Sunday, December 10, 2006


BIRD: I say, Buffers, it’s been awfully quiet your end. Are you still with us?

BUFFALO: More or less, Birdy. I’ve lost me bloody voice, like.

BIRD: Ah, that would explain your recent abstinence, then. Are you looking for it?


BIRD: Your voice.

BUFFALO: Yeah, but I’ve given up. Guess it’ll turn up when I least expect it.

BIRD: Sounds like a case for Baker Street’s very own Sherlock Holmes.

BUFFALO: Ironic that you mention Holmes, Birdman. While searching for my voice I happened upon a lost Sherlock Holmes episode, in Watson’s handwriting.

BIRD: You’ve having me on, shortly!

BUFFALO: No, I swear it on a stack of Sparky's Toe Jam flapjacks. Wanna hear it?

BIRD: Regale us, Buff, do.

BUFFALO: Okay, here goes. By the way, I’m sipping Earl Grey tea with lemon and sugar.

BIRD: Sugar? An abomination, Buff. Wash your mouth out with a Britney.

BUFFALO: Yeah, whatever. Grab yer ankles, here it comes…

WATSON: Holmes, we must speak.

HOLMES: Not now, Watson. Good God, man, can’t you see that I’m in the middle of a delicate chemical experiment?

WATSON: Balderdash, Holmes, you’re not getting away with that old retort this time. I know exactly what you’re doing. I’m a doctor, you know. You’re obviously distilling an infusion made from those damnable leaves from Columbia that arrived in this morning’s post.

HOLMES: Well, what of it, Watson, old fruit? This distillation is a crucial component of a new compound I’m formulating that could well prove to be the definitive cure for rabies.

WATSON: Rabies, indeed. The only mad dogs around here are you and that fellow addict friend of yours; that quack from Vienna, Dr. Fraud, or whatever his devilish name is.

HOLMES: It wouldn’t be the fact that Dr. Freud is of the Hebrew persuasion that troubles you, would it, Watson poos? Or the fact that he's just won a fortune from the touts at Royal Ascot?

WATSON: Don’t play the race card with me, Holmes. Extinguish that Bunsen burner at once and hand over that vile vial. I warn you, Holmes, if you fill that syringe you’ll force me to take desperate measures!

HOLMES: Ha! I should tell you I’ve already measured it, Watson. It’s a mere ten cubic centimetres, and a harmless eleven percent solution at that.

WATSON: Eleven percent? Have you taken leave of your senses, Holmes? That dosage will stop your heart faster than a set of Britney Silly Cones!

HOLMES: Piffle, Watson. Now let go of the syringe, my good man. This injection is vital to the smooth running of my bonce, Watson, my nerves are shot, don't you know! The dastardly Professor Moriarty is trying to bump me off again, and I haven’t slept a wink in weeks. This infusion of Columbian coca leaves will increase my powers of deduction and enable me to find the Buffalo’s missing voice!

WATSON: Confound the diablo, Holmes, that syringe is full of the most wicked of all known poisons. Hand it over, I say!

HOLMES: But, Watson, sweetie, you must let me have it. Without it I am finished, written out of history’s detectivial collective psyche. Don’t you see, Shirley? Things go better with Coke! (whoosh) Ah, that’s better. Now hand me that encyclopaedia of the history of the Choctaw injuns in the Motown area, will you, old chap?

WATSON: Oh, really, Holmes! What did your last servant die of?

HOLMES: You know perfectly well that she died of deep vein thrombosis brought on by a poisoned Waddy Waddy dart planted in her neck from a distance of half a mile whilst walking the dog in Regent’s Park. Must we go over that case again, Watty, old bean?

WATSON: Here it is, Holmes. Although I fail to see the significance of this book that has been collecting dust on the fifth shelf on the left, five books along for 20 years, six months, five weeks, ten days, two hours, 41 minutes and seven seconds.

HOLMES: (opens book) Ah, yes. It is as I thought. Chapter 6, paragraph 5, line two.

WATSON: (picks up book) But Holmes…

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: It’s the Buffalo’s voice! How did you know?

HOLMES: Elementary, my dear Watty Botty. Now tell me this – where might one procure a copy of this Britney’s Finest 19 Seconds video? Ink-wiring minds, you know, my good fellow.

WATSON: Well, Holmes, it is said that Inspector Lestrade has all the decent copies down at the Yard under lock and key.

HOLMES: Fine work, Watson. Come, there is not a moment to lose. The game is afoot.

WATSON: Wait for me, Holmes. You know I've got carbuncles! Holmes…


BUFFALO: And that’s how I got me voice back, like.

BIRD: Mah-vellous. Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

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