUFFALO: This morning I look out the window and see that one of the trees is missing, wrenched off mid-trunk as if God herself had reached down and twisted it off like a licorce stick. I suspect my fookwit crackhead neighbor, the one who bellows like a wounded walrus when he's cracked up. Gotta get out of this place, dude, before Sparky does the old Wicker Man number on us boff. Dude, it's raining!! I love the fookin' rain, dude, being an Aquarius and all. I should move to Seattle, the suicide capital of the USA, where it rains practically non-stop. He-he, Sparky should be scratching at the new door any minute now, the old loon. I should shout through the door and tell him I'm locked in, and that he can't get in because I can't give him the new key. . . arf, arf.



BIRD: Say that again, dude.

BUFFALO: I will if you stop laffing, lad.

BIRD: Sorry. Go on.

BUFFALO: The fire department left about a half an hour ago. Sparky decided to make a pot of soup last night then fell asleep contemplating his navel. All the water in the pot boiled away and the contents burned - fortunately some neighbor smelled the smoke and called the fire department... turns out we have a non-functioning smoke alarm. They broke our door down with a fire ax. Totally freaked me out. The place was crawling with sheriff's officers reading the Riot Act. I thought they were going to arrest us. Now the place reeks of smoke.

BIRD: So where was Sparky while all this was going on?

BUFFALO: In the goddamn shower. I can't believe he didn't smell the smoke... New rule, Birdy: no cooking after dark. Still, I was touched by the neighbors' concern - "Wha' happin, man?" "Those crazy white mo'fos almos' done burned down the joint, man." I tell ya, they thought it was funnier than a truckload of dead Republicans.

BIRD: Which rewinds me. Time for another hose down. Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Wednesday, July 26, 2006


BIRD: Er, dude?

PUCK: Yes, dude?

BIRD: What are you doing on the roof with the octopus?

PUCK: It’s me mam, she says I can’t have it in the house.

BIRD: If Pussy slides down the tiles, she’ll probably have a heart attack with at least two of her hearts and die a horrible death then slush green splodge all over yer mam’s windows. So do everyone a favour and bring her down slowly.

PUCK: But Pussy’s enjoyin’ the view, like. You can see for miles up here, Birdy. All the way to the ICI plant at Billingham.

BIRD: Which rewinds me. I went to the Billingham International Dance Festival one year. Gawd, those Moldavian gals are hot. Got laid twice on the local school playing field at midnight, once by the chief ballerina, once by the interpreter. I tell ya, bonking in the open air, there ain’t nothing like it. Hmmm.

PUCK: Youse know Billingham? Wikkid. Respect, Birdy.

BIRD: I have tasted Billingham and all it has to offer. Shall we just say that the local talent isn’t fussy.

PUCK: Way-hey. Wait till I tell Tony. He’s well up for a shag. Now what about Pussy? How am I gonna get her down, like?

BIRD: Er, the same way you got her up there?

PUCK: But I've got Pussy by the tentacles. If I move, she’s dead blubber.

BIRD: Hold on. OK, right, let her go.


BIRD: Shite on a bike. Now what are we gonna do? How are we gonna break this to Buff?

PUCK: Tell him…. tell him… tell him me mam took him to a better home. Now I’ll get me bike, and we’ll dispose of the body down the local tip, like.

BIRD: Great idea, Puck, lad. And shhh, mam’s the word.

PUCK: Film at eleven?

BIRD: You betcha.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006


BIRD: I counted ten last night. Jeez, one even hopped onto the patio table and did a nifty little dance routine.

BUFFALO: Er, dude, have you been eating some of that Momma Space Cadet cake again?

BIRD: Nope. Just some great flapjack brought by one of the Stylo Twins. De-lish!

BUFFALO: Dude, it's probably got slow-working Benadryl in it. Those two like a good laff.

BIRD: Well, that's true. They ARE always laffing at sumthin' or other about me, but I don't take it poisonal, like.

BUFFALO: I so wish I coulda been there, Birdy. Sounds like you had a great time.

BIRD: OK, shhh, just between you and me. We finished the evening by drinking some of the old Spanish reddo with cheese. Now how rock'n'roll is that! Oh, and btw, you minxy Stylo Twins, it was all true about the frogs. They came out to play within minutes of your lamented departure.

BUFFALO: And did you see the bat?

BIRD: Ah, the bat. There were two of them last night. But there was two of everything last night.

BUFFALO: Must be the heat.

BIRD: That or the implant.

BUFFALO: Take it easy, dude.

BIRD: Right-o.

BUFFALO: Film at eleven.

Monday, July 24, 2006


BUFFALO: So how was the birthday BBQ, dude?

BIRD: Exhausting, Buff. Shopping, shopping, shopping, then cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. Gotta have the house tidy. Gotta have the patio tidy. Gotta have the goddamn bathroom tidy. And then kickoff time came, everyone turned up, we opened the booze and we were away.

BUFFALO: Did ya open that Crimean pink champagne?

BIRD: 'Fraid so. Like drinking Ribena with excess bubbles. Still, the wine was good and the beer was great and the food was even better. And then it rained.

BUFFALO: No way.

BIRD: Just as we got the chicken and sausages ready. Happens every year. I wanted to stay outside but the missus overruled me. And then the bloody sun came out and we shifted everything outside again. Well, I was just about to put me head on the barbie when the Stylo Twins turned up.

BUFFALO: Wow. Great coup.

BIRD: They started playing with matches and stuff then asked me if I'd take off my shorts.

BUFFALO: Jesus. What is it about hairdressing that makes people behave like that?

BIRD: It's all that fiddling with follicles, I guess.

BUFFALO: Wot did yer missus make of that?

BIRD: She thought it was funny. And then they wanted to see me chest.

BUFFALO: Sounds a bit seedy already!

BIRD: OK, so my suntan stops at my neck line but it ain't THAT funny.

BUFFALO: But yer legs are. As white as mah granny's sheet and as nobbly as the Road to Kiliminjaro.

BIRD: Hey, but the frogs came out at about eleven.


BIRD: One small, one medium size. Sat on the patio rubbing their legs and croaking.

BUFFALO: And then you stood on the table and made a tit of yourself.

BIRD: Not this year, Buff. It was chill-out mellow. And now me tummy hurts like it's been trodden on by a herd of Sumo wrestlers. Oh, shite... Gotta go, dude. Boudoir emergency.

BUFFALO: Film at eleven.

Saturday, July 22, 2006


BUFFALO: Looks like I'll be on a bland diet for a while, dude. . . the old bread basket is not handling spicy food too well. . . been told to avoid things red or with seeds, and nothing spicy until they scan me with the Cat, like.

BIRD: Let it be, dude. That's what Paul said.

BUFFALO: It's all right for him. He can transplant the whole kaboosh if he needs to. I tell ya, I'm crapping my drawers here, Birdy. . . I just read a new study about sugar.... how cancer uses it to spread through the body, like. . . and I have a sugar problem. If they start talking about colostomy bags, I'm outta here, dude, to Oregon, where euthanasia is legal and you can get all the good ganga you want. . . Trying to be optimistic, but when it comes to the Reaper, I think it behooves all of us to be prepared for the wurst. . .i.e., the cyanide sausage they jam up your ass, screaming in yer shell-like ear, "Game over, sucker!"

BIRD: I suppose you want me to hold your hand again.

BUFFALO: If ya wouldn't mind, old chum. Frank Lee, life sucks goat balls today, Birdy. Told the ex to jam the bow anchor already today. . . not good. Got a hot cannon ball in me guts, too. And like the fookwit I am, I haven't eaten a bite since I got up and feel like dog crap on a Popsickle stick. And she wants to "go out" tonight.... Jeez, I wish she would "go out" -permanently - on a one-way ticket to Palookaville. Hold on, the phone's ringing. Omigod, it's HER again.

BIRD: Enjoy the film.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Friday, July 21, 2006



BIRD: Yep?

BUFFALO: Hold my hand, will ya?

BIRD: Sure.

BUFFALO: I'm in pain.

BIRD: It gets worse.

BUFFALO: Really?

BIRD: And then you die.


BIRD: Now gimme that hose. Not like that. Like THIS!

BUFFALO: Film at eleven.

Thursday, July 20, 2006


It's all in your head, ultimate, Lee
Logic will get you through, see?
Let me help you in your struggle to be free
And loose the tenacious hold of this clinging cephalopodee
Dey mus' be fitty-tree ways to lose your lover, Andy
Fitty-tree ways to lube the old Oyster Rockefeller, see?

I'm nun too found of being in the habit
Of poking my nose into every octopussy's rabbit
Or other people's steak and kidney Octopie
Oh, Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood
This octopus is ever so much more than merely food.

But allow me to risk redundancy in order to assist you, you lubber
There mus' be at least fitty-tree ways to lube your rubber.

You just slip it out on its back, Jack
Put it in the frying pan, Stan
Serve it up with poi, Roy
Just get yourself free
Hop on the octopus, Gus
You don't need to fuss much
Just drop it in the ghee, Lee
And get yourself some Brie.

She said it grieves me, Zoe, to see your Freddy in such pain
If only I could do you in some way that would make it smile again
I appreciate that, I said, and would you please re-explain
About the fitty-tree ways?

She said why don't we both just let it sleep on us it tonight
And when the sun comes up I think that you might dimly see the light
And then she kissed me Freddy and I realized that she was all right
And that there mus' be at least fitty-tree ways to lie in the clover
Oh, yeah, at least fitty-tree ways to cut loose your lover.

You just slip it out on its back, Jack
Put it in the frying pan, Stan
Serve it up with poi, Roy
Just get yourself free
Hop on the octopus, Gus
You don't need to fuss much
Just drop it in the ghee, Lee
And serve it up with Earl Grey tea.


BIRD: Gotta be done.

BUFFALO: Wot about the hosepipe ban?

BIRD: This is one hosepipe that ain't never getting banned.

BUFFALO: Film at eleven.


BIRD: Still fookin' hot here, Buff. Got any plans for today?

BUFFALO: I'm off shortly to meet the Bobbsey Twins for breakfast. Me Ma and her identical twin sister are a pair of ducks, to say the least. They live to confound the locals with their matching trousseaus. We're dining at the Ocean Breeze, where the wheezers line up to ask me: "Are they... you know... twins?" I roll my eyes to Heaven, groping for a bon mot... "No, love, they're clones. Gregory Peck had them done up in Brazil for Terry Gilliam. They're part of the master plan to corner the market on pastel-colored pants suits and matching costume jewelry, like." Pray for me, dude.

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Hey, wait. What about the title?

BIRD: Ah, yes. Well,... Puck here...

BUFFALO: Puck's on Sky Pee?

BIRD: Yep.

BUFFALO: Hi, Puck. How's it hanging, dude?

PUCK: Wikkid. Am I in?

BIRD: Oh, you're in all right.

BUFFALO: But you might want to push just a little bit more. That's better.

PUCK: Way-hey! So what do we do now, like?

BIRD: You tell us 50 ways to leave your octopus.

PUCK: Well, I was thinking we could leave it on the roof, like. Whose octopus is it, anyway?

BUFFALO: Well, we got it for a sketch. Long story.

BIRD: And now we don't know what to do with the booger.

PUCK: Wot about the zoo, like?

BUFFALO: Tried it. Apparently, kiddies experience "considerable difficulties attempting to bond with today's octopus".

PUCK: Well, then why not cook the fooker and eat it, like?

BIRD: Er, that was the sketch. Shhh, don't give it away, we're looking at big money from the BBC for that little baby.

PUCK: OK. Well, what if you hoover it up then chuck the bag away, like?

BUFFALO: Fookin' A!

BIRD: Now why didn't we think of that?

BUFFALO: Coz we're kinda fond of the bagpipes shagging, ink squirting octopod.

PUCK: But youse was saying you want to leave it.

BIRD: On amicable terms, of course.

BUFFALO: We'd like it to go to a new home.

BIRD: YOUR home.

PUCK: Well, I dunno wot me mam'll have to say about that.

BUFFALO: He's very affectionate.

BIRD: Waves his little tentacles at you when it's time for lunch.

BUFFALO: And plays Nessun Dorma of an evening on the old bagpipes.

PUCK: Well, I dunno...

BIRD: You'll love him.

BUFFALO: Be teaching him tricks in no time.

BIRD: Taking him down the park for walks.

BUFFALO: Introducing him to all your friends.

BIRD: He's a real chick magnet.

BUFFALO: You'll be screwing like a weasel with all the minxes in town within a week. Guaranteed.

PUCK: Well, if you put it like that.

BIRD: That's settled then. Welcome to the flog, Puck.

PUCK: Cheers, guys.

BUFFALO: Film at eleven.

BIRD: Write the cheque out, Momma.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Wednesday, July 19, 2006


BUFFALO: You OK, Birdy?

BIRD: So fookin' hot here, dude. Last night it was like sleeping in an incinerator. Had to keep flushing me head down the toilet to keep cool.

BUFFALO: Haven't you Britwits heard of air con?

BIRD: Heard of it. Got it at work. Blows out a force 10 gale, freezes your tits off then when you go outside you get fried like a sausage on a barbie.

BUFFALO: Bummer. But your car's got air con, right?

BIRD: Frank Lee, dude, I'm lucky if my Ford Fookwit Tin Box starts. Anyhow, enuff of that. Got some more fanmail


BIRD: From Dawn - "I read your blogs - omg they are really hilarious, do u write them everyday? You are so talented - I love them xx"

BUFFALO: Aw, shucks. Thanks, Dawn.

BIRD: She's the original rock chick. Just e-mailed you her pic.

BUFFALO: Oh, wow, dude! She's ripe.

BIRD: Sure is. Puck in Middlesbrough says, "OMG LMAO U guys are shit. I like sex on the roof with virgins."

BUFFALO: Done it, Puck. Most rewarding.

BIRD: And Dave in Halifax says, "Wot the f**k. I laughed so loud my Freddy nearly fell off."

BUFFALO: Awesome.

BIRD: And finally, Roger at Harvard says, "Wittgenstein would be so proud of you. You have plunged the depths of linguistic depravity and live to tell the tail! Logical atomism at its best. Keep going, boys!"

BUFFALO: What the fook's THAT supposed to mean?

BIRD: Dunno, Buff. But it sounds good. I think they like us.

BUFFALO: I think so.

BIRD: Write the cheque out, Momma!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Tuesday, July 18, 2006


BUFFALO: So how'd the interview go, Birdy?

BIRD: Well, Buff, old chum, it went something like this...

DICK XXX: So Mr Bird, you want to be in my movie?

BIRD: Er, well, yeah, if that's all right.

DICK XXX: OK. There's just a few routine questions I need to ask before we proceed further.


DICK XXX: Right. Have you got a penis?

BIRD: Er, I did have, the last time I looked, like.

DICK XXX: Good. Good. Have you ever been an arse double before?

BIRD: No, can't say that I have.

DICK XXX: Do you cry during sad movies?

BIRD: Nope. Usually I vomit, like.

DICK XXX: Have you ever laid under the stars?

BIRD: Yes, by a very attractive brunette. She was visiting a friend of mine, a local sculptor. We had an impromptu picnic behind the YMCA – on a grassy slope. We shagged like otters on a patchwork quilt. One of the best days of my life, hactually.

DICK XXX: Have you ever sat on a woman's pride and joy in anger?

BIRD: Never. Only with deep respect. (sighs)

DICK XXX: What's under your bed right now?

BIRD: Er, two dumbbells, 30 copies of Which Thumbscrew magazine and an inflatable octopus.

DICK XXX: Ice cream or cheese cake?

BIRD: Cheese cake.

DICK XXX: Up or down?

BIRD: Down.

DICK XXX: In or out?

BIRD: Out.

DICK: Karma or Kama?

BIRD: Oh... Er, could you repeat the question?

DICK XXX: Karma or Kama?

BIRD: Oh, dear. Um...

DICK XXX: Have to hurry you.

BIRD: Karma.

DICK XXX: Black or white?

BIRD: White!

DICK XXX: Pink or green?

BIRD: Green!

DICK XXX: Light or dark?

BIRD: Dark!

DICK XXX: Left or right?

BIRD: Left!

DICK XXX: Say "Ahhhh!"

BIRD: Ahhhh!

DICK XXX: Say "Ahhhhhh!"

BIRD: Ahhhhhh!

DICK XXX: Say "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

BIRD: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

DICK XXX: Well done, Mr Bird. Next!

BIRD: But but but but but but...


BIRD: How did I do?

DICK XXX: Spiffing. Sparkling. Gazunda-roo.

BIRD: So I got the job?

DICK XXX: No. We don't give high-profile arse double jobs to pathological liars. Good day!


BIRD: So, you see, Buff, that was that.

BUFFALO: Bummer.

BIRD: Absolutely. Don't write the cheque out, Momma!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Monday, July 17, 2006


BIRD: It's so fookin' hot here, Buff. I'm sweating like an octopus on his favourite bagpipes.

BUFFALO: Things are hotting all over the planet - in Moorish ways than one.

BIRD: You mean global warming, like?

BUFFALO: That's just the tip of the iceberg, Birdy.

BIRD: And we're on the "Titanic", like, with the iceberg lurking out there in the darkness?

BUFFALO: Aye, the darkness of ignorance, which rewinds me of what Meryl Streep sang last night: "All the world is sad and dreary, everywhere I go."

BIRD: You heard that minxy Meryl singing? Where?

BUFFALO: At the Cinema, lad, or as the Christian Right would say, the "Sin-ema".

BIRD: Hey, why do they call themselves the Christian Right?

BUFFALO: Because they think they're always right, dude.

BIRD: That would explain a lot, wooden it?

BUFFALO: Jawohl, mein Herring.

BIRD: An allusion to fish, Buff?

BUFFALO: You see a lot of fish over here, on bumper stickers.

BIRD: The Messiah?

BUFFALO: Correctomundo, my old avian chum. The fish on the bumper means the driver follows the teachings of Christ, and believes in Intelligent Design".

BIRD: Intelli-gent wot?

BUFFALO: Intelligent Design - of the planet, and all of God's creatures who walk about on it with their heads jammed up their tail pipes. We're all made out of whole cloth - according to the hard-core doxologists who eschew Darwinism but, ironically, embrace Social Darwinism...

BIRD: That creation thingie's debatable, innit?

BUFFALO: Not if you're Right all the time, Birdy.

BIRD: Ah, now there's the paradox.

BUFFALO: Pair of ducks.

BIRD: Ducks?

BUFFALO: Marx my words: a pair of ducks, a pair of geese, a pair of elephants, a pair of giraffes, a pair of Tsetse flies, a pair of dice, etc.

BIRD: Getting Biblical on me now, eh?

BUFFALO: Just doing my homework, dude, in case the Fundamentalists have their way with us.

BIRD: Have their way? Good Lord, man, will you have to bend over backwards and grab your ankles?

BUFFALO: Let me riddle you, Birdy. How do you separate the Church from the State in America?

BIRD: Dunno.

BUFFALO: With a crowbar.

BIRD: Yikes! Sounds a bit Sodomish and Gomorrish, like!

BUFFALO: Yup, and Armageddon tired of it.

BIRD: (gulps) Armageddon?

BUFFALO: Godzilla is warming up in the bull pen, getting ready to pitch World War Three in the World Cup of Hemlock. Every show's your last, Birdy - that's MY philosophy.

BIRD: Cheers, Plato!

BUFFALO: Socrates, Birdy... as in "Socrates Sucks Hemlock!" Another popular bumper sticker over here.

BIRD: I stand corrected, you pedantic arsehole - which rewinds me - you Yanks aren't planning to repeat the Hiroshima experiment, are you?

BUFFALO: Of course not. Japan is our ally now, you woonker.

BIRD: Language, please. Me mum might be reading this.

BUFFALO: It wrankles my tits that Hiroshima gets all the press and no one ever mentions Nagasaki anymore.

BIRD: You mean as in "Back in Nagasaki where the fellers chew tobaccy, and the women do the Wacky-Woo?"

BUFFALO: Precisely. We didn't nuke Nippon just the once, we gave 'em the encore, like.

BIRD: Er, Buff, not to tickle the dragon's tail, but don't you think Hiroshima and Nagasaki were a bit precipitous, like?

BUFFALO: Dude, when Americans get a new toy, like a snowmobile, or a Hummer, or an atomic bomb, they like to take it out of the box and give it a spin. Think about it. We've got a shitload of nukes over here gathering dust, if you get my Continental drift, lad.

BIRD: Sphincter time, here, Buff.

BUFFALO: And with good reason. When it comes to full-blown bat shit crazy, we hold most of the patents. When those glorious sons of Nippon perverted the Samurai Code and decided to use Oahu for target practice, we got our shit together taco pronto, dude. A mere three and a half years later, when the Uranium 238 was flowing over here like glow-in-the-dark maple syrup, we nuked their sushi and rice, not once, but twice. In other words, we Texas-sized 'em, podner.

BIRD: Oh, dear, and now there's a cowboy in the White House.

BUFFALO: Hmph. As John Wayne would say, this cowboy is "all hat and no cattle."

BIRD: But that's good news, innit? I mean, surely he's a man of compassion?

BUFFALO: Birdy, the guy flushed one of our OWN cities down the toilet!

BIRD: New Orleans, you mean?

BUFFALO: Si. What Katrina started, The Grayed Decider finished. And it was the morally expedient thing to do, according to the Christian Right. See, they righteously maintain that Nawlins was the modern day Sodom and Gomorrah, so it stands to reason that God sent that hurricane to smite those dirty chocolate sinners. Q.E.D.

BIRD: So what's that got to do with the price of plutonium in Pyongyang?

BUFFALO: Everything, Birdy. There's a lot of yahoos running around loose right now, howling at Moonpies, blowing up everything they can get their porky little hands on. But, dude, trust me, when it comes to all-out-balls-to-the-wall crazy, we come home with the gold every time.

BIRD: Holy Buffalo shit, Batman. Is there no way out?

BUFFALO: Well, ironically, the survivors of New Orleans have the final solution. A lyrical if somewhat outmoded form of transportation - a streetcar named Desire.

BIRD: Sor-ee, you've lost me past the chemist's, dude.

BUFFALO: "The Last Car to Elysian Fields".

BIRD: You've giving me the willywonkas, Buff.

BUFFALO: Don't fret about it, lad. My Guru, Boydsan, assures me that all this whoopin' and hollerin' is nothing more than a bad dream God is having. Sooner or later She'll wake up, have a scrub and make things as right as acid rain.

BIRD: Hold the Maya!

BUFFALO: Film at eleven, Arf, arf!

Sunday, July 16, 2006


BIRD: So anyway, I was in my car, sticking on some lipstick, and this policeman comes up to me.


BIRD: He says, "You're a bit of all right? Have you got five minutes?"

BUFFALO: Durty mutt.

BIRD: And I says, "No, officer, you don't understand, I'm doing research for me novel. This isn't the real me."

BUFFALO: Wot lipstick did ya put on, Birdy?

BIRD: Well, it was a nice sunny day, so I whacked on a bit of the scarlet.


BIRD: So... he says to me, "Nice legs." So I says, "Officer, I am about to meet a 6ft 7 inch cross dresser called Joe who would not take awfully kindly to that remark. I humbly suggest... you do one."

BUFFALO: Quite right too.

BIRD: So... he says, "Stop playing hard to get, bitch. I know your game, you dirty little todger teaser. You're stirring my truncheon. I suggest you get out of the car. Or onto the back seat."

BUFFALO: Omigod. So wot did ya do?

BIRD: Well... Joe comes along, sees the policeman, swaggers over and says, "Hey, there, birdy. Is this plod bothering you? Ask him about the fresh octopus."


BIRD: So the policeman says, "There's no need for that, Joe. We've all got our foibles."

BUFFALO: So true.

BIRD: So Joe says, "Now run along and play with your bagpipes." At which point the policeman disappears smartish and Joe says, "You don't mind if my twin brother George joins us, do you?"

BUFFALO: Jesus H Christ.

BIRD: At which point I slammed me foot on the accelerator and got the hell out of there. Take my advice, Buff, never go under cover.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Friday, July 14, 2006


BIRD: Is it just me?

BUFFALO: Try a tablespoon of sea salt in a glass of warm water... you won't be bored for long, lad.

BIRD: I meant philosophically.

BUFFALO: Bored on the john? That's where anything or nothing can happen. We may be open to great thoughts, or closed off from them. As for me, I hop on and off like a jack-rabbit running back to its hole to feed its young.

BIRD: Actually, some of my greatest thoughts have come in that enclosed space. Like why is the world round? And... who used all the toilet paper?

BUFFALO: Ever tried singing hymns on the john?

BIRD: Nope.

BUFFALO: When bound up I sing "Rock of Ages". When the other way: "Yes, We'll Gather at the River."

BIRD: No, don't make me laff. I've eaten too many nuts.

BUFFALO: Film at eleven.

Thursday, July 13, 2006


BIRD: I went to Middlesbrough once.

BUFFALO: Oh, yeah?

BIRD: They never did find the body.

BUFFALO: Rawk'n'roll! Arf, arf!


BUFFALO: I see the ads are gone, dude.

BIRD: Yep.

BUFFALO: Wot happened?

BIRD: Invalid clickings or sumthin'. That fookster Bud Dumbwilly the 9th, the Phantom Clicker, probably broke his parole and clicked our pension to boogery.

BUFFALO: Bummer. 250 grand down the Swan-ee.

BIRD: Still better to be poor and satiated than to be able to fart through the eye of a needle. Or sumthin' like that.

BUFFALO: Too-do-loo, Portaloo.

BIRD: Sayonara, fancy dress.

BUFFALO: So long, adieu, megalomania.

BIRD: Hactually, who gives an Adam's apple. *********** 'em.

BUFFALO: Backwards with a power drill.

BIRD: Still got Fifi.

BUFFALO: Bless her cotton socks.

BIRD: Don't write the cheque out, Momma!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

O Sweet Mystery Of Love - ON MY iPOD

BIRD: You awake, Buff?


BIRD: Wassup?

BUFFALO: It's that minx Fifi Lamour. She's always on my mind.

BIRD: She's all woman.

BUFFALO: So she finally declares her love for the randy auld Buffalo, like, and high time, too. Although this probably confirms my suspicions that she'd been getting high more often on the old puff-puff. BTW, she mentioned that she's been in the Kooky jar once too often and has requested time orf for good behaviors, but her pleas have fallen on the deaf ears of the good time Kooky, who has the blues whenever Fifi becomes out of touch, so to speak. I suggested that she add a bit more potassium nitrate to the Kooky mix and the corn dog batter, as that auld dawg needs to be a bit more salty, if you get my incontinental drift... which rewinds me... June Allyson died yesterday (sniffle). As a misspent youth I was smitten with her character in "The Three Musketeers" - D'Artagnan's love... she was so wonderfully sweet and minxy. And her voice... melted my brains, it did. I was heartbroken (and housebroken) when she started doing commericals for Depends, although the thought of changing her diapers did produce an erotic dream... of sorts. I especailly enjoyed the bit about the talcum powder, but I digress. Adieu, June, you will be missed, if not mussed. And as for Fifi, ooh, la, la!

BIRD: Mon dieu!

BUFFALO: Ahhh-rf, ahhh-rf.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006


BIRD: We've had e-mails and shit. People want to know about Fifi.

BUFFALO: Fair nuff. But don't go too close to the bone there, dude.

BIRD: Well, here's a little background. Ever since Fifi saw Buff's portrait on a nickel she has been hopelessly smitten--travelled the plains of the world to find him then by happy chance, stranded by a snowstorm in Detroit, she slipped on the ice and landed at his feet. Their passion flamed like a barn struck by lightning but eventually the embers grew cold. Now she is Buff's greatest fan, follows him around with a steno pad, and a napkin to catch the emanations of his mouth.

BUFF: (sighs) Arf, arf...


BIRD: Wo bist Sie, Buff?

BUFFALO: Hang on, Birdy, I got Fifi on.

BIRD: Okey, doke. Let’s do a three-way.

BUFFALO: Comin’ right up. You still there, Fifi?

FIFI: I’m here.

BIRD: Hi, Fifi! How’s things?

FIFI: Cogito ergo sum.

BIRD: How’d you like my picture?

FIFI: For a long time I thought you were holding a revolver, until Kooky told me it was a microphone.

BIRD: It is a revolver.


BUFFALO: Have you seen the Stephen Colbert video yet?

BIRD: Nope. Saving it for later.

FIFI: Did he actually say that at the reporters’ conference? Or was it a spoof?

BUFFALO: It’s a miracle he’s still alive after that. Laura McBush damn near had a watermelon.

FIFI: Some of it was pretty hairy. The smile remained plastered on our golden boob's face, I suppose.

BUFFALO: He was like a pile of frozen yogurt. Probably didn’t know whether to shit, go blind or wind his wristwatch.

FIFI: How I hate that man--he spoke at Ft. Something or other, wore khaki shirt but no flight suit with codpiece this time.

BUFFALO: Ha-ha. Colbert totally handed him his ass on a platter. Uh-oh, I hear Birdy snoring. Wake up, you berk!

FIFI: Jeez, I think he’s taken French leave… Probably working on his novel.

BUFFALO: Or his dingus.

FIFI: Birdy?!

BUFFALO: Birrrrrrr-dy!

FIFI: Get Mammy Yokum to call him.

BUFFALO: Jeez, it’s 2pm already. Must get to the bank to deposit Sparky’s check.

FIFI: Oh, OK. Birdy?

BIRD: Sorry about that. Little boudoir emergency. Now where were we?

FIFI: I’m jubilating. Just found out I got on Mass Health. That means all my meds are paid for.

BUFFALO: So you have to convert to Catholicism now?

FIFI: My body left Mother Church when I was about 16. But you know what they say about the church: once we've got you your ours forever.

BIRD: Write the cheque, Momma!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Monday, July 10, 2006


BUFFALO: I see Italy won the soccer then.

BIRD: Football, Buff. Footie.

BUFFALO: Yeah, whatever. Pretty neat headbutt by that guy Zidane.

BIRD: Couldn’t have done it to a nicer guy.

BUFFALO: Hey, I thought you told me France were gonna win.

BIRD: Dude, I told you ENGLAND were gonna win. And they might’ve if that wazzock Rooney hadn’t got himself sent off.

BUFFALO: That shootout at the end, that was kinda exciting.

BIRD: There’s no justice in this world. Bunch of cheats. Rolling around on the ground in agony after a little tap on the ankle.

BUFFALO: Fookin’ lightweights. So how’d the escort service go last night?

BIRD: Omigod. Nearly got a Freddy in my molars. Lipstick smeared all over me mug. I tell ya, Buff, I gotta get another job. Some of these cross-dressers can’t take no for an answer.

BUFFALO: Still, good research for the book, right?

BIRD: It’s a jungle out there, Buff. Nowadays, a straight guy can’t make an honest living slipping into a skirt and black stockings.

BUFFALO: Aw, come on, you like it, really. You lap up the attention.

BIRD: The thrill has gone, dude. I’m hanging up my Wonderbra and panties and heading for the building site. You know where you are with bricks.

BUFFALO: Film at eleven.

Sunday, July 09, 2006


BIRD: The mosquitoes are nervous tonight.

BUFFALO: Aye, drums along the Mohawk here, buddy.

BIRD: Woodpeckers on the wagon.

BUFFALO: Bluebirds over the ridge.

BIRD: Sparrows on the patio.

BUFFALO: Horseflies in the outhouse.

BIRD: Pigeons on the podium.


BIRD: Yep?

BUFFALO: What the fook are you talking about?

BIRD: Dunno.

BUFFALO: Has the heat frazzled yer brain?

BIRD: I want to live, Buff. Like never before. I want to give SO much.

BUFFALO: Sounds reasonable.

BIRD: I want to be free.

BUFFALO: Ditto here, dude.

BIRD: I want... a life!

BUFFALO: Jeez, Birdy. You been talking to the Jehovah's Witnesses again?

BIRD: Nope.

BUFFALO: Better cut down on the Benadryl, then.

BIRD: Think I'd better. Do you think I look best in the red or the pink skirt?

BUFFALO: Red. Definitely red.

BIRD: Thanks, Buff. Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Friday, July 07, 2006


BUFFALO: Panic over, Birdy, the pea-brained dipshit's alive and well. Just. I was down the Laundromat with Sue, see? The lady who runs the joint. A nicer bit of crumpet I’ve not seen in a raccoon’s age. Check it out, I was laundering about 200 lbs. of musty apparel that had been hanging in the closet since the Plasticine Era (Sgt. Pepper, id est) and she was giving me instructions on how to use her equipment, like.

“My, you’ve been blessed with so many clothes,” she trilled like a songbird, sporting a smile that would melt a Republican’s heart.

I explained that most of the old duds were going to the Salvation Army Thrift Store - that I reckoned they oughta be spiffed up a bit. Her eyes lit up like Christmas trees. She looked up at me like a Cocker Spaniel that wants petting.

“You are a very special man,” she said, with no trace of irony. My heart pumped peanut butter. Choked me up it did.

Then I come home to fookin’ Batman on the third story ledge, screaming obscenities at the neighbors whilst twirling his wrinkled old Freddy in the breeze like a flaming baton. And frantic mothers rushing to cover the eyes of their formerly innocent children who stood in the courtyard with their gazes glued to Sparky's gyrating gizmo, little mouths agape, the whole lot of them traumatized for life, no doubt.

From the sublime to the ridiculous, it was, I tell ya. Sweet Sue at the Laundromat one minute and the next minute this idjit prancing around on a narrow ledge in a gay Halloween costume with his willywonka taking the air and the women fainting in coils.

The fire brigade coaxed him down off the ledge with a bag of Malomars and a poor boy of Muscatel. I managed to persuade them to let him off with a warning this time on accounta he's a deranged Vietnam vet and all. The old Montags have a fierce soft spot for a man in a uniform - even though it's hardly regulation gear. Sparky was all decked out in a pair of black tights with yellow underwear on the outside, ornamented with a Unisex utility belt stocked with small aerosol containers of breath spray. He looked like Adam West on acid in the tights, and the utililty belt made him look like Pancho Villa or Zapata, wrapped in a bandolier. God help me, Birdy, I'm at me wit's end with this crazy-ass fooker. The next time he falls off the wagon I'm taking him to the local taxidermist and having him stuffed.

Sparky's sleeping off the Muscatel now, so I'm off to Harv's Hardware to purchase a heavy duty dead-bolt lock for my bedroom door, if you get m'drift. If you don't hear from me again I've most likely been buggered to death by Batboy.

Beam me up, Scotty...


BIRD: Buff? Where are you? I woz on the john, like, reading our book - Tails From The Bird & Buffalo (SOLD OUT, GOTTA WAIT FOR THE SECOND EDITION, VISITORS. BUY TWO, YOU'LL WANT TO READ IT TWICE). Wot a laff it is, especially the bit about the KGB in tights at Stuckey's. Hilarious. But I divest. Looks like Sparky's flipped so many burgers he's flipped himself. Have you tried ringing EXTREMELY CHALLENGED PROSTATES ANONYMOUS? They've always helped him out in the past. Or maybe BLADDERS APOSTLES? Though I think they make a call-out charge now. Guess the only other thing is to tell him Tin Tin's on TV.

Buff? Are you there? Speak to me, dude.


BUFFALO: You there, Birdy? Sky Pee me, won't ya? Dude? You didn't die in your fookin' sleep, did ya? We gotta talk. It's Sparky. He thinks he's friggin' Batman. Keeps saying "To the Batcave, Robin." He's out on the ledge now in his wetsuit, with his wanger hanging out, shouting, "I am the saviour of Gotham City". He's freakin' me out, dude. Wot do I do? Birdy?!

Thursday, July 06, 2006


Bird: Wassup, Buff?

Buff: Birdy, never give out your password or credit card number in an instant message conversation.

Bird: Gone right off your pudding, have you?

Buff: It’s the computers, lad, they’re driving me barmy.

Bird: Hey, aren’t you seeing Dr Feelgood today?

Buff: Aye. Time for the annual you-know-what.

Bird: The digital thingee?

Buff: Yes.

Bird: Last time something came up at the last minute, if memory serves…

Buff: More like at the first minute, actually.

Bird: Oh, God… I remember now. Skyrockets in flight, afternoon Turkish delight.

Buff: Something like that.

Bird: My God, Buff, is nothing sacred anymore?

Buff: It’s all sacred, every bit of it.

Bird: But the Hippocratic Oath and all that, I mean.

Buff: Whatever.

Bird: Aren’t you, like, ashamed of yourself?

Buff: I got over it.

Bird: Well, be good, if you can manage it.

Buff: But of course.

Bird: Ailing pussies calling. Must go.

Buff: Tot ziens! Arf, arf!

Wednesday, July 05, 2006


BIRD: We've had complaints.

BUFFALO: Wassat?

BIRD: That there's too much sex on our flog.

BUFFALO: No way!

BIRD: Apparently, your woody just isn't doing it for the ladies. So it's time for Plan B.

BUFFALO: Plan B... OK. Uh, what is Plan B?

BIRD: We gotta show our feminine, touchy-feelie sides.

BUFFALO: Wot, like dress up in skirts and stuff?

BIRD: Oh, man. Think outside the box. Something that isn't about minxes and horns.

BUFFALO: You mean like violence or sumthin'?

BIRD: Why do I bother?

BUFFALO: I could tell you about the roadkill I tossed on the barbie for Independence Day. Charcoaled Groundhog. I tell ya, Birdy, ain't nothin' like it. Slap some peppers on and potato fritters. Vunder-bar!

BIRD: Hey, what about the multiple amputation sketch? That oughtta do it.

BUFFALO: Wot, the one with the flying testicles? I don't think so.

BIRD: The Christmas Santa sketch?

BUFFALO: The guy's just had a hysterectomy, dammit!

BIRD: Jeez, guess we better face it - we've been typecast.

BUFFALO: Hey, don't feel bad about it dude, I still love you.

BIRD: I love you, too, dude.

BUFFALO: We've got each other, right? Wot more do we need?

BIRD: You're a true friend, dude. I'll never forget you.

BUFFALO: Welling up over here, Birdy!

BIRD: Got the old waterworks working overtime here too, dude.

BUFFALO: You mean more to me than I can say, man. You know that.

BIRD: No, Buff, stop it. I can't...

BUFFALO: If anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do.



BIRD: Write... the... cheque,... Momma. Omigod!


Tuesday, July 04, 2006


BIRD: You OK there, Buff?

BUFFALO: No, Birdy.

BIRD: Wassup?

BUFFALO: Last night, the fookin' octopus fell on my woody. Nearly sliced my Freddy in half it did.

BIRD: Sorry to hear that. Oh, btw, Happy Independence Day.

BUFFALO: Yeah, right! Redneck fookwits singing that Springsteen song all over town. Hold on a sec, just gotta get a bandage on this little critter. Actually, could you call me back? Ow!

BIRD: Sure.

BUFFALO: Sweet Sigourney...

BIRD: Film at eleven.

Monday, July 03, 2006

MP3, MP3, MP3, TRA, LA, LA, LA, LE

BIRD: Here's a thing, Buff.

BUFFALO: Wassat?

BIRD: The MP3 song. It goes something like this. MP3, MP3, MP3, tra, la, la, la, le. Reckon you can manage that?

BUFFALO: Hey, hold on a sec, Birdy. Just let me get rid of this woody.

BIRD: Film at eleven.



BIRD: The two most frequently entered words in search engines.


BIRD: Sit back and watch the Ads go ballistic.

BUFFALO: Cool. But what is MP3 SEX?

BIRD: It's a way of life. You'll love it.

BUFFALO: Cool. Can I have my breakfast now? I got a woody on.

BIRD: Sure.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!


BIRD: Gotta cover our arses, Buff.

BUFFALO: You bet.

BIRD: Now, how was Sue?

BUFFALO: She ended a long dry spell before breakfast, thus giving the old Buff a prodigious appetite to match his prodigious woody.

BIRD: Way to go, dude.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!


DISCLAIMER: “Tails of Bird & Buffalo” is a satiric website that presents fictitious characters that are used soley for purposes of entertainment. Any reference to real persons or institutions of any kind is done only with the intent of parody and is NOT to be taken seriously. Any perceived seriousness is merely a coincidence and is NOT intentional. References to real products or trade identification of any kind, including companies or characters who are trademarked is done without authorization from said companies or characters, solely for the purpose of parody, and is not meant to imply endorsement by said parties; nor is it meant to suggest any type of association with said parties. Our sole purpose is to present a humorous perspective on the human condition.

Saturday, July 01, 2006


"Once in a generation, if we're lucky, there comes along a work of social satire so outrageously funny that it transcends the traditional subjectivity of humor. 'Tails From The Bird & Buffalo' is the book we've all been waiting for - a prolonged schizophrenic soliloquy so diabolically and hysterically hilarious that by the midway point you will find yourself reading more and more slowly, savoring every outrageous morsel, dreading the final paragraph and the inevitable return to ordinary reality, for we all know what a bitch THAT is." - Pub Splasher's Weekly


"You pick up this book, with its garish cover that depicts a deranged woodpecker pecking at the head of a retarded-looking buffalo, tongue lolling, possibly drooling, and you instinctively know that someone is either playing a really sick-ass joke on you, or that you're in for a non-stop belly laugh that will have you puking your guts up. Halfway through the first page you will spit coffee or Red Bull all over yourself, and by the end of the first chapter you will be laughing so hard you'll soil yourself. And guess what? You won't give a shit. 'Tails From The Bird & Buffalo' is like a double dose of Carlos Mencia and Lewis Black on Owlsley acid. This book is the elixir for what ails the entire weasel-crazed planet. Buy two copies. You'll want to read it twice, and your pothead roommate is bound to steal one copy." - Rollin' Stoned


Possibly not since 'Confessions of an Opium Eater' by Thomas DeQuincey has anyone so throughly explored the depraved, twisted, labyrinthine recesses of the human mind as 'Tails From The Bird & Buffalo'. The authors, or author if one is to believe that this book was penned by a schizophrenic, cross-dressing bipolar bison, have created something that can best be described as 'transcontinental humor in a jugular vein'. Jerry Falwell has dubbed it the work of Satan, but I think he is missing the point. The prose is more angelic than Mephistophelean, and the humor, though bawdy, is in the best tradition of Rabelais, Swift, and Twain. All things considered, it is a ****ing masterpiece." - The New Porker