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!