Wednesday, November 08, 2006

MID-TERM ERECTION BLUES - ROUND ONE

PARENTAL ADVISORY: EXQUISITE LANGUAGE

BUFFALO: Yoo, hoo! Birdy, you der?

BIRD: Bare Lee. Gimme a minute, like.

BUFFALO: It's Erection Day here, dude, and I may have to emigrate if the dirty rotten fooker goes South again.

BIRD: Write somethin' about it for da blog. It'll be a laff.

BUFFALO: Will dew.

BIRD: Any news?

BUFFALO: There’s been a tentative offer to shag me, like.

BIRD: Sparky?

BUFFALO: No, you berk... the outrageous Clare.

BIRD: Your platonic girlfriend, like? The paratrooper?

BUFFALO: Jeez. Paralegal, dude. She’s fookin’ brilliant and built like a brick shithouse. Check yer email, I just sent you a pic of her at 18.

BIRD: Lemme see... ah, here it is. (pregnant pause). Gott in Himmel! Is that really her?

BUFFALO: Aye, though she’s a bit more mature now, mind.

BIRD: But still scrumptious?

BUFFALO: Eat her with a spoon, Birdy, especially the naughty bits. Bigger balcony now, too; she hadn’t topped out at 18.

BIRD: The mind reels. Erection Day, indeed. But is this on the level, then? The tentative offer, I mean?

BUFFALO: Well, let me put this way, dude; Clare is not prone to practical jokes and she doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.

BIRD: Not yet, anyway... tee, hee.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

BIRD: I’ve had a really good feeling all day that something amazing is about to happen.

BUFFALO: Of course, it's Erection Day... woke up with one.

BIRD: But that’s merely the norm, isn’t it?

BUFFALO: Aye, but this puppy damn near perforated my quilt, Birdy.

BIRD: Oh, Lord. Clare Quilty!

BUFFALO: Cosmic, Birdy... dig it, her middle name is Dolores.

BIRD: Epic, Buff... hell, Homeric. It fairly takes me breath away.

BUFFALO: Ah, now if only it takes HER breath away.

BIRD: Rimshot!

BUFFALO: More like quimshot, I think.

BIRD: You randy auld dawg!

BUFFALO: Quilty as charged.

BIRD: (Groans) All right, now, so when is this coupling scheduled?

BUFFALO: Fairly soon, I think. If I had my druthers I’d lure her over here on Friday after work for a romantic candlelight dinner, with a jeroboam of Lambrusco on the TV tray and Il Vino Confuso on the stereo, like.

BIRD: What, no tafel music?

BUFFALO: No tafel, dude.

BIRD: What, they still haven’t delivered your new dining room set?

BUFFALO: No room for it. The bloody Carfax Arms is all buggered up with stacks of bloody books and toys.

BIRD: Toys? Yours, or Sparky’s?

BUFFALO: Sparky’s, mostly, except the battery-powered self-gratification machine.

BIRD: Buff, I’m shocked!

BUFFALO: Get off it... it’s only 6 Volts DC, for crissake. Cut me some slack, you want me to go blind?

BIRD: Eh? Oh, I get it... the machine doesn’t count, is that it?

BUFFALO: Of course not, berko, it’s a mechanical schlanger wanger, not a bloody abacus.

BIRD: I see.

BUFFALO: Titties like virgin moons, Birdy, the size of Casaba melons.

BIRD: I’ll have a lookee tomorrow morning afore I go to werk.

BUFFALO: Tell me another one, Birdo. I’ll eat my chapeau if you aren’t eyeballing it right now and polishing your knob in 7-8 time.

BIRD: Comin’ at ya now, Buffo, the Old Filipino Creamy, in quarts and shorts, like!

BUFFALO: Filthy swine.

BIRD: Just pulling yer chain, dude. I'm werking, remember? Write something about the election, why don't you?

BUFFALO: Yes, the erection... might be hard.

BIRD: Ker-ching! Doesn't have to be an essay, either. As long as you like.

BUFFALO: Pretty much tops out at 7.5 inches, dude, out of my hands, so to speak. Watching Wolf Blitzer on CNN; staying up to watch Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, LIVE tonight, from 11 to Midnight. By then the shouting and the tumult should be over – apple-polly-woggies to Walt Kelly. I’m keeping a running log.

BIRD: Yes, I’m picturing it. Arf, arf!

BUFFALO: Filthy old git. By the way, can you fookin' believe they gave Saddam his pink slip on the eve of the bloody erection?

BIRD: A bunch of right bah-stards, for sure.

BUFFALO: Aye, they got their noses so far up Arbusto’s derriere they’re obliged to breathe through their fookin’ ears. Colbert last night: “The appeal process could last a couple of months.” Then he plants his chin on both palms, elbows on the desk, the quintessential Norman Rockwell portrait of the all-American barefoot boy with cheek. “Gee, you think we may be in for a Christmas hangin'?”

BIRD: Bloody macabre, that, Buffters.

BUFFALO: Aye, film at eleven, Alcatraz.

BIRD: Cheep, cheep! Ciao!

BUFFALO: Boners for tunas, dude! Arf, arf!

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