WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: You haven't, have you?
HOLMES: Not yet, but I was thinking about it.
WATSON: Shall we?
HOLMES: Well, I don't see why not.
WATSON: One, two, three...
(RIPPING SOUND)
WATSON: Toby, you filthy mutt!
HOLMES: Abominable hound!
WATSON: Whiffy woofer!
HOLMES: No more beans for you, my lad.
WATSON: Hudders, take him away.
HOLMES: Lock him in the pantry and throw away the key.
WATSON: Serves him right.
HOLMES: Quite.
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I can feel another one coming on.
HOLMES: Me too.
WATSON: But now there's no Toby to take the flak.
HOLMES: Indeed.
WATSON: What to do what what what.
HOLMES: Open the window quick and get the bellows ready.
WATSON: Top hole!
HOLMES: Quick, I said!
(WINDOW IS FLUNG OPEN, FOLLOWED BY LOUD RIP)
HOLMES & WATSON: Ahhhh...
WATSON: Merry Christmas, Holmes!
HOLMES: Merry Christmas, Watson!
WATSON: Ablutions at eleven.
HOLMES: Not half!
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
FIRING BLANKS IN A WINDY CRESCENT AT CHRISTMAS TIME IN THE MORNING
FIRING BLANKS IN A WINDY CRESCENT
AT CHRISTMAS TIME IN THE MORNING
I was
firing blanks
but she didn't
seem to
mind
Monday, December 10, 2007
WHAT'S FOR TEA, DORIS?
THE RUNNER-UP IN MARTHA'S MUFFINS SIMMERING GENTLY POETRY OF THE LOST MILLENNIUM SPONSORED BY YouBoob IS...
WHAT'S FOR TEA, DORIS?
Safe in
the
glow
Of
A
Dung Beetle's
Poo
What's for tea,
Doris?
Sunday, December 09, 2007
NetFlix Fix Q Sparky Nooks
BIRD: Buff, what's Sparky been up to lately?
BUFFALO: Fookin' up, as usual.
BIRD: What's he done now?
BUFFALO: I've been waiting all week for my first DVD from NetFlix. It finally occurred to me that bonehead might've intercepted it. Sure enough. The flaming twit didn't even bother to read the address label. He sent it back, because HE hadn't ordered it.
BIRD: Have you properly chastised him, then?
BUFFALO: No, it does no good. He just stands like a plank, inscrutable as a bleedin' Buddha. Doesn't matter if you praise him and give him a dog biscuit or smack him upside the head with a snow shovel. No reaction. It's inhuman, like.
BIRD: What about his cooking? Has it improved at all?
BUFFALO: Not a bit. Every day when he returns from work he nooks some kind of vile concoction in the nooker. No idea what it is, but it smells like the toxic residue from the horse-knacking factory. I have to fumigate the oven before I can use it, and I'm spending a small fortune on room deodorizers. It's a wonder the silly twit isn't glowing in the dark.
BIRD: Has his smeller gone tits up, then?
BUFFALO: Apparently so. I doubt if he can taste anything, either. He spent 22 years pickling his tongue with vodka, y'know.
BIRD: Ah, right, he was the original old booze machine, innit? He's still on the wagon, though?
BUFFALO: Yeah, but he was a lot more fun when he was on the sauce. Now he has the sense of humor of a Catholic missionary, which is to say, nun at all.
BIRD: Blimey. Has he no hobbies?
BUFFALO: Well, there's a persistent rumor that he weaves macramé key chains from his own ass hairs, but personally I doubt if he has that much ambition.
BIRD: Do the two of you ever just sit around and chew the fat?
BUFFALO: No, even when he was still putting away a quart of shellac a day, it was like trying to talk to your big toe, only to find out that it had become anti-social, like. The attention span of a two year old when he was in his cups.
BIRD: So, what exactly is the glue that keeps this relationship together?
BUFFALO: He pays half the rent and keeps a low profile. It's a lot like being married, with only half the inconvenience.
BIRD: You two are the contemporary Odd Couple, fur shore, Buffers.
BUFFALO: True. I could write a book.
BIRD: Or a blog.
BUFFALO: There's an idea.
BIRD: Well, have to go now. Time to wax the oven.
BUFFALO: Same here. I have an appointment to have my bowling ball redrilled.
BIRD: Good luck with that.
BUFFALO: Righto, and by the by, tanks for da mammaries.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf.
BUFFALO: Fookin' up, as usual.
BIRD: What's he done now?
BUFFALO: I've been waiting all week for my first DVD from NetFlix. It finally occurred to me that bonehead might've intercepted it. Sure enough. The flaming twit didn't even bother to read the address label. He sent it back, because HE hadn't ordered it.
BIRD: Have you properly chastised him, then?
BUFFALO: No, it does no good. He just stands like a plank, inscrutable as a bleedin' Buddha. Doesn't matter if you praise him and give him a dog biscuit or smack him upside the head with a snow shovel. No reaction. It's inhuman, like.
BIRD: What about his cooking? Has it improved at all?
BUFFALO: Not a bit. Every day when he returns from work he nooks some kind of vile concoction in the nooker. No idea what it is, but it smells like the toxic residue from the horse-knacking factory. I have to fumigate the oven before I can use it, and I'm spending a small fortune on room deodorizers. It's a wonder the silly twit isn't glowing in the dark.
BIRD: Has his smeller gone tits up, then?
BUFFALO: Apparently so. I doubt if he can taste anything, either. He spent 22 years pickling his tongue with vodka, y'know.
BIRD: Ah, right, he was the original old booze machine, innit? He's still on the wagon, though?
BUFFALO: Yeah, but he was a lot more fun when he was on the sauce. Now he has the sense of humor of a Catholic missionary, which is to say, nun at all.
BIRD: Blimey. Has he no hobbies?
BUFFALO: Well, there's a persistent rumor that he weaves macramé key chains from his own ass hairs, but personally I doubt if he has that much ambition.
BIRD: Do the two of you ever just sit around and chew the fat?
BUFFALO: No, even when he was still putting away a quart of shellac a day, it was like trying to talk to your big toe, only to find out that it had become anti-social, like. The attention span of a two year old when he was in his cups.
BIRD: So, what exactly is the glue that keeps this relationship together?
BUFFALO: He pays half the rent and keeps a low profile. It's a lot like being married, with only half the inconvenience.
BIRD: You two are the contemporary Odd Couple, fur shore, Buffers.
BUFFALO: True. I could write a book.
BIRD: Or a blog.
BUFFALO: There's an idea.
BIRD: Well, have to go now. Time to wax the oven.
BUFFALO: Same here. I have an appointment to have my bowling ball redrilled.
BIRD: Good luck with that.
BUFFALO: Righto, and by the by, tanks for da mammaries.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
MAMMARIES WON'T LET YOU DOWN
BUFFALO: As you may have guessed, I didn't hang myself after all.
BIRD: Glad to hear it, dude.
BUFFALO: Although I should have.
BIRD: What stopped ya, like?
BUFFALO: Mammaries, I mean memories.
BIRD: Ah, memories. They won't let you down.
BUFFALO: Even though most of them are bad ones. Horrorshow nightmares, like.
BIRD: But at least they're yours.
BUFFALO: And they keep coming back, stabbing me when I'm not looking.
BIRD: Wot, memories?
BUFFALO: Mammaries.
BIRD: Mammaries?!
BUFFALO: Mammaries, memories, aren't they the same thing, all things sagged and done? I just know that if Mom hadn't denied me that lactose at birth, I'd be a happier bison now. Dad always said jugs would be my downfall.
BIRD: Dude, you're not making much sense.
BUFFALO: Every time I try to reach out to them they elude my touch, fall out of focus, slip softly away leaving no trace. I've spent my life trying to grasp them, trying to BE with them. But no, they don't want me, they never did, and here I am again, clutching at contours, wondering why they won't let me in. But I've got a cunning plan.
BIRD: Great. Please spill.
BUFFALO: Yeah, I'm gonna sneak up on them when they least expect it and when they stop, when they pause for thought, I'm gonna wrap my paws over them and squeeze 'em tight and I ain't never letting go. And they will reveal to me their hidden truths. Oh, yes, they will. And no more shall I flounder in a sea of emptiness and stale gloves. For they shall be mine. Mine, ya hear! ALL MINE!
BIRD: Dude, I think you've been at the creosote again. When are ya seeing the head doc again?
BUFFALO: Short Lee, Birdy, my old feather. Wait, I can hear some coming. Ha-ha! Come to me, sweet little mammaries, come to Dadda! Laters, dude.
BIRD: Fulfeeling at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
THIS EXTRACT IS FROM THE FORTHCOMING BIRD & BUFFALO POTBOILER JUGS FOR THE MAMMARIES, A PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO THE MECHANISMS OF SENSORY WITHDRAWAL 1901-1913 TO BE PUBLISHED BY SUCCULENTPAIRS.COM
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
HOT GROG SAVE ME Q 911
BUFFALO: Damn, nose stuffed up, head throbbing, muscles aching, eyes burning... and no lemons or whisky to make hot toddies with. Sonofabitch. No choice but to make a lemon and likker run, I guess. Hmmm. Let's see... there's some gin, but no whisky... blackberry brandy; God no, if I start on that, I'll do the whole pint and then I'm screwed, blue, er, black... black and blue. No, what I need is hot buttered rum - fookin' GROG! Yes, that's the ticket, hot grog with butter and biscuits. I can drink it and bathe in it. Okay, shower, fook the shave, off to Kroger's and the likker store. If that turd calls me "Boss" again I'm decking him. I don't know what's worse, "My friend" or "Boss". On second thoughts, maybe I'll just hang myself from the highest beam. But I can't find the rope I'm looking for, a classic Sacre Bleu Velveeta Rope (in Latin, an SPQR). All the others are much too scratchy (and tacky). When I finally do hang myself, it will be with the utmost style and decorum. Onwards and downwards. Birdy, you dere? Birdy! Dammit! Better phone 911 for a crane!
Monday, December 03, 2007
A BLOGO BY ANY OTHER NAME
BUFFALO: Wot a logo! Wot a logo! All the girls I've ever known have loved woodpeckers. Or is it woodies and peckers? It's been so long now. Anyhoo...
BIRD: A pecker made of pine even, hence the expression, pining for you!
BUFFALO: The Plywood Pecker. . . good name for a bar.
BIRD: Serving fresh woodies daily.
BUFFALO: Made my vanilla sundae, innit.
BIRD: And my raspberry cheesecake.
BUFFALO: And don't forget the mugs, thousands of them, floating into space.
BIRD: To educate and alleviate the asses.
BUFFALO: Quite right, Lee. Expressing our infernal gratitude to the Foxy Finn for immortalizing us in pen, ink and drool.
BIRD: And so she has. A blog isn't a blog without a good logo.
BUFFALO: A blogo, like.
BIRD: Egg-zack-lee! Aren't you the clever Buff?
BUFFALO: Well, I don't have a brain the size of a pea, innit?
BIRD: You filthy beast! Jeremiah, fetch my Hawkin gun! Take that, you cowardly bovine!
BUFFALO: Ouch! That hurt!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Saturday, December 01, 2007
BOUVET ISLAND BOOGIE
BIRD: Yup, it's true, Buff. We have officially become the cultural ambassadors for Bouvet Island. And henceforth they have agreed to replace their flag with our logo.
BUFFALO: Wikkid! Now wot about da chicks, like, innit, wasshappin, dude?
BIRD: Been at the sherry trifle again, I fear. It's uninhabited, like. But I'm sure Miss Bouvet Island, 2007, a vegetarian, will oblige with the formalities.
BUFFALO: Nice! Anyone for seconds?
BIRD: Yaaap!
BUFFALO: Three cheers for the logo and Marja, the whizzo with the coloured stick! Hip, hip...
B&B: Hooray!
BUFFALO: Hip, hip...
B&B: Hooray!
BUFFALO: Hip, hip...
B&B: Hoorayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!
BUFFALO: Oh, fudge rocket, I've soiled myself.
BIRD: Nice! Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Unlimited T-shirts, mugs and assorted memorabilly-ya at twelve. Arf, arf!
Monday, November 26, 2007
SEAHORSES ONLY GRIN WHEN THEY'RE READY
The seahorse leapt
up
from the
toilet bowl
And
nibbled
the
pork sausage
but
what a
grin
up
from the
toilet bowl
And
nibbled
the
pork sausage
but
what a
grin
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
WOT THE FREDDY: DIMINISHING ASSETS
FROM PUB SPLASHER'S WEEKLY:
New research carried out by the Fecundatory Futures Movement has revealed that, as feared, men's testicles are shrinking at an alarming rate. The study, entitled The Lost Testicle In The Modern Era, measured over two million testicles worldwide. It finds that the average size of testicles in males is 7.5mm in diameter LESS than the average size of testicles of shrimp farmers in Wisconsin and potato growers in Patagonia.
Scientists predict that at the current rate of shrinkage, by 2021 testicles may disappear altogether. World leaders will be gathering at an extraordinary meeting of the Intergovernmental Welfare For Gonads Forum in Lucerne in December to discuss what can be done to halt the deflationary tendencies of the appendages sometimes referred to as "love sacs" or "balls" in more polite circles, and "bollocks" and "nuts" in less polite circles.
Males are being advised that if they are having trouble finding their testicles, they should consult their doctor and think about purchasing a bicycle pump which has been proven in laboratory conditions to temporarily halt the decline of testicular recidivism as the condition has been labelled by leading testes scientist Igor Jerkmybollokov. Yesterday, Mr Jerkmybollokov was unavailable for interview, having been delayed at Speedo's Bicycle Shop attempting to buy the most economically efficient and aesthetically pleasing bicycle pump.
New research carried out by the Fecundatory Futures Movement has revealed that, as feared, men's testicles are shrinking at an alarming rate. The study, entitled The Lost Testicle In The Modern Era, measured over two million testicles worldwide. It finds that the average size of testicles in males is 7.5mm in diameter LESS than the average size of testicles of shrimp farmers in Wisconsin and potato growers in Patagonia.
Scientists predict that at the current rate of shrinkage, by 2021 testicles may disappear altogether. World leaders will be gathering at an extraordinary meeting of the Intergovernmental Welfare For Gonads Forum in Lucerne in December to discuss what can be done to halt the deflationary tendencies of the appendages sometimes referred to as "love sacs" or "balls" in more polite circles, and "bollocks" and "nuts" in less polite circles.
Males are being advised that if they are having trouble finding their testicles, they should consult their doctor and think about purchasing a bicycle pump which has been proven in laboratory conditions to temporarily halt the decline of testicular recidivism as the condition has been labelled by leading testes scientist Igor Jerkmybollokov. Yesterday, Mr Jerkmybollokov was unavailable for interview, having been delayed at Speedo's Bicycle Shop attempting to buy the most economically efficient and aesthetically pleasing bicycle pump.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
HAPPIER THAT WHEY
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I do believe it's time to cut the cord.
HOLMES: Watson, if it's about those chocolate hobnobs that you polished off last night, it's OK. Really.
WATSON: No, Holmes, you've got the wrong end of the thermometer. It's time for me to leave.
HOLMES: And you want me to approve it?
WATSON: Not exactly. I just thought...
HOLMES: That I might persuade you to stay? My dear batty quacky, man is born with freewill and the ability to make his own decisions. If you want to leave, you must have a perfectly good reason for doing so. I shall not intervene in your yearnings.
WATSON: So that's it, is it? Fifteen years of unwavering devotion and all I get is a footnote about "yearnings".
HOLMES: My dear boy, what more do you want? A touching speech that tugs at the heart strings of every sensitive maid in Old Albion? A notice in the Times about your impending departure and a few lines of deep gratitude for all you have done to assist the great Sherlock Holmes on his travels? A commemorative fruit cake with the words "So long, Watty, old chum" emblazoned on it? A limited edition mug with your mug on it displaying that hallmark puzzled yet gormless expression? A telegram from the Queen requesting the pleasure of your company for the awarding of the CBE? What, pray, do you want?
WATSON: Nothing, Holmes. Nothing at all. But when it all goes, pardon my French, boobies up and there's no one to deal with your vagaries and penchants and you fail to solve a single crime, even of the most petty nature such as which dog piddled on which lamppost in which street, I hope you will regret your ill-conceived words. Because Holmes, and don't let me mince my pies here, you are NOTHING without me. And you just can't bear to admit it. Sir, you are below a sub-atomic species from the green lagoon. Contemptible would be too high an accolade for your sneering, petty, anal-repressive attentive misdemeanour. What an uttter plank you are! Goodbye.
HOLMES: Watson... Oh, for pity's sake. Must everything be a competition? Must I pretend to be that which I am not for the sake of domestic harmony? Must inadequacies in one's near and dear be brushed under the carpet and left to fester? Must sheer genius be misinterpreted as arrogance and abject selfishness? How long must I bear the burden of being superior and always right? I am reminded of my dear friend Baden-Powell's words: "We never fail when we try to do our duty, we always fail when we neglect to do it." I have tried to do my duty to Watson, God knows I've tried. But nothing lasts forever. And frankly, I think I've been holding him back. There is a darkness in his soul that needs to be let out. He needs to live more, get laid, get drunk, make mistakes, get hurt, wallow in humanity's mud. I've protected him for long enough. True, he might get seriously burnt by life's woes, he might even kick the bucket, but no longer will he be gaining sustenance from my shadow. It's for the best. It might affect revenue from the books and serial rights, but it's a risk I'm prepared to take. Can there be any greater sacrifice than letting your closest companion free to face certain oblivion, I mean to ascertain why we are living? It's got to be done. Besides, he'll turn into a raving lunatic if he stays here much longer. On the other hand, they'll be no one to whip at croquet or chess or to tell me just how great I really am... Oh, all right. He stays. Happy now?
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I do believe it's time to cut the cord.
HOLMES: Watson, if it's about those chocolate hobnobs that you polished off last night, it's OK. Really.
WATSON: No, Holmes, you've got the wrong end of the thermometer. It's time for me to leave.
HOLMES: And you want me to approve it?
WATSON: Not exactly. I just thought...
HOLMES: That I might persuade you to stay? My dear batty quacky, man is born with freewill and the ability to make his own decisions. If you want to leave, you must have a perfectly good reason for doing so. I shall not intervene in your yearnings.
WATSON: So that's it, is it? Fifteen years of unwavering devotion and all I get is a footnote about "yearnings".
HOLMES: My dear boy, what more do you want? A touching speech that tugs at the heart strings of every sensitive maid in Old Albion? A notice in the Times about your impending departure and a few lines of deep gratitude for all you have done to assist the great Sherlock Holmes on his travels? A commemorative fruit cake with the words "So long, Watty, old chum" emblazoned on it? A limited edition mug with your mug on it displaying that hallmark puzzled yet gormless expression? A telegram from the Queen requesting the pleasure of your company for the awarding of the CBE? What, pray, do you want?
WATSON: Nothing, Holmes. Nothing at all. But when it all goes, pardon my French, boobies up and there's no one to deal with your vagaries and penchants and you fail to solve a single crime, even of the most petty nature such as which dog piddled on which lamppost in which street, I hope you will regret your ill-conceived words. Because Holmes, and don't let me mince my pies here, you are NOTHING without me. And you just can't bear to admit it. Sir, you are below a sub-atomic species from the green lagoon. Contemptible would be too high an accolade for your sneering, petty, anal-repressive attentive misdemeanour. What an uttter plank you are! Goodbye.
HOLMES: Watson... Oh, for pity's sake. Must everything be a competition? Must I pretend to be that which I am not for the sake of domestic harmony? Must inadequacies in one's near and dear be brushed under the carpet and left to fester? Must sheer genius be misinterpreted as arrogance and abject selfishness? How long must I bear the burden of being superior and always right? I am reminded of my dear friend Baden-Powell's words: "We never fail when we try to do our duty, we always fail when we neglect to do it." I have tried to do my duty to Watson, God knows I've tried. But nothing lasts forever. And frankly, I think I've been holding him back. There is a darkness in his soul that needs to be let out. He needs to live more, get laid, get drunk, make mistakes, get hurt, wallow in humanity's mud. I've protected him for long enough. True, he might get seriously burnt by life's woes, he might even kick the bucket, but no longer will he be gaining sustenance from my shadow. It's for the best. It might affect revenue from the books and serial rights, but it's a risk I'm prepared to take. Can there be any greater sacrifice than letting your closest companion free to face certain oblivion, I mean to ascertain why we are living? It's got to be done. Besides, he'll turn into a raving lunatic if he stays here much longer. On the other hand, they'll be no one to whip at croquet or chess or to tell me just how great I really am... Oh, all right. He stays. Happy now?
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Monday, November 05, 2007
REDRESSING SALIENT POINTS & PIE HOLES
FROM THE AULD BUFF IN RESPONSE TO G-FORCE'S HEINOUS LETTER:
Dear G-Hole, I’d like to address the salient points of your recent communiqué:
“You've always been a true friend to me…”
Actually, I’ve ratted you out to the Thought Police on more than one occasion, and I’ve sent newspaper clippings of all your public disgraces to your mother, which probably explains why you’ve been disowned. Just be thankful that I didn’t deposit a Coke bottle up your corn hole that time you passed out in my living room, in a gigantic puddle of your own aromatic chuck-up.
“… and you’ve always said you'd take a bullet for me.”
Dream on, you reprobate. I said I’d LOAN you a bullet, and I'd be happy to get back the spent cartridge.
“A monster banger up the carpal tunnel too. And I respect that.”
I can only assume this is an allusion to my alleged skills as a professional scribbler. If it’s an allusion to backdoor boogie, you can go and shag yourself with a Howizter, you degenerate, steaming pile of loose moose flop.
“And I know that over the years I have given you mucho shito with my wikkid ways.”
Surely the understatement of the Millennium. By comparison, that Biblical sod Job was on a holiday to Brighton.
“So I thought you should know, in case the tab doesn't work, compadre, that it was I that fooked up your marriage and got your sad ass fired from the production company.”
Don’t tell me you’ve taken a hit of acid? You’re dangerous enough when sober. As for fooking up my marriage, how could it possibly have been more fooked up than it was, long before I had the misfortune to have met you? And for your information, I was NOT fired from the production company, I OWNED the fooking production company. I resigned, in protest, because of the abominable mis-management and wayward hoeing.
“Indeed, if you hadn't been so fixated on watching Blazing Saddles YET AGAIN on TCM that hoary night in November, you woulda noticed me shivering like a skinned coyote behind your refrigerator with frozen balls the size of melons.”
Au contraire, melon balls, I knew you were there all along, and took great delight in the knowledge that your genitals had turned to icicles. Why do you think I kept raiding the fridge every five minutes?
“If it's any consolation, dude, balling your wife was about as exciting as shooting that drifter who tried to steal my chain saw. Which I also have told nobody about till now, bud.”
Another sterling example of the punishment fitting the crime. As for the defunct drifter, I have forwarded a copy of your confession to the FBI, Einstein.
“O what the fook, dude. Let's face it. I'm a bad ass mother follicker and I deserve everything that's coming my way. And I don't want you feeling sorry for me, Buff, after I'm gone.”
Me, feel sorry for you? It is to laugh. If you like, I’ll Fed-Ex that bullet to you. Just say the word. And as for the alleged charges to my bank account, from what I still remember of Math 101, something from nothing still equals nothing, putz face.
“And don't try and find me, dude, cos if anything happens to me, the puppy gets it. I think you know what I'm saying.”
I would no more initiate a search for your sorry ass than I would hire Sherlock Holmes to track down one of my spent turds. But, if you so much as look cross-eyed at that puppy, I’ll have the Pinkertons on your trail so fast it’ll make your MicroSoft Freddy spin like a fookin’ dreedle.
“Oh, and one more thing - Clare, the chick you were doing until that unfortunate accident with the pitch fork - I porked her too. And Chrissy and Desiree and just about every other woman that ever showed you as much as a sleeve of their affection. And after what I told them, I doubt if you'll be doing any bone jumping for a VERY LONG TIME.”
Actually, you’ve done me a favor (at long last). I’ve been trying to dump those tartlettes for ages. I only hope they believed you.
“So, so long, loser. You deserve all the shit that's floating slowly your way. And believe me, dude, there is a LOT of it in the pipeline.”
You can’t threaten a drowning man with rumors of an impending flood, you plank. If I were you, I’d worry about the shit tsunami coming YOUR way.
“PS Not quite the boob you thought, huh, sucker?”
True. You have far exceeded my expectorations, you flaming berk. Zut alors! Once again, I, the auld Buff have proven that in a contest between intellectual Titans and poorly educated pissants, the pissants go tits up every time. Better luck next time, Pie Hole! Ta-ra, jerk-berk!
Dear G-Hole, I’d like to address the salient points of your recent communiqué:
“You've always been a true friend to me…”
Actually, I’ve ratted you out to the Thought Police on more than one occasion, and I’ve sent newspaper clippings of all your public disgraces to your mother, which probably explains why you’ve been disowned. Just be thankful that I didn’t deposit a Coke bottle up your corn hole that time you passed out in my living room, in a gigantic puddle of your own aromatic chuck-up.
“… and you’ve always said you'd take a bullet for me.”
Dream on, you reprobate. I said I’d LOAN you a bullet, and I'd be happy to get back the spent cartridge.
“A monster banger up the carpal tunnel too. And I respect that.”
I can only assume this is an allusion to my alleged skills as a professional scribbler. If it’s an allusion to backdoor boogie, you can go and shag yourself with a Howizter, you degenerate, steaming pile of loose moose flop.
“And I know that over the years I have given you mucho shito with my wikkid ways.”
Surely the understatement of the Millennium. By comparison, that Biblical sod Job was on a holiday to Brighton.
“So I thought you should know, in case the tab doesn't work, compadre, that it was I that fooked up your marriage and got your sad ass fired from the production company.”
Don’t tell me you’ve taken a hit of acid? You’re dangerous enough when sober. As for fooking up my marriage, how could it possibly have been more fooked up than it was, long before I had the misfortune to have met you? And for your information, I was NOT fired from the production company, I OWNED the fooking production company. I resigned, in protest, because of the abominable mis-management and wayward hoeing.
“Indeed, if you hadn't been so fixated on watching Blazing Saddles YET AGAIN on TCM that hoary night in November, you woulda noticed me shivering like a skinned coyote behind your refrigerator with frozen balls the size of melons.”
Au contraire, melon balls, I knew you were there all along, and took great delight in the knowledge that your genitals had turned to icicles. Why do you think I kept raiding the fridge every five minutes?
“If it's any consolation, dude, balling your wife was about as exciting as shooting that drifter who tried to steal my chain saw. Which I also have told nobody about till now, bud.”
Another sterling example of the punishment fitting the crime. As for the defunct drifter, I have forwarded a copy of your confession to the FBI, Einstein.
“O what the fook, dude. Let's face it. I'm a bad ass mother follicker and I deserve everything that's coming my way. And I don't want you feeling sorry for me, Buff, after I'm gone.”
Me, feel sorry for you? It is to laugh. If you like, I’ll Fed-Ex that bullet to you. Just say the word. And as for the alleged charges to my bank account, from what I still remember of Math 101, something from nothing still equals nothing, putz face.
“And don't try and find me, dude, cos if anything happens to me, the puppy gets it. I think you know what I'm saying.”
I would no more initiate a search for your sorry ass than I would hire Sherlock Holmes to track down one of my spent turds. But, if you so much as look cross-eyed at that puppy, I’ll have the Pinkertons on your trail so fast it’ll make your MicroSoft Freddy spin like a fookin’ dreedle.
“Oh, and one more thing - Clare, the chick you were doing until that unfortunate accident with the pitch fork - I porked her too. And Chrissy and Desiree and just about every other woman that ever showed you as much as a sleeve of their affection. And after what I told them, I doubt if you'll be doing any bone jumping for a VERY LONG TIME.”
Actually, you’ve done me a favor (at long last). I’ve been trying to dump those tartlettes for ages. I only hope they believed you.
“So, so long, loser. You deserve all the shit that's floating slowly your way. And believe me, dude, there is a LOT of it in the pipeline.”
You can’t threaten a drowning man with rumors of an impending flood, you plank. If I were you, I’d worry about the shit tsunami coming YOUR way.
“PS Not quite the boob you thought, huh, sucker?”
True. You have far exceeded my expectorations, you flaming berk. Zut alors! Once again, I, the auld Buff have proven that in a contest between intellectual Titans and poorly educated pissants, the pissants go tits up every time. Better luck next time, Pie Hole! Ta-ra, jerk-berk!
Sunday, November 04, 2007
MUMMY OF TUTANKHAMEN SPEAKS OUT
I just want him back. I know I was wrong. I shouldn't have shouted at him... I fooked up, OK? I said I'd kicked the habit but I lied. What more can I say? I'm really sorry, son. I swear, as Pharaoh Ramses II is my witness, that I will never do coke again. Please, PLEASE come back. Without you, your mummy's nuthin'. The moment you walk in that door, I'm in rehab. Deffo. Love you, Tootie poos.
G-FORCE VENDETTA PART 1
BUFFALO: At 2 AM, G-Force used his one and only phone call to let me know he’s in jail. Driving with a suspended license. Third offense. What should he do? After careful thought, I advised him to gently extract his cranial appendage from his rectal orifice. Or, just hang himself. He promised to think about it. And then he wrote this note:
"Dear Buff,
You've always been a true friend to me. And you've always said you'd take a bullet for me. A monster banger up the carpal tunnel too. And I respect that. And I know that over the years I have given you mucho shito with my wikkid ways. So I thought you should know, in case the tab doesn't work, compadre, that it was I that fooked up your marriage and got your sad ass fired from the production company. Indeed, if you hadn't been so fixated on watching Blazing Saddles YET AGAIN on TCM that hoary night in November, you woulda noticed me shivering like a skinned coyote behind your refrigerator with frozen balls the size of melons.
If it's any consolation, dude, balling your wife was about as exciting as shooting that drifter who tried to steal my chain saw. Which I also have told nobody about till now, bud.
O what the fook, dude. Let's face it. I'm a bad ass mother follicker and I deserve everthing that's coming my way. And I don't want you feeling sorry for me, Buff, after I'm gone. Cos with any luck, the bank WILL return all your funds and the credit card bangers won't charge you any interest on the few transactions that came to pass so that I could scoot.
And don't try and find me, dude, cos if anything happens to me, the puppy gets it. I think you know what I'm saying.
Oh, and one more thing - Clare, the chick you were doing until that unfortunate accident with the pitch fork - I porked her too. And Chrissy and Desiree and just about every other woman that ever showed you as much as a sleeve of their affection. And after what I told them, I doubt if you'll be doing any bone jumping for a VERY LONG TIME.
So, so long, loser. You deserve all the shit that's floating slowly your way. And believe me, dude, there is a LOT of it in the pipeline.
G-Force
PS Not quite the boob you thought, huh, sucker?
******
Well, folks, there is a moral in there, but I'm Freddied if I know what it is. What does the G stand for? Well, what do you think?!
"Dear Buff,
You've always been a true friend to me. And you've always said you'd take a bullet for me. A monster banger up the carpal tunnel too. And I respect that. And I know that over the years I have given you mucho shito with my wikkid ways. So I thought you should know, in case the tab doesn't work, compadre, that it was I that fooked up your marriage and got your sad ass fired from the production company. Indeed, if you hadn't been so fixated on watching Blazing Saddles YET AGAIN on TCM that hoary night in November, you woulda noticed me shivering like a skinned coyote behind your refrigerator with frozen balls the size of melons.
If it's any consolation, dude, balling your wife was about as exciting as shooting that drifter who tried to steal my chain saw. Which I also have told nobody about till now, bud.
O what the fook, dude. Let's face it. I'm a bad ass mother follicker and I deserve everthing that's coming my way. And I don't want you feeling sorry for me, Buff, after I'm gone. Cos with any luck, the bank WILL return all your funds and the credit card bangers won't charge you any interest on the few transactions that came to pass so that I could scoot.
And don't try and find me, dude, cos if anything happens to me, the puppy gets it. I think you know what I'm saying.
Oh, and one more thing - Clare, the chick you were doing until that unfortunate accident with the pitch fork - I porked her too. And Chrissy and Desiree and just about every other woman that ever showed you as much as a sleeve of their affection. And after what I told them, I doubt if you'll be doing any bone jumping for a VERY LONG TIME.
So, so long, loser. You deserve all the shit that's floating slowly your way. And believe me, dude, there is a LOT of it in the pipeline.
G-Force
PS Not quite the boob you thought, huh, sucker?
******
Well, folks, there is a moral in there, but I'm Freddied if I know what it is. What does the G stand for? Well, what do you think?!
Thursday, October 25, 2007
WINNER OF THE 2007 INTERNATIONAL GIANT PLANTAIN POETRY COMPETITION FEATURING SHOELACES & BREAM
Our thanks go to head of the judges Daniil Kharms, who's dead you know.
nb This competition will open then close again on November 1st at thirteen minutes to midnight. All entries should be lightly salted and perfectly manicured. Happy pickling!
SMOKING BREAM
Spittle
Dangling
Drowning
On a sandwich
After tea
But before Z
Mind the giraffe
He's dead you know
nb This competition will open then close again on November 1st at thirteen minutes to midnight. All entries should be lightly salted and perfectly manicured. Happy pickling!
SMOKING BREAM
Spittle
Dangling
Drowning
On a sandwich
After tea
But before Z
Mind the giraffe
He's dead you know
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
COLLY BOBBLES & OTHER ANIMALS
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Do you think there is life after death?
HOLMES: Why do you ask? Isn't this one enough for you?
WATSON: It's just there's so much pain and suffering. It'd be nice to think that there's a reward waiting.
HOLMES: My dear quack, you have no idea what pain and suffering is. You've never been shot at, knifed, raped, robbed or died a slow death through lack of food or warmth. Just be grateful for what you've got.
WATSON: It's just...
HOLMES: Contrary to popular Watsonian rectal philosophy, the world DOES NOT revolve around you, it merely tolerates your incessant whining and self-obsessive behaviour.
WATSON: I say, old bean, that's a bit harsh.
HOLMES: Quite mild, actually, and verifiably true.
WATSON: I was talking theoretically, old man. And also the fact that... (groans) there seems to be a poisoned dart protruding from my diaphragm.
HOLMES: What?! Oh, so there is. I wonder how that got there?
WATSON: Am I going to die, old chum?
HOLMES: Possibly in the physical sense. Judging by the angle of trajectory, I'd say it came from... that direction. Teddy!
WATSON: Teddy?! From next door?!
TEDDY: Yes, sir, Mr Holmes?
HOLMES: Come out from the fireplace. Now have you been playing bows and arrows again?
TEDDY: Yes, sir, Mr Holmes.
HOLMES: I see. Would you mind removing that arrow from Watson's diaphragm?
TEDDY: Certainly, sir, Mr Holmes.
WATSON: You mean... Ow! Oh, gosh, look, Holmes, it's a sucking blubber... rubber sucker. Good Lord! I'm saved! Heavens!
HOLMES: Thank you, Teddy. Now be a good lad and call Hudders, would you? Watson's in shock.
TEDDY: Right away, sir, Mr Holmes.
WATSON: Oh ho, not a poisoned dart, after all. Ha ha. Silly me, always imagining the worst. Awfully sorry, Holmes. What a terrible fretting irrelevance I've become.
HOLMES: That's what becomes of an idle mind. Have you thought of becoming a Scout leader? Showing strapping young lads how to tie knots and hunt wild stag beetles at camp? That should knock all that egotistical balderdash out of you.
WATSON: I say, what a spiffing idea. We could set up camp in Epping Forest and cook bangers and mash on the stove by the lake and sing Ging Gang Goolie Goolie Goolie Goolie watch ya Ging Gang Goo Ging Gang Goo then make a tree house and catapults to kill lizards and snakes and creepy crawlies with. Then after that we could build a boat to explore the island on the other side and capture and interrogate any natives we might find, perhaps even sell a few for good money at Camden Market.
HOLMES: Oh, dear. I think the camphor's starting to kick in. Sometimes, Watson, I wonder what would've have happened to you if I hadn't plucked you from the depths of suburban obscurity. I do believe you'd still be living with your parents, playing with your train set and reading Treasure Island for the thousandth time.
WATSON: Ah, yes. My beloved train set. Took me seven years to build and just half an hour to burn.
HOLMES: Yes, along with the house.
WATSON: I do wish you wouldn't keep bringing that up. I wasn't in my right mind then, as you know. And just what's wrong with reading Treasure Island as many times as I like? It takes me to another place, provides me with an inner peace not to be had from the grim bedlam of this earth. And don't forget my toy soldiers. Many a time I re-enacted Agincourt. They were wonderful times.
HOLMES: Which just proves that some men never grow up.
WATSON: If dear mama could see me now...
HOLMES: And they dare to muse on immortality.
WATSON: If papa hadn't chosen to conceal his identity from all and sundry from the moment I was born...
HOLMES: And ask that others take them seriously.
WATSON: If dear gran hadn't mysteriously disappeared after dropping me off head first at the police station...
HOLMES: I really don't know what the world is coming to.
WATSON: If I hadn't spent those long winter months locked in the tool shed...
HOLMES: Watson!
WATSON: Yes, Holmes?
HOLMES: If you promise not to be late for lunch, you can go and play bows and arrows with Teddy.
WATSON: Oh, can I? Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes. You really are the bestest host.
HOLMES: And don't talk to any strangers.
WATSON: Right you are, Mr Holmes.
HOLMES: Run along now.
WATSON: Ta-ta. Teddy! Teddy! Hold the fort, I'm on my way!
HOLMES: (sighs) You can take the man out of the boy but you can't put the boy in the... oh, whatever. Hudders! Hudders! Where is she? I need a strong pot of tea and some crumpet after all this. Let's hope that psychiatrist Dr Bumfenbaum can sort out Watson when he gets back. In truth, I don't think Watson's been right since that piano fell on him on his way to the tuck shop. Oh, well. Que sera sera as they say. Crumpet at eleven!
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Do you think there is life after death?
HOLMES: Why do you ask? Isn't this one enough for you?
WATSON: It's just there's so much pain and suffering. It'd be nice to think that there's a reward waiting.
HOLMES: My dear quack, you have no idea what pain and suffering is. You've never been shot at, knifed, raped, robbed or died a slow death through lack of food or warmth. Just be grateful for what you've got.
WATSON: It's just...
HOLMES: Contrary to popular Watsonian rectal philosophy, the world DOES NOT revolve around you, it merely tolerates your incessant whining and self-obsessive behaviour.
WATSON: I say, old bean, that's a bit harsh.
HOLMES: Quite mild, actually, and verifiably true.
WATSON: I was talking theoretically, old man. And also the fact that... (groans) there seems to be a poisoned dart protruding from my diaphragm.
HOLMES: What?! Oh, so there is. I wonder how that got there?
WATSON: Am I going to die, old chum?
HOLMES: Possibly in the physical sense. Judging by the angle of trajectory, I'd say it came from... that direction. Teddy!
WATSON: Teddy?! From next door?!
TEDDY: Yes, sir, Mr Holmes?
HOLMES: Come out from the fireplace. Now have you been playing bows and arrows again?
TEDDY: Yes, sir, Mr Holmes.
HOLMES: I see. Would you mind removing that arrow from Watson's diaphragm?
TEDDY: Certainly, sir, Mr Holmes.
WATSON: You mean... Ow! Oh, gosh, look, Holmes, it's a sucking blubber... rubber sucker. Good Lord! I'm saved! Heavens!
HOLMES: Thank you, Teddy. Now be a good lad and call Hudders, would you? Watson's in shock.
TEDDY: Right away, sir, Mr Holmes.
WATSON: Oh ho, not a poisoned dart, after all. Ha ha. Silly me, always imagining the worst. Awfully sorry, Holmes. What a terrible fretting irrelevance I've become.
HOLMES: That's what becomes of an idle mind. Have you thought of becoming a Scout leader? Showing strapping young lads how to tie knots and hunt wild stag beetles at camp? That should knock all that egotistical balderdash out of you.
WATSON: I say, what a spiffing idea. We could set up camp in Epping Forest and cook bangers and mash on the stove by the lake and sing Ging Gang Goolie Goolie Goolie Goolie watch ya Ging Gang Goo Ging Gang Goo then make a tree house and catapults to kill lizards and snakes and creepy crawlies with. Then after that we could build a boat to explore the island on the other side and capture and interrogate any natives we might find, perhaps even sell a few for good money at Camden Market.
HOLMES: Oh, dear. I think the camphor's starting to kick in. Sometimes, Watson, I wonder what would've have happened to you if I hadn't plucked you from the depths of suburban obscurity. I do believe you'd still be living with your parents, playing with your train set and reading Treasure Island for the thousandth time.
WATSON: Ah, yes. My beloved train set. Took me seven years to build and just half an hour to burn.
HOLMES: Yes, along with the house.
WATSON: I do wish you wouldn't keep bringing that up. I wasn't in my right mind then, as you know. And just what's wrong with reading Treasure Island as many times as I like? It takes me to another place, provides me with an inner peace not to be had from the grim bedlam of this earth. And don't forget my toy soldiers. Many a time I re-enacted Agincourt. They were wonderful times.
HOLMES: Which just proves that some men never grow up.
WATSON: If dear mama could see me now...
HOLMES: And they dare to muse on immortality.
WATSON: If papa hadn't chosen to conceal his identity from all and sundry from the moment I was born...
HOLMES: And ask that others take them seriously.
WATSON: If dear gran hadn't mysteriously disappeared after dropping me off head first at the police station...
HOLMES: I really don't know what the world is coming to.
WATSON: If I hadn't spent those long winter months locked in the tool shed...
HOLMES: Watson!
WATSON: Yes, Holmes?
HOLMES: If you promise not to be late for lunch, you can go and play bows and arrows with Teddy.
WATSON: Oh, can I? Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes. You really are the bestest host.
HOLMES: And don't talk to any strangers.
WATSON: Right you are, Mr Holmes.
HOLMES: Run along now.
WATSON: Ta-ta. Teddy! Teddy! Hold the fort, I'm on my way!
HOLMES: (sighs) You can take the man out of the boy but you can't put the boy in the... oh, whatever. Hudders! Hudders! Where is she? I need a strong pot of tea and some crumpet after all this. Let's hope that psychiatrist Dr Bumfenbaum can sort out Watson when he gets back. In truth, I don't think Watson's been right since that piano fell on him on his way to the tuck shop. Oh, well. Que sera sera as they say. Crumpet at eleven!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
ANGRY DUCKS, POTTY RUSKIES & FICKLEHOLES
BIRD: You sound pretty wasted, Buffters. What was you up to last nite?
BUFFALO: Alligators, Birdy. Up to my ass in 'em. Sometimes I get a break, though, and then it feels like I'm being eaten alive by ducks.
BIRD: Any particular kind of ducks?
BUFFALO: Very angry ducks, ducky.
BIRD: Bordering on mad?
BUFFALO: Yes, pre-size-lee. Mad ducks.
BIRD: Are they are bad as mad dogs?
BUFFALO: Wurse. They don't foam at the mouth, so by the time you've figgered out they're mad, you've already been bitten.
BIRD:And danger of infection? Contamination even?
BUFFALO: No, fortunately I've been quite mad for most of my life, so I'm immune. I think my current de-lemo can best be summed up in the dire log between our two most favorite Russian scallywags.
BIRD: Blimey, you mean the Russian virgin of Laurel and Hardy?
BUFFALO: The very ones. I've been eavesdropping on them. It appears that they've gotten themselves into a mighty pickle.
BIRD: Turn up the watts, Buff, so we can all have a listen, innit.
BUFFALO: Hang on, here they come.
BORODNY: Well, Pushkin, here is other fine mess you got me into.
PUSHKIN: It's not my fault! She said she will be doing both of us, on back seat of Trabant!
BORODNY: And you believed her? Are you not learning anything from last six times she duped us, turnip dick?
PUSHKIN: But she was so sincere, and eloquent, regular Daughter of the Revolution, already!
BORDONY: Da, and now here we are, hanging upside by our ankles, in Durance Vile, waiting for bloodsucking attorney to skewer us like couple of shish ka-knobs. Pushkin, you truly are idiot of distinction of former Soviet Mother's Union.
PUSHKIN: But it is not my fault! Mama dropped me on head as baby.
BORODNY: Is great shame she did not flush you down toilet, instead, already.
PUSHKIN: What toilet? We had bucket, like all citizens of revolution. Mama make many smellies. Wooo! We relieve ourselves once a year in correct procedure, on annual visit to Moscow.
BORODNY: What in name of pregnant goat with inflated udders you was doing in Moscow?
PUSHKIN: Visiting papa, in Lubayanka. We save money for him, so he bribe guards to give him cabbage to eat, but he was lunatic out of hungry and eat the money, already.
BORODNY: Da, suspicion confirmed. You come from long line of idiots.
PUSHKIN: Is not true! But we must stand in long line of idiots to use bathroom.
BORODNY: So is why you have shit for brains.
PUSHKIN: Excuse me, please. but I am hanging here in company, you know.
BORODNY: But of course. I am idiot to listen to you. I am telling myself you so potty that you are banging wet dream, already. Once again you hear Sirens drawing you to rocks, and like complete ficklehole I give you helm. For this, I deserve Order of Lennon, winter vacation in Siberia, and nice red hot poker up ficklehole.
PUSHKIN: I am sorry, already! You know how it happens when she flashes headlights at me and gives me come on, already. No man who is not prancing nancy boy is resisting it. I am just human, you know!
BORODNY: You are human turd, is what, you fooked idiot. If we get out of mess, I kick your sorry ficklehole from one end of Red Square to other, then I drown you in vat of vodka.
PUSHKIN: Drowned in vat of vodka? "Death, where is thy sting?"
BORODNY: You will see, if we survive. I put pitchfork so far up your ficklehole when you walk in room, everyone is saying, "Look, here comes Pushkin, who speaks with forked tongue." Enough of crying, already, die like man!
BUFFALO: And dat's where we must relieve it.
BIRD: Thank the Freddy. It's getting a bit tacky, innit? Funny how there seems to be a parallel between our current situations.
BUFFALO: There are parallels going all the way back to Eden, Birdy. Forbidden fruit, and all that.
BIRD: Beware of Greeks bearing gifts, is it?
BUFFALO: More like, beware of Vikings bearing melons, I think.
BIRD: I see what you mean, Buffers.
BUFFALO: Next time, do me a favor, Birdy. Shoot me in the fookin' head, willya?
BIRD: Or the Freddy.
BUFFALO: That, too. I should have the damned thing amputated, for all the good it does me.
BIRD: Live and learn, Buff.
BUFFALO: I think I have a learning disability, Birdy.
BIRD: No one's purr-fect.
BUFFALO: You can say that again.
BIRD: No one's purr-fect.
BUFFALO: Put a lid on it, Birdman, before I am throttling you, already.
BIRD: Whimper, whimper.
BUFFALO: Ditto that, Birdy, ditto that.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Yeah, "The Battleship Potemkin" - uncut, uncensored, un-fookin'-believable. Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: Alligators, Birdy. Up to my ass in 'em. Sometimes I get a break, though, and then it feels like I'm being eaten alive by ducks.
BIRD: Any particular kind of ducks?
BUFFALO: Very angry ducks, ducky.
BIRD: Bordering on mad?
BUFFALO: Yes, pre-size-lee. Mad ducks.
BIRD: Are they are bad as mad dogs?
BUFFALO: Wurse. They don't foam at the mouth, so by the time you've figgered out they're mad, you've already been bitten.
BIRD:And danger of infection? Contamination even?
BUFFALO: No, fortunately I've been quite mad for most of my life, so I'm immune. I think my current de-lemo can best be summed up in the dire log between our two most favorite Russian scallywags.
BIRD: Blimey, you mean the Russian virgin of Laurel and Hardy?
BUFFALO: The very ones. I've been eavesdropping on them. It appears that they've gotten themselves into a mighty pickle.
BIRD: Turn up the watts, Buff, so we can all have a listen, innit.
BUFFALO: Hang on, here they come.
BORODNY: Well, Pushkin, here is other fine mess you got me into.
PUSHKIN: It's not my fault! She said she will be doing both of us, on back seat of Trabant!
BORODNY: And you believed her? Are you not learning anything from last six times she duped us, turnip dick?
PUSHKIN: But she was so sincere, and eloquent, regular Daughter of the Revolution, already!
BORDONY: Da, and now here we are, hanging upside by our ankles, in Durance Vile, waiting for bloodsucking attorney to skewer us like couple of shish ka-knobs. Pushkin, you truly are idiot of distinction of former Soviet Mother's Union.
PUSHKIN: But it is not my fault! Mama dropped me on head as baby.
BORODNY: Is great shame she did not flush you down toilet, instead, already.
PUSHKIN: What toilet? We had bucket, like all citizens of revolution. Mama make many smellies. Wooo! We relieve ourselves once a year in correct procedure, on annual visit to Moscow.
BORODNY: What in name of pregnant goat with inflated udders you was doing in Moscow?
PUSHKIN: Visiting papa, in Lubayanka. We save money for him, so he bribe guards to give him cabbage to eat, but he was lunatic out of hungry and eat the money, already.
BORODNY: Da, suspicion confirmed. You come from long line of idiots.
PUSHKIN: Is not true! But we must stand in long line of idiots to use bathroom.
BORODNY: So is why you have shit for brains.
PUSHKIN: Excuse me, please. but I am hanging here in company, you know.
BORODNY: But of course. I am idiot to listen to you. I am telling myself you so potty that you are banging wet dream, already. Once again you hear Sirens drawing you to rocks, and like complete ficklehole I give you helm. For this, I deserve Order of Lennon, winter vacation in Siberia, and nice red hot poker up ficklehole.
PUSHKIN: I am sorry, already! You know how it happens when she flashes headlights at me and gives me come on, already. No man who is not prancing nancy boy is resisting it. I am just human, you know!
BORODNY: You are human turd, is what, you fooked idiot. If we get out of mess, I kick your sorry ficklehole from one end of Red Square to other, then I drown you in vat of vodka.
PUSHKIN: Drowned in vat of vodka? "Death, where is thy sting?"
BORODNY: You will see, if we survive. I put pitchfork so far up your ficklehole when you walk in room, everyone is saying, "Look, here comes Pushkin, who speaks with forked tongue." Enough of crying, already, die like man!
BUFFALO: And dat's where we must relieve it.
BIRD: Thank the Freddy. It's getting a bit tacky, innit? Funny how there seems to be a parallel between our current situations.
BUFFALO: There are parallels going all the way back to Eden, Birdy. Forbidden fruit, and all that.
BIRD: Beware of Greeks bearing gifts, is it?
BUFFALO: More like, beware of Vikings bearing melons, I think.
BIRD: I see what you mean, Buffers.
BUFFALO: Next time, do me a favor, Birdy. Shoot me in the fookin' head, willya?
BIRD: Or the Freddy.
BUFFALO: That, too. I should have the damned thing amputated, for all the good it does me.
BIRD: Live and learn, Buff.
BUFFALO: I think I have a learning disability, Birdy.
BIRD: No one's purr-fect.
BUFFALO: You can say that again.
BIRD: No one's purr-fect.
BUFFALO: Put a lid on it, Birdman, before I am throttling you, already.
BIRD: Whimper, whimper.
BUFFALO: Ditto that, Birdy, ditto that.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Yeah, "The Battleship Potemkin" - uncut, uncensored, un-fookin'-believable. Arf, arf!
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
WIND AND KITE ON DA BACK SEAT
BIRD: Snap out of it, dude. It may never happen.
BUFFALO: Wot do you know about it, dude? You weren't there.
BIRD: The mind plays winsome tricks, pair of noya an' all.
BUFFALO: Whatever. But I know wot she said.
BIRD: Just words, Buffters. Sometimes well ordered. Sometimes misplaced.
BUFFALO: Dude, listen to yourself. You're playing the game too. Aiming for profound but hitting a big fat pisswilly asswonk.
BIRD: Now I know you're upset, and a shade disorientated even, but you can be civil.
BUFFALO: I wear my heart on my sleeve. And everything else. You don't like it, suck on my gazunda!
BIRD: Whoa. Violation 1, retraction accepted. I haven't done anything. I'm trying to get you to talk your way through the fading blancmange.
BUFFALO: Highly unsuck-Cecilly so far, I might subtract.
BIRD: OK, look, if you hadn't started at A then said B then heard C but thought D, E wouldn't have occurred to you now. And as for F and G, well, they can wait until we've sussed out if A1 has got something to do with this.
BUFFALO: Cut the nitwibble, Birdman. You think I've got the wrong end of the pole vault. No more, no less.
BIRD: Or the right end of the electrode.
BUFFALO: I transcend that last remark. I haven't resorted to the Twirling Super Cone for well over two weeks. And I didn't think D at all. And hactually, I was closer to H when I found I'd hit the underpass, so to speak.
BIRD: Good. Now we're getting somewhere. Now if you were to articulate H, what would it be?
BUFFALO: Sharp, dude. Max respect. Well, H would be "wind". Gusts of. Howling. Blowing in. Listening to. In the willows. Of change.
BIRD: And D?
BUFFALO: Which I didn't think of anyway. D would be "kite". As high as. Go fly a. Red. Swirling. Punctured. Jeez, I'm SO depressed.
BIRD: Come on, dude. You remember that story you told me about when you were seven and you flew that kite higher than anyone and won all the choccies?
BUFFALO: Wot of it?
BIRD: Make yourself another kite, a massive one and get out on that hill and fly it! Fur get all your whirlies.
BUFFALO: Oh, wot's the point? As Mayakovsky said, "Love's boat has been shat on against the life of everyday".
BIRD: That's "shattered", dude, and when he wrote that he hadn't slept for a week. And he was well fooked by the authorities. But he never let a casual remark injure him.
BUFFALO: It wasn't a casual remark, and it didn't injure me. It just made me think that careless lips start heavy rumours. Turns out, the only reality worth catching is on the back seat of a parked car in a cul-de-sac with a cork a-popping. Encore!
BIRD: Dat's my boy! Sensory overload at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: Wot do you know about it, dude? You weren't there.
BIRD: The mind plays winsome tricks, pair of noya an' all.
BUFFALO: Whatever. But I know wot she said.
BIRD: Just words, Buffters. Sometimes well ordered. Sometimes misplaced.
BUFFALO: Dude, listen to yourself. You're playing the game too. Aiming for profound but hitting a big fat pisswilly asswonk.
BIRD: Now I know you're upset, and a shade disorientated even, but you can be civil.
BUFFALO: I wear my heart on my sleeve. And everything else. You don't like it, suck on my gazunda!
BIRD: Whoa. Violation 1, retraction accepted. I haven't done anything. I'm trying to get you to talk your way through the fading blancmange.
BUFFALO: Highly unsuck-Cecilly so far, I might subtract.
BIRD: OK, look, if you hadn't started at A then said B then heard C but thought D, E wouldn't have occurred to you now. And as for F and G, well, they can wait until we've sussed out if A1 has got something to do with this.
BUFFALO: Cut the nitwibble, Birdman. You think I've got the wrong end of the pole vault. No more, no less.
BIRD: Or the right end of the electrode.
BUFFALO: I transcend that last remark. I haven't resorted to the Twirling Super Cone for well over two weeks. And I didn't think D at all. And hactually, I was closer to H when I found I'd hit the underpass, so to speak.
BIRD: Good. Now we're getting somewhere. Now if you were to articulate H, what would it be?
BUFFALO: Sharp, dude. Max respect. Well, H would be "wind". Gusts of. Howling. Blowing in. Listening to. In the willows. Of change.
BIRD: And D?
BUFFALO: Which I didn't think of anyway. D would be "kite". As high as. Go fly a. Red. Swirling. Punctured. Jeez, I'm SO depressed.
BIRD: Come on, dude. You remember that story you told me about when you were seven and you flew that kite higher than anyone and won all the choccies?
BUFFALO: Wot of it?
BIRD: Make yourself another kite, a massive one and get out on that hill and fly it! Fur get all your whirlies.
BUFFALO: Oh, wot's the point? As Mayakovsky said, "Love's boat has been shat on against the life of everyday".
BIRD: That's "shattered", dude, and when he wrote that he hadn't slept for a week. And he was well fooked by the authorities. But he never let a casual remark injure him.
BUFFALO: It wasn't a casual remark, and it didn't injure me. It just made me think that careless lips start heavy rumours. Turns out, the only reality worth catching is on the back seat of a parked car in a cul-de-sac with a cork a-popping. Encore!
BIRD: Dat's my boy! Sensory overload at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
VERITABLE CATS AND DOGS AGAIN
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Is it still raining?
HOLMES: Veritable cats and dogs.
WATSON: Oh, dear. So it's not the smog.
HOLMES: Alas, no, old chum. I blame the gherkins. Repeats on me every time.
WATSON: I'm worried about the roof what what what. What if it leaks again?
HOLMES: It's all right, old bean. We've got a big bucket up there. It'll have to rain for 40 days and 40 nights to fill that blighter up.
WATSON: Why, Holmes, you almost sound biblical.
HOLMES: Why 40, I ask myself? There really is no logic to it.
WATSON: Do you think this sort of thing's going to get worse? I mean as the earth warms up. More floods and storms and heatwaves?
HOLMES: Hard to tell, old fruit. Our pal Charlie, he of the Darwinian fame, predicts that we're all going to hell on an asteroid when the King abdicates.
WATSON: It would appear that everything we hold most dear is illusory, fragmentary and inherently self-implosive. It's a brave new world out there, Holmes.
HOLMES: It's as they say in cricket, 22 players and a catch. Or the animal farmyard. Nineteen hundred and eight, or is it four?
WATSON: What's that, Holmes? You lost me past the tram stop.
HOLMES: Ways of looking at our predicament.
WATSON: You mean theories of what awaits our civilisation?
HOLMES: Precisely, old wacky quacky. Let's say, oh, I don't know, to make it snappier, instead of cricket and suchlike, Catch 22.
WATSON: Very CATCHY. A-ho-ho.
HOLMES: And instead of the farmyard thingie, maybe Animal Farm.
WATSON: Oh, OINK-cellent! A-tee-hee-hee.
HOLMES: And instead of nineteen hundred and eight or four, possibly, um, well, 1984!
WATSON: Good Lord! I'm in AWE...well... You know, Holmes, if you ever tire of sleuthing you could do a lot worse than become a novelist.
HOLMES: Oh, don't be so silly, you old pooper. Who would possibly want to read a book called Catch 22, Animal Farm or 1984? Now you're dancing with the fairies and tickling La-La.
WATSON: Incredible. In just one morning of sustained rain and crushing dankness you've laid the foundations for the next 100 years of literature. People shall look back on this day and wonder what might have been had it not been for these confounded downpours.
HOLMES: Oh, I don't know. I've had a few thoughts about where Mozart's been going wrong too. You see, it's my belief that the beat is all wrong, and there needs to be a more prominent role for the bass, and these two are, after all, the foundations on which everything else is built.
WATSON: You mean the drum and bass. How extraordinary. Let me write this down.
HOLMES: Look.
WATSON: What?
HOLMES: The rain, it's stopped.
WATSON: Good Lord! Toby, walkies!
HOLMES: About time too! Now what was it we were talking about?
WATSON: Talking, Holmes? We weren't talking about anything. We were sitting here in splendid, oppressive silence, wishing we could be elsewhere.
HOLMES: That's strange. I could have sworn we were talking about something.
WATSON: Well, whatever it was, it couldn't have been of any great import, or we'd remember it.
HOLMES: I suppose so.
WATSON: Walkies at eleven?
HOLMES: Not half! And yet totalitarian rule is not so utterly unthinkable, is it?
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Is it still raining?
HOLMES: Veritable cats and dogs.
WATSON: Oh, dear. So it's not the smog.
HOLMES: Alas, no, old chum. I blame the gherkins. Repeats on me every time.
WATSON: I'm worried about the roof what what what. What if it leaks again?
HOLMES: It's all right, old bean. We've got a big bucket up there. It'll have to rain for 40 days and 40 nights to fill that blighter up.
WATSON: Why, Holmes, you almost sound biblical.
HOLMES: Why 40, I ask myself? There really is no logic to it.
WATSON: Do you think this sort of thing's going to get worse? I mean as the earth warms up. More floods and storms and heatwaves?
HOLMES: Hard to tell, old fruit. Our pal Charlie, he of the Darwinian fame, predicts that we're all going to hell on an asteroid when the King abdicates.
WATSON: It would appear that everything we hold most dear is illusory, fragmentary and inherently self-implosive. It's a brave new world out there, Holmes.
HOLMES: It's as they say in cricket, 22 players and a catch. Or the animal farmyard. Nineteen hundred and eight, or is it four?
WATSON: What's that, Holmes? You lost me past the tram stop.
HOLMES: Ways of looking at our predicament.
WATSON: You mean theories of what awaits our civilisation?
HOLMES: Precisely, old wacky quacky. Let's say, oh, I don't know, to make it snappier, instead of cricket and suchlike, Catch 22.
WATSON: Very CATCHY. A-ho-ho.
HOLMES: And instead of the farmyard thingie, maybe Animal Farm.
WATSON: Oh, OINK-cellent! A-tee-hee-hee.
HOLMES: And instead of nineteen hundred and eight or four, possibly, um, well, 1984!
WATSON: Good Lord! I'm in AWE...well... You know, Holmes, if you ever tire of sleuthing you could do a lot worse than become a novelist.
HOLMES: Oh, don't be so silly, you old pooper. Who would possibly want to read a book called Catch 22, Animal Farm or 1984? Now you're dancing with the fairies and tickling La-La.
WATSON: Incredible. In just one morning of sustained rain and crushing dankness you've laid the foundations for the next 100 years of literature. People shall look back on this day and wonder what might have been had it not been for these confounded downpours.
HOLMES: Oh, I don't know. I've had a few thoughts about where Mozart's been going wrong too. You see, it's my belief that the beat is all wrong, and there needs to be a more prominent role for the bass, and these two are, after all, the foundations on which everything else is built.
WATSON: You mean the drum and bass. How extraordinary. Let me write this down.
HOLMES: Look.
WATSON: What?
HOLMES: The rain, it's stopped.
WATSON: Good Lord! Toby, walkies!
HOLMES: About time too! Now what was it we were talking about?
WATSON: Talking, Holmes? We weren't talking about anything. We were sitting here in splendid, oppressive silence, wishing we could be elsewhere.
HOLMES: That's strange. I could have sworn we were talking about something.
WATSON: Well, whatever it was, it couldn't have been of any great import, or we'd remember it.
HOLMES: I suppose so.
WATSON: Walkies at eleven?
HOLMES: Not half! And yet totalitarian rule is not so utterly unthinkable, is it?
Friday, October 05, 2007
POETRY MASTERCLASS #2 I SAY THAT HE WAS FREDDY
WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF SIEGFRIED SASSOON HAD TURNED TO THE BLUE SIDE...
I SAY THAT HE WAS FREDDY
Darkness: the sluice rained down;
The pockets were deep;
It was well past the post on a midsummer's flight
When parping nuns lay in bed snug up tight;
There, with much gargling to do before daylight,
We lugged our sweaty bodies as best we might
Along the gutter; sometimes a blackbird sang
And droning belles burst with a hollow bang
We were sozzled, soiled and wretched, everyone;
Darkness: the distant wink of a lady of pleasure
I tossed in the black ditch, loathing the warm;
A firework fizzled and cackled with excruciating flare,
And lit the arse of what had been a face
Floundering in the dish. He stood before me bare;
I say that he was Freddy; stiffened in the glare,
And arcing upwards from his burgeoning task,
Both love sacs in support; His focus all mine
Proud from the whimsical head that wore no mask
Of immoral pain in Mon Venus's unholy shrine.
And pounding in haste, the impatient buck
Mumbling: 'O Manchester United, now I'm stuck!"
I SAY THAT HE WAS FREDDY
Darkness: the sluice rained down;
The pockets were deep;
It was well past the post on a midsummer's flight
When parping nuns lay in bed snug up tight;
There, with much gargling to do before daylight,
We lugged our sweaty bodies as best we might
Along the gutter; sometimes a blackbird sang
And droning belles burst with a hollow bang
We were sozzled, soiled and wretched, everyone;
Darkness: the distant wink of a lady of pleasure
I tossed in the black ditch, loathing the warm;
A firework fizzled and cackled with excruciating flare,
And lit the arse of what had been a face
Floundering in the dish. He stood before me bare;
I say that he was Freddy; stiffened in the glare,
And arcing upwards from his burgeoning task,
Both love sacs in support; His focus all mine
Proud from the whimsical head that wore no mask
Of immoral pain in Mon Venus's unholy shrine.
And pounding in haste, the impatient buck
Mumbling: 'O Manchester United, now I'm stuck!"
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
EVERCREST COMES TO TOWN
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: We should have a conservatory built what what what. Evercrest are offering some spiffing good deals, you know.
HOLMES: Conservatories are for the chattering classes. You and I don't chatter, we deduce.
WATSON: It's a bit dark, this room, don't you think? And stuffy too. We could do with more light and fresh air, hm?
HOLMES: You mean so we roast in the summer and freeze in the winter? And let's not forget that the blasted thing will be full of rodents and wasps and spiders and will be positively awkward to clean.
WATSON: I thought you liked creepy crawlies and things.
HOLMES: I do, when they're out THERE, where they belong. Have you forgotten about my allergies and skin rashes?
WATSON: Oh, yes, of course. If a bluebottle so much as lands on your arm, you swell up like a melon. Most distressing.
HOLMES: Well, I was perfectly fine before you roped me into your little experiment to find a cure for lumbago.
WATSON: Holmes, old chap, I did warn you of the risks.
HOLMES: You mean a permanently damaged stomach lining and chilblains in July?!
WATSON: You're not going to let me forget this, are you, old man? Every time there's a slight altercation or the possibility that I may be winning the argument, you trot out the old lumbago thing. It won't do, you know. People will begin to think you're a whinger what what what.
HOLMES: And I haven't had a decent night's sleep since then. Why you ever thought toe jam and frog's droppings in a cup cake would cure that particular ailment I shall never know.
WATSON: You didn't have to eat it.
HOLMES: I trusted you.
WATSON: Nonsense. You were going for glory. Being the greatest detective the world has seen EVER just wasn't enough for you. You wanted to be the first man to be cured of lumbago too!
HOLMES: Watson, I didn't have lumbago until you started poking me about. I should've kicked you out on your ear for that one.
WATSON: Oh, come now, Holmes, you'd never do that. Who would you have to feel superior over, to treat like a bungling buffoon who provides cheap and cheerful amusement of an evening?
HOLMES: True. Oh, I suppose a conservatory wouldn't be so bad. And one does have to consider one's standing in the community.
WATSON: That's the ticket, Holmes. Now shall we have the three facet Victorian, the five facet Victorian, the Georgian or the gable or the box gutter? The three facet is aesthetically pleasing but the five facet presents a more rounded appearance, don't you think?
HOLMES: Oh, I don't know. I quite like the Georgian with its square elevation.
WATSON: Yes, the elevation is an asset, I'll give you that. Mind you, the gable comes into its own when matched to a steeply pitched roof.
HOLMES: But the box gutter is able to capitalise upon a shared gutter system.
WATSON: It's a tough call to make.
HOLMES: It sure is, old bean. More tea?
WATSON: Yes. Why not? Crumpet at eleven?
HOLMES: Not half!
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: We should have a conservatory built what what what. Evercrest are offering some spiffing good deals, you know.
HOLMES: Conservatories are for the chattering classes. You and I don't chatter, we deduce.
WATSON: It's a bit dark, this room, don't you think? And stuffy too. We could do with more light and fresh air, hm?
HOLMES: You mean so we roast in the summer and freeze in the winter? And let's not forget that the blasted thing will be full of rodents and wasps and spiders and will be positively awkward to clean.
WATSON: I thought you liked creepy crawlies and things.
HOLMES: I do, when they're out THERE, where they belong. Have you forgotten about my allergies and skin rashes?
WATSON: Oh, yes, of course. If a bluebottle so much as lands on your arm, you swell up like a melon. Most distressing.
HOLMES: Well, I was perfectly fine before you roped me into your little experiment to find a cure for lumbago.
WATSON: Holmes, old chap, I did warn you of the risks.
HOLMES: You mean a permanently damaged stomach lining and chilblains in July?!
WATSON: You're not going to let me forget this, are you, old man? Every time there's a slight altercation or the possibility that I may be winning the argument, you trot out the old lumbago thing. It won't do, you know. People will begin to think you're a whinger what what what.
HOLMES: And I haven't had a decent night's sleep since then. Why you ever thought toe jam and frog's droppings in a cup cake would cure that particular ailment I shall never know.
WATSON: You didn't have to eat it.
HOLMES: I trusted you.
WATSON: Nonsense. You were going for glory. Being the greatest detective the world has seen EVER just wasn't enough for you. You wanted to be the first man to be cured of lumbago too!
HOLMES: Watson, I didn't have lumbago until you started poking me about. I should've kicked you out on your ear for that one.
WATSON: Oh, come now, Holmes, you'd never do that. Who would you have to feel superior over, to treat like a bungling buffoon who provides cheap and cheerful amusement of an evening?
HOLMES: True. Oh, I suppose a conservatory wouldn't be so bad. And one does have to consider one's standing in the community.
WATSON: That's the ticket, Holmes. Now shall we have the three facet Victorian, the five facet Victorian, the Georgian or the gable or the box gutter? The three facet is aesthetically pleasing but the five facet presents a more rounded appearance, don't you think?
HOLMES: Oh, I don't know. I quite like the Georgian with its square elevation.
WATSON: Yes, the elevation is an asset, I'll give you that. Mind you, the gable comes into its own when matched to a steeply pitched roof.
HOLMES: But the box gutter is able to capitalise upon a shared gutter system.
WATSON: It's a tough call to make.
HOLMES: It sure is, old bean. More tea?
WATSON: Yes. Why not? Crumpet at eleven?
HOLMES: Not half!
Monday, October 01, 2007
POETRY MASTERCLASS # 1 SAGGING SACS
NOW ASK YOURSELF, WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF WILFRED OWEN HAD TURNED TO THE DARK SIDE...
SAGGING SACS
Move them into the rain
Gently their touch awoke them once
At home, fizzing of oats half-sown
Sideways it poked him, even in Madge
Until this dawning and this snow
If anything might rouse them now
The kind old hoe will know
Think how it wakes the seeds
Woke once the hops of a cold beer
Are bags, so clear defined, are binds
Fully-wired - ever warm - too hard when stirred?
Was it for this one night they stood tall?
O what made fleshy receptacles soil
To break Clarissa's hump at all?
SAGGING SACS
Move them into the rain
Gently their touch awoke them once
At home, fizzing of oats half-sown
Sideways it poked him, even in Madge
Until this dawning and this snow
If anything might rouse them now
The kind old hoe will know
Think how it wakes the seeds
Woke once the hops of a cold beer
Are bags, so clear defined, are binds
Fully-wired - ever warm - too hard when stirred?
Was it for this one night they stood tall?
O what made fleshy receptacles soil
To break Clarissa's hump at all?
Thursday, September 20, 2007
LIKE A TURD FROM A TALL COW'S ASS
BUFFALO: Back from the south of France, are we?
BIRD: Alas, too true. Stuffed to the gunwales with pate de foie gras, truffles, escargot, brie, and buckets of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. So, I trust you fared well in my absence?
BUFFALO: No, but I falled well. . . fell, whatever.
BIRD: Cor blimey, missus! Not another accident?
BUFFALO: More like a catastrophe than an accident.
BIRD: Give us the feather and tails, Buff.
BUFFALO: A comedy of errors, Birdy. Mistake number one, I ventured into the shadowlands of downtown Detroit, at night, in a poorly lit neighborhood affectionately known as "The Bowery" - where one is advised to go armed.
BIRD: Blimey, were you trolling for muggers, like?
BUFFALO: No, I was enroute to a French flic.
BIRD: In a poorly lit alley?
BUFFALO: Argh. No, it was off-campus student housing for Wayne State University, named for Mad Anthony Wayne, a hero of the late unpleasantness between the Yanks and the Brits. A charming three story brick edifice that should have been condemned about 30 years ago.
BIRD: Ah, I see, you were trolling for co-eds.
BUFFALO: Argh. No, I was Lincoln up with my cameraman and his droogies. We were all going to see "Paris, J'Taime" at the bloody art theater.
BIRD: And you were struck by a lorry or sumfink?
BUFFALO: Ha, I wish. I followed Ken and his homies up to his flat where he proceeded to roll a spliff the size of a Monte Cristo.
BIRD: The sarnie?
BUFFALO: No, the cigar, you bloody obtuse ocelot.
BIRD: In udder wurst, you got stoned?
BUFFALO: Like Quasimodo, dude. That was mistake number two. I was in fookin' Wonderland.
BIRD: So, let me guess, you caught a rubber spark and set yourself on fire.
BUFFALO: No, worse than that. I was so wasted I left my jacket, wallet, money, driver's license, etc. in the bloody apartment. Mistake number three.
BIRD: Then time dilation set in and you missed the movie.
BUFFALO: Amazingly, I had the presence of mind to mind the time, so we departed Ken's den of iniquity on time.
BIRD: I see what's coming. With your gulliver in the ozone, you fell down the stairs and cracked your melon like a coconut.
BUFFALO: I wish I had. No, despite the fact that navigating the steep, narrow staircase was giving me flashbacks of "Vertigo", I made it to the front porch without incident.
BIRD: Ah, so you tumbled down the front steps, then?
BUFFALO: No, I made it to the sidewalk all right, then stepped off a curb, having failed to see it. Lost my balance and fell flat on my ugly mug, like a flippin' flapjack, in a patch of rough asphalt. Ken says I fell like a turd from a tall cow's ass, hitting the pavement KER-SPLAT, with no defensive moves, being highly tanked at the time.
BIRD: So how was the movie?
BUFFALO: Sod the movie! I was totally fooked up beyond all recognition, dude. Felt like someone had used me for an accordion and tried to bend me in two at the ribs. I was scraped from head to knee, bleeding and all.
BIRD: Hors alor, Buff! Did they take you to the horse pistol, then?
BUFFALO: No, I blew off the movie and drove to Osbee's place. She cleaned me up and bandaged me, like, and asked me how it happened.
BIRD: Did you tell her?
BUFFALO: Fook, no, I told her I was mugged. I was hoping I might get a sympathy sleeve job out of it, but no such luck.
BIRD: Did the lads go on to the movie, then?
BUFFALO: Yeah. Ken told me later that there were about five scenes in the movie where someone fell down, and every time, those wonkers laffed their arses off. Fookin' white punks on dope.
BIRD: A wee bit wet behind the ears, are they?
BUFFALO: Yeah, college students, green as grass. You could set yerself on fire and they'd think it was fookin' hilarious, ask you for an encore. Fookin' Philistines.
BIRD: So, how are you feeling now?
BUFFALO: Like a fookin' mule kicked me in the spare ribs, innit?
BIRD: Well, Buff, I certainly hope that you've learned something from all this, especially in regard to indulging in contraband, as it were.
BUFFALO: Indeed I have, Birdy.
BIRD: And that would be. . . ?
BUFFALO: When you know you're going to get ripped, be sure to bring a flashlight or a seeing-eye dog - and wear your wallet around your neck, like a flippin' albatross.
BIRD: I was hoping for more of a moral lesson, like.
BUFFALO: Birdy, we were going to a movie, not doing mushrooms.
BIRD: And you're quite sure you weren't trolling for co-eds?
BUFFALO: No way. Ken says the women who live in his apartment building rent themselves out for truffle hunts.
BIRD: Sacre bleu!
BUFFALO: Anyhoo, it's time for my meds, Birdy.
BIRD: A double dose of the old saltpeter, Buff?
BUFFALO: No, a handful of Mortrin, a couple of Darvocets, a good slug of codeine cough syrup, and a large snifter of Harvey's Bristol Cream, laced with Jack Daniels.
BIRD: My God, Buff, that would fell a shire horse!
BUFFALO: Yes, but fortunately, I'm a Buffalo, innit. Woo! Hit me, Mr Trank. Hit me!
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BIRD: Alas, too true. Stuffed to the gunwales with pate de foie gras, truffles, escargot, brie, and buckets of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. So, I trust you fared well in my absence?
BUFFALO: No, but I falled well. . . fell, whatever.
BIRD: Cor blimey, missus! Not another accident?
BUFFALO: More like a catastrophe than an accident.
BIRD: Give us the feather and tails, Buff.
BUFFALO: A comedy of errors, Birdy. Mistake number one, I ventured into the shadowlands of downtown Detroit, at night, in a poorly lit neighborhood affectionately known as "The Bowery" - where one is advised to go armed.
BIRD: Blimey, were you trolling for muggers, like?
BUFFALO: No, I was enroute to a French flic.
BIRD: In a poorly lit alley?
BUFFALO: Argh. No, it was off-campus student housing for Wayne State University, named for Mad Anthony Wayne, a hero of the late unpleasantness between the Yanks and the Brits. A charming three story brick edifice that should have been condemned about 30 years ago.
BIRD: Ah, I see, you were trolling for co-eds.
BUFFALO: Argh. No, I was Lincoln up with my cameraman and his droogies. We were all going to see "Paris, J'Taime" at the bloody art theater.
BIRD: And you were struck by a lorry or sumfink?
BUFFALO: Ha, I wish. I followed Ken and his homies up to his flat where he proceeded to roll a spliff the size of a Monte Cristo.
BIRD: The sarnie?
BUFFALO: No, the cigar, you bloody obtuse ocelot.
BIRD: In udder wurst, you got stoned?
BUFFALO: Like Quasimodo, dude. That was mistake number two. I was in fookin' Wonderland.
BIRD: So, let me guess, you caught a rubber spark and set yourself on fire.
BUFFALO: No, worse than that. I was so wasted I left my jacket, wallet, money, driver's license, etc. in the bloody apartment. Mistake number three.
BIRD: Then time dilation set in and you missed the movie.
BUFFALO: Amazingly, I had the presence of mind to mind the time, so we departed Ken's den of iniquity on time.
BIRD: I see what's coming. With your gulliver in the ozone, you fell down the stairs and cracked your melon like a coconut.
BUFFALO: I wish I had. No, despite the fact that navigating the steep, narrow staircase was giving me flashbacks of "Vertigo", I made it to the front porch without incident.
BIRD: Ah, so you tumbled down the front steps, then?
BUFFALO: No, I made it to the sidewalk all right, then stepped off a curb, having failed to see it. Lost my balance and fell flat on my ugly mug, like a flippin' flapjack, in a patch of rough asphalt. Ken says I fell like a turd from a tall cow's ass, hitting the pavement KER-SPLAT, with no defensive moves, being highly tanked at the time.
BIRD: So how was the movie?
BUFFALO: Sod the movie! I was totally fooked up beyond all recognition, dude. Felt like someone had used me for an accordion and tried to bend me in two at the ribs. I was scraped from head to knee, bleeding and all.
BIRD: Hors alor, Buff! Did they take you to the horse pistol, then?
BUFFALO: No, I blew off the movie and drove to Osbee's place. She cleaned me up and bandaged me, like, and asked me how it happened.
BIRD: Did you tell her?
BUFFALO: Fook, no, I told her I was mugged. I was hoping I might get a sympathy sleeve job out of it, but no such luck.
BIRD: Did the lads go on to the movie, then?
BUFFALO: Yeah. Ken told me later that there were about five scenes in the movie where someone fell down, and every time, those wonkers laffed their arses off. Fookin' white punks on dope.
BIRD: A wee bit wet behind the ears, are they?
BUFFALO: Yeah, college students, green as grass. You could set yerself on fire and they'd think it was fookin' hilarious, ask you for an encore. Fookin' Philistines.
BIRD: So, how are you feeling now?
BUFFALO: Like a fookin' mule kicked me in the spare ribs, innit?
BIRD: Well, Buff, I certainly hope that you've learned something from all this, especially in regard to indulging in contraband, as it were.
BUFFALO: Indeed I have, Birdy.
BIRD: And that would be. . . ?
BUFFALO: When you know you're going to get ripped, be sure to bring a flashlight or a seeing-eye dog - and wear your wallet around your neck, like a flippin' albatross.
BIRD: I was hoping for more of a moral lesson, like.
BUFFALO: Birdy, we were going to a movie, not doing mushrooms.
BIRD: And you're quite sure you weren't trolling for co-eds?
BUFFALO: No way. Ken says the women who live in his apartment building rent themselves out for truffle hunts.
BIRD: Sacre bleu!
BUFFALO: Anyhoo, it's time for my meds, Birdy.
BIRD: A double dose of the old saltpeter, Buff?
BUFFALO: No, a handful of Mortrin, a couple of Darvocets, a good slug of codeine cough syrup, and a large snifter of Harvey's Bristol Cream, laced with Jack Daniels.
BIRD: My God, Buff, that would fell a shire horse!
BUFFALO: Yes, but fortunately, I'm a Buffalo, innit. Woo! Hit me, Mr Trank. Hit me!
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Saturday, September 01, 2007
WIBBLING AND DWIBBLING ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I'm bored.
HOLMES: Where's Hudders?
WATSON: Out window shopping again, what what what.
HOLMES: Oh. And you've got nothing to read? No learned research papers? Or a decent comic?
WATSON: I've read The Medical Impersonal from cover to cover. And The Dandy is just not up to scratch this week.
HOLMES: What about a crossword? A conundrum, even.
WATSON: I fear I don't have the patience. I mean, it's Saturday, Holmes. We should be outside, perusing, solving crimes, catching unsavoury villains. Instead of which, here we are, sitting in our moth-eaten armchairs, twiddling our thumbs, gazing at the ceiling, wondering when it's all going to end.
HOLMES: Speak for yourself, O Hippocratic One, I am engaged in deep contemplation.
WATSON: Oh, really? On what subject?
HOLMES: I am contemplating my navel, old bean. Its shape, size, essence, spiritual significance and imposing presence.
WATSON: (chortles) No, don't, Holmes, I'll pee myself. Contemplating your navel. Oh, Jeeves, that's most whimsical.
HOLMES: Why do you laugh? Did I say something rib-ticklingly hilarious?
WATSON: Your navel... oh, really, no, I can't... (giggles like demented choir boy)
HOLMES: I rib tickle ye not, Watty Botty. The navel is all-encompassing. You ignore it at your peril.
WATSON: Ignore it? I don't ignore it, old thing. Never knowingly, anyway. I haven't seen it for 15 years. I suppose it's still there but it passed out of view before I became fully aware of its um... true meaning. I could get Hudders to examine it.
HOLMES: Oh, I'm sure she's done that already. Do you have an outee or an inee?
WATSON: I beg your pardon?
HOLMES: Does your tummy button protrude or invert?
WATSON: I'm afraid you've lost me past the formaldehyde, Holmes. One craves an explanation.
HOLMES: Watson, it's VERY important which one you have. I have an outee, that is to say, it protrudes, it projects, it is... proudly prominent, like yours truly.
WATSON: Hmm. Well, all I can tell you is that I have terrible trouble washing the abominable thing.
HOLMES: Sounds like you do indeed have an inee, which would explain your reticence, uncertainty and general morbidity.
WATSON: Do you really think so?
HOLMES: Well, it's not an exact science but according to a survey in The Doctor's Ingest Bi-Monthly nine out of ten people revert to type.
WATSON: Good Lord!
HOLMES: And it is said in Quacked Incorporating Whacko Weekly that the navel contains the the living history of one's ancestry. Thus, I was contemplating my navel.
WATSON: But but but... It can't be true.
HOLMES: Well, maybe it is. I always get a twinge when thunder is on its way. And it definitely moves when I tell a fib, which admittedly is not often, but still. Sometimes, it seems as if it has a life of its own. Quite extraordinary.
WATSON: Oh, for Horatio's sake, Holmes! Next you'll be saying it talks to you.
HOLMES: Yes, I believe it does, sometimes. In navel speak, so to speak. It wibbles when it's time for tea.
WATSON: Good Lord!
HOLMES: And dwibbles when it's time for bed.
WATSON: Good Gosh!
HOLMES: And bwibbles when it's time for... well, let's leave it there, shall we? But yes, it is a living thing with a will of its own. Or is it? I truly can't decide. If only more people would contemplate their navels more often, perhaps we would find the answer to this perplexing question.
WATSON: Holmes, you've been at the Warfarin again. Why, your navel is no more alive than... than... Hudders' beloved Tabby that was flattened by a Hackney carriage but last week.
HOLMES: Show me.
WATSON: Show you what?
HOLMES: Get your navel out. Let's see if it responds to questioning.
WATSON: Now you're just being plain daft.
HOLMES: Whip it out, I say. Let scientific method decide.
WATSON: Oh, all right. If this will break your blessed obession with your Umbilicus. There! Happy now?
HOLMES: No more than I am on any other weekend. Now pay attention. Think about having a hearty lunch.
WATSON: Now you're talking. Oh, yum. Yes, a Sunday roast with lashings of gravy and Yorkshire pudding.
HOLMES: Look! There! It moved!
WATSON: What's that you say?
HOLMES: It wibbled.
WATSON: But but but...
HOLMES: Now yawn a bit, stretch your arms. Think about slumber.
WATSON: Oh... (yawns and stretches)
HOLMES: Ha! It dwibbled. Who's the cracked quack now, hmm?
WATSON: Poppycock. And anyway, as I've already, I can't see the blighter so you could say whatever you liked.
HOLMES: Here, take this pocket mirror and observe.
WATSON: Hmm, well, all right then.
HOLMES: A piping roast with delicious Yorshire pud!
WATSON: Good Lord! It wibbled!
HOLMES: I rest my case.
WATSON: But that's impossible.
HOLMES: Watch. I'm stretching my arms and pretending to yawn.
WATSON: Good Lord! It dwibbled! It's alive!
HOLMES: O ye of little faith.
WATSON: That's absolutely remarkable. I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Let's sit here and contemplate our navels together.
HOLMES: Right you are, old chum.
WATSON: Hmm.
HOLMES: Hmm.
WATSON: Wibble at eleven?
HOLMES: Not 'arf!
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I'm bored.
HOLMES: Where's Hudders?
WATSON: Out window shopping again, what what what.
HOLMES: Oh. And you've got nothing to read? No learned research papers? Or a decent comic?
WATSON: I've read The Medical Impersonal from cover to cover. And The Dandy is just not up to scratch this week.
HOLMES: What about a crossword? A conundrum, even.
WATSON: I fear I don't have the patience. I mean, it's Saturday, Holmes. We should be outside, perusing, solving crimes, catching unsavoury villains. Instead of which, here we are, sitting in our moth-eaten armchairs, twiddling our thumbs, gazing at the ceiling, wondering when it's all going to end.
HOLMES: Speak for yourself, O Hippocratic One, I am engaged in deep contemplation.
WATSON: Oh, really? On what subject?
HOLMES: I am contemplating my navel, old bean. Its shape, size, essence, spiritual significance and imposing presence.
WATSON: (chortles) No, don't, Holmes, I'll pee myself. Contemplating your navel. Oh, Jeeves, that's most whimsical.
HOLMES: Why do you laugh? Did I say something rib-ticklingly hilarious?
WATSON: Your navel... oh, really, no, I can't... (giggles like demented choir boy)
HOLMES: I rib tickle ye not, Watty Botty. The navel is all-encompassing. You ignore it at your peril.
WATSON: Ignore it? I don't ignore it, old thing. Never knowingly, anyway. I haven't seen it for 15 years. I suppose it's still there but it passed out of view before I became fully aware of its um... true meaning. I could get Hudders to examine it.
HOLMES: Oh, I'm sure she's done that already. Do you have an outee or an inee?
WATSON: I beg your pardon?
HOLMES: Does your tummy button protrude or invert?
WATSON: I'm afraid you've lost me past the formaldehyde, Holmes. One craves an explanation.
HOLMES: Watson, it's VERY important which one you have. I have an outee, that is to say, it protrudes, it projects, it is... proudly prominent, like yours truly.
WATSON: Hmm. Well, all I can tell you is that I have terrible trouble washing the abominable thing.
HOLMES: Sounds like you do indeed have an inee, which would explain your reticence, uncertainty and general morbidity.
WATSON: Do you really think so?
HOLMES: Well, it's not an exact science but according to a survey in The Doctor's Ingest Bi-Monthly nine out of ten people revert to type.
WATSON: Good Lord!
HOLMES: And it is said in Quacked Incorporating Whacko Weekly that the navel contains the the living history of one's ancestry. Thus, I was contemplating my navel.
WATSON: But but but... It can't be true.
HOLMES: Well, maybe it is. I always get a twinge when thunder is on its way. And it definitely moves when I tell a fib, which admittedly is not often, but still. Sometimes, it seems as if it has a life of its own. Quite extraordinary.
WATSON: Oh, for Horatio's sake, Holmes! Next you'll be saying it talks to you.
HOLMES: Yes, I believe it does, sometimes. In navel speak, so to speak. It wibbles when it's time for tea.
WATSON: Good Lord!
HOLMES: And dwibbles when it's time for bed.
WATSON: Good Gosh!
HOLMES: And bwibbles when it's time for... well, let's leave it there, shall we? But yes, it is a living thing with a will of its own. Or is it? I truly can't decide. If only more people would contemplate their navels more often, perhaps we would find the answer to this perplexing question.
WATSON: Holmes, you've been at the Warfarin again. Why, your navel is no more alive than... than... Hudders' beloved Tabby that was flattened by a Hackney carriage but last week.
HOLMES: Show me.
WATSON: Show you what?
HOLMES: Get your navel out. Let's see if it responds to questioning.
WATSON: Now you're just being plain daft.
HOLMES: Whip it out, I say. Let scientific method decide.
WATSON: Oh, all right. If this will break your blessed obession with your Umbilicus. There! Happy now?
HOLMES: No more than I am on any other weekend. Now pay attention. Think about having a hearty lunch.
WATSON: Now you're talking. Oh, yum. Yes, a Sunday roast with lashings of gravy and Yorkshire pudding.
HOLMES: Look! There! It moved!
WATSON: What's that you say?
HOLMES: It wibbled.
WATSON: But but but...
HOLMES: Now yawn a bit, stretch your arms. Think about slumber.
WATSON: Oh... (yawns and stretches)
HOLMES: Ha! It dwibbled. Who's the cracked quack now, hmm?
WATSON: Poppycock. And anyway, as I've already, I can't see the blighter so you could say whatever you liked.
HOLMES: Here, take this pocket mirror and observe.
WATSON: Hmm, well, all right then.
HOLMES: A piping roast with delicious Yorshire pud!
WATSON: Good Lord! It wibbled!
HOLMES: I rest my case.
WATSON: But that's impossible.
HOLMES: Watch. I'm stretching my arms and pretending to yawn.
WATSON: Good Lord! It dwibbled! It's alive!
HOLMES: O ye of little faith.
WATSON: That's absolutely remarkable. I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Let's sit here and contemplate our navels together.
HOLMES: Right you are, old chum.
WATSON: Hmm.
HOLMES: Hmm.
WATSON: Wibble at eleven?
HOLMES: Not 'arf!
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
THE UNBEARABLE RIGHTNESS OF PEEING & OTHER ANIMALS
BIRD: Cor blimey, mate, how's your father, I've gone and soiled myself, like!
BUFFALO: You gormless jerk-berk! What the hell did you do that for?
BIRD: An aberration, Buffers. I was glued to the keyboard, sitting on the edge of my seat, engrossed in an Internet debate about "The Unbearable Rightness of Peeing", lost track of the time, forgot to eat, my blood sugar plummeted and my legs fell asleep, so naturally I assumed I was sitting on the old porcelain having a bit of a read, innit? I had just made a particularly piquant point about the indecipherable prose of Milos Koonteriyaki, and it apparently induced a prolonged bout of peristalsis.
BUFFALO: In udder words, you shat yourself.
BIRD: Well, in essence, that is substantially correct.
BUFFALO: Great flaming wombats, Birdy. What are you going to do now?
BIRD: Dunno, Buff, I'm rather afraid to move, at the moment. Everything's gone all squishy, like. I'm reviewing my options.
BUFFALO: And what might those be?
BIRD: Well, hoovering, for one thing.
BUFFALO: That's disgusting, like, bagging your own fudge rockets.
BIRD: On second thought, it's not very practical, seeing as how I've got only the upright model.
BUFFALO: Why not call one of those professional carpet cleaning services, you know, the lads with the 200 foot flexible hoses and the vacuum pump that can produce near outer space conditions?
BIRD: Blimey, Buff, that's all I'd need, my neighbours to see a 200 foot electric python serpentining up the stairs, and me howling like a crazy monkey, trying to prevent meself from being disemboweled.
BUFFALO: Good point. It may be too late to do anything about your present gaff. I suggest that you focus on preventive maintenance from now on.
BIRD: Enlighten me, Buffers.
BUFFALO: Lay in a good supply of Depends, Birdy, and be sure to don one before you, pardon the expression, get sucked into any more literary donnybrooks on the old InnerTube.
BIRD: Alas, Buffs, has it come to this? It's total horrorshow fookwitting humiliating, like... not to mention the potential damage to my self-image.
BUFFALO: Well, then, move your computer into the loo and do all your surfing with your Baron Harry McButt hovering over the still and deep waters of Lake Placid, so to speak.
BIRD: Am I to be reduced to either hovering, hoovering, or nappy changing?
BUFFALO: Either that or banish fiber from your diet.
BIRD: But then I'd back up like an old drain pipe and eventually explode, wooden eye?
BUFFALO: Hare lip! Hare lip!
BIRD: Come again, Buffs?
BUFFALO: Sorry, Birdy - I thought you were mocking me. Retaliating, like. Humble apple polly woggies and all that. Where were we?
BIRD: We were talking about backdated fudge sludge, like.
BUFFALO: Right. Have the plumbers in to install a pressure relief valve, and vent it out the nearest window.
BIRD: I couldn't do that, Buff, I'd be condemning dear old Mrs. Fairweather-Witheringbottom to a fate worse than death.
BUFFALO: Tell her to keep an umbrella handy. Look, Birdy, I've got things to screw and people to do, gotta run.
BIRD: Perfectly understandable. Things have solidified a tad this end and I think I can manage to waddle to the evacuation point now. . . though I fear that my undergarments are shot beyond repair.
BUFFALO: Shouldn't that be "shat".
BIRD: Indeed. Thin crusty brown fudge rockets at six o'clock?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: You gormless jerk-berk! What the hell did you do that for?
BIRD: An aberration, Buffers. I was glued to the keyboard, sitting on the edge of my seat, engrossed in an Internet debate about "The Unbearable Rightness of Peeing", lost track of the time, forgot to eat, my blood sugar plummeted and my legs fell asleep, so naturally I assumed I was sitting on the old porcelain having a bit of a read, innit? I had just made a particularly piquant point about the indecipherable prose of Milos Koonteriyaki, and it apparently induced a prolonged bout of peristalsis.
BUFFALO: In udder words, you shat yourself.
BIRD: Well, in essence, that is substantially correct.
BUFFALO: Great flaming wombats, Birdy. What are you going to do now?
BIRD: Dunno, Buff, I'm rather afraid to move, at the moment. Everything's gone all squishy, like. I'm reviewing my options.
BUFFALO: And what might those be?
BIRD: Well, hoovering, for one thing.
BUFFALO: That's disgusting, like, bagging your own fudge rockets.
BIRD: On second thought, it's not very practical, seeing as how I've got only the upright model.
BUFFALO: Why not call one of those professional carpet cleaning services, you know, the lads with the 200 foot flexible hoses and the vacuum pump that can produce near outer space conditions?
BIRD: Blimey, Buff, that's all I'd need, my neighbours to see a 200 foot electric python serpentining up the stairs, and me howling like a crazy monkey, trying to prevent meself from being disemboweled.
BUFFALO: Good point. It may be too late to do anything about your present gaff. I suggest that you focus on preventive maintenance from now on.
BIRD: Enlighten me, Buffers.
BUFFALO: Lay in a good supply of Depends, Birdy, and be sure to don one before you, pardon the expression, get sucked into any more literary donnybrooks on the old InnerTube.
BIRD: Alas, Buffs, has it come to this? It's total horrorshow fookwitting humiliating, like... not to mention the potential damage to my self-image.
BUFFALO: Well, then, move your computer into the loo and do all your surfing with your Baron Harry McButt hovering over the still and deep waters of Lake Placid, so to speak.
BIRD: Am I to be reduced to either hovering, hoovering, or nappy changing?
BUFFALO: Either that or banish fiber from your diet.
BIRD: But then I'd back up like an old drain pipe and eventually explode, wooden eye?
BUFFALO: Hare lip! Hare lip!
BIRD: Come again, Buffs?
BUFFALO: Sorry, Birdy - I thought you were mocking me. Retaliating, like. Humble apple polly woggies and all that. Where were we?
BIRD: We were talking about backdated fudge sludge, like.
BUFFALO: Right. Have the plumbers in to install a pressure relief valve, and vent it out the nearest window.
BIRD: I couldn't do that, Buff, I'd be condemning dear old Mrs. Fairweather-Witheringbottom to a fate worse than death.
BUFFALO: Tell her to keep an umbrella handy. Look, Birdy, I've got things to screw and people to do, gotta run.
BIRD: Perfectly understandable. Things have solidified a tad this end and I think I can manage to waddle to the evacuation point now. . . though I fear that my undergarments are shot beyond repair.
BUFFALO: Shouldn't that be "shat".
BIRD: Indeed. Thin crusty brown fudge rockets at six o'clock?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
TREASON UNDER THE PASTRY ACT - A CAUTIONARY WAIL
BIRD: Buffers, did you fall in?
BUFFALO: Very nearly, Birdy. I've been poisoned by the fookin' Chinese.
BIRD: You've been eating Barbie dolls again?
BUFFALO: No, not that, they poisoned my Lo Mein! I told 'em to hold the MSG, and asked for plum sauce for my egg roll, but they gave me plumbum instead!
BIRD: Blimey! They injected plum sauce up your bum?!
BUFFALO: No, you plank, they laced my lunch with lead!
BIRD: Was that a la carte?
BUFFALO: (GROANS) No, it was the white plate special. The bloody china hadn't been properly fired, and it leached lead into my Bung Cow Chicken. I'm fookin' contaminated, mate!
BIRD: But, Buffers, how do you know for certain that you've been poisoned?
BUFFALO: I'm having all the classic symptoms of those ancient Roman wheezers. They all went bonkers, y'know, from sipping water from lead pipes. They lapped it up cuz it tasted sweet, the stupid berks.
BIRD: Ah, I see. . . so you've gone off your twig, then?
BUFFALO: I'm getting there. At first I was having a wonderful time. . . thought I was Catullus, y'see, but now I think I'm Caligula. Tried to stuff Sparky in the Cusinart, feet first. . . until he objected, like.
BIRD: Sacre bleu! Where is he now?
BUFFALO: He's popped off to an AA meeting, blathering about "drug crazed Belgian leotards" and other assorted Puritanical rubbish.
BIRD: Ah... have you noticed any other effects?
BUFFALO: Well, it's definitely put lead in my pencil, so to speak.
BIRD: Your Freddy's gone full mast, like?
BUFFALO: Like a flamin' Maypole, Birdy. You could stack Christmas wreathes on the perishing thing. The FAA just phoned and said I have to put a red beacon on the end of me knob, that it's a menace to commercial aviation.
BIRD: Homeric, Buff!
BUFFALO: More like homoerotic, Berky. I've had marriage proposals from half the lounge lizards at the local fookin' fruit market. . . and now all my fookin' hair's fallen out!
BIRD: You've gone bald?!
BUFFALO: Well, only below the waist. . . but I look like an over-inflated bratwurst! It's humiliating, like. Bloody Chinese criminal fookin' bass turds!
BIRD: Have you reported this to the FDA?
BUFFALO: Have you been in the fookin' cookin' sherry again, Dilbert? Those FDA wonkers gave the yellow peril carte blanche to poison us in the first fookin' place!
BIRD: Oh, dear. . . is there nothing to be done, then?
BUFFALO: Fook no. Raising the quality control standards for Chinese imports will raise prices at Wal-Mart, which is tantamount to treason under the fookin' Pastry Act. My only hope is to ingest massive amounts of Ginseng extract, to leach the lead out of my contaminated carcass before my brain turns to fookin' Silly Putty!
BIRD: Right. . . but doesn't all the Ginseng extract come from China?
BUFFALO: Too bloody true, mate, the devious and inscrutable fookers have cornered the Ginseng market, and moreover, they've gone and spiked it all with saltpeter!
BIRD: Those filthy swine! Well, look on the bright side, Buffers. It'll cure that rigid and intractable problem you're having with your Freddy, innit?
BUFFALO: Too true, Birdy. I'll be as limp as a Shanghai poodle.
BIRD: Surely you meant to say "noodle".
BUFFALO: Right, noodle! And stop calling me Shirley, you plank.
BIRD: My, you ARE irritable, aren't you?
BUFFALO: Irritable isn't the half of it. . . it's only been an hour since I ate that wretched lead-laced Chinese food and I'm already fookin' HUNGRY again! I must have some Mooshu Pork at once! I'm starting to imagine that I'm Mussolini, in short leather pants!
BIRD: But it's Chinese food, innit? Why would that cause you to imagine that you're turning into a psychotic Italian lederhosen?
BUFFALO: Argh! Fookin' puns! I can't abide them! It was Marco Polo's fault! That poncy Italian fooker brought NOODLES back from China, don't you see? It's genetic, or Genoese, or whatever the fook! (DROOLS A BIT)
BIRD: Blimey, you've gone right off your flapjack, Buff!
BUFFALO: Dim sum! I must have Dim Sum at once, with plumbum sauce and Moo Goo Gai Pan a sonic hedgehog the lime light of the silvery moon pie squared eagles the circumference of a circle jerk berk bloody fookin' toss yer Chinese fortune cookies. . . arrrggghhhhh, arf, arf!! (FOAMS AT THE MOUTH).
BIRD: Oh, dear! It's tartar film at eleven for you, I fear!
BUFFALO: Gung hoy fat choy!! Bring me number one son's head on a platter, you white devil! More pom-diddle-di-pom opi-om!!
BIRD: Call out the home guard! Warn the gentry! Someone fetch the HOOK!
BUFFALO: Very nearly, Birdy. I've been poisoned by the fookin' Chinese.
BIRD: You've been eating Barbie dolls again?
BUFFALO: No, not that, they poisoned my Lo Mein! I told 'em to hold the MSG, and asked for plum sauce for my egg roll, but they gave me plumbum instead!
BIRD: Blimey! They injected plum sauce up your bum?!
BUFFALO: No, you plank, they laced my lunch with lead!
BIRD: Was that a la carte?
BUFFALO: (GROANS) No, it was the white plate special. The bloody china hadn't been properly fired, and it leached lead into my Bung Cow Chicken. I'm fookin' contaminated, mate!
BIRD: But, Buffers, how do you know for certain that you've been poisoned?
BUFFALO: I'm having all the classic symptoms of those ancient Roman wheezers. They all went bonkers, y'know, from sipping water from lead pipes. They lapped it up cuz it tasted sweet, the stupid berks.
BIRD: Ah, I see. . . so you've gone off your twig, then?
BUFFALO: I'm getting there. At first I was having a wonderful time. . . thought I was Catullus, y'see, but now I think I'm Caligula. Tried to stuff Sparky in the Cusinart, feet first. . . until he objected, like.
BIRD: Sacre bleu! Where is he now?
BUFFALO: He's popped off to an AA meeting, blathering about "drug crazed Belgian leotards" and other assorted Puritanical rubbish.
BIRD: Ah... have you noticed any other effects?
BUFFALO: Well, it's definitely put lead in my pencil, so to speak.
BIRD: Your Freddy's gone full mast, like?
BUFFALO: Like a flamin' Maypole, Birdy. You could stack Christmas wreathes on the perishing thing. The FAA just phoned and said I have to put a red beacon on the end of me knob, that it's a menace to commercial aviation.
BIRD: Homeric, Buff!
BUFFALO: More like homoerotic, Berky. I've had marriage proposals from half the lounge lizards at the local fookin' fruit market. . . and now all my fookin' hair's fallen out!
BIRD: You've gone bald?!
BUFFALO: Well, only below the waist. . . but I look like an over-inflated bratwurst! It's humiliating, like. Bloody Chinese criminal fookin' bass turds!
BIRD: Have you reported this to the FDA?
BUFFALO: Have you been in the fookin' cookin' sherry again, Dilbert? Those FDA wonkers gave the yellow peril carte blanche to poison us in the first fookin' place!
BIRD: Oh, dear. . . is there nothing to be done, then?
BUFFALO: Fook no. Raising the quality control standards for Chinese imports will raise prices at Wal-Mart, which is tantamount to treason under the fookin' Pastry Act. My only hope is to ingest massive amounts of Ginseng extract, to leach the lead out of my contaminated carcass before my brain turns to fookin' Silly Putty!
BIRD: Right. . . but doesn't all the Ginseng extract come from China?
BUFFALO: Too bloody true, mate, the devious and inscrutable fookers have cornered the Ginseng market, and moreover, they've gone and spiked it all with saltpeter!
BIRD: Those filthy swine! Well, look on the bright side, Buffers. It'll cure that rigid and intractable problem you're having with your Freddy, innit?
BUFFALO: Too true, Birdy. I'll be as limp as a Shanghai poodle.
BIRD: Surely you meant to say "noodle".
BUFFALO: Right, noodle! And stop calling me Shirley, you plank.
BIRD: My, you ARE irritable, aren't you?
BUFFALO: Irritable isn't the half of it. . . it's only been an hour since I ate that wretched lead-laced Chinese food and I'm already fookin' HUNGRY again! I must have some Mooshu Pork at once! I'm starting to imagine that I'm Mussolini, in short leather pants!
BIRD: But it's Chinese food, innit? Why would that cause you to imagine that you're turning into a psychotic Italian lederhosen?
BUFFALO: Argh! Fookin' puns! I can't abide them! It was Marco Polo's fault! That poncy Italian fooker brought NOODLES back from China, don't you see? It's genetic, or Genoese, or whatever the fook! (DROOLS A BIT)
BIRD: Blimey, you've gone right off your flapjack, Buff!
BUFFALO: Dim sum! I must have Dim Sum at once, with plumbum sauce and Moo Goo Gai Pan a sonic hedgehog the lime light of the silvery moon pie squared eagles the circumference of a circle jerk berk bloody fookin' toss yer Chinese fortune cookies. . . arrrggghhhhh, arf, arf!! (FOAMS AT THE MOUTH).
BIRD: Oh, dear! It's tartar film at eleven for you, I fear!
BUFFALO: Gung hoy fat choy!! Bring me number one son's head on a platter, you white devil! More pom-diddle-di-pom opi-om!!
BIRD: Call out the home guard! Warn the gentry! Someone fetch the HOOK!
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
LUMINOSITY IN THE LIMERICK AGE
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I'm thinking of entering The Times Limerick competition, the theme being Old Mother Hubbard.
HOLMES: Oh, don't bother, old chap. You haven't got a ghostly.
WATSON: Oh, really, old bean? And why's that then?
HOLMES: Because, old man, I've already won it.
WATSON: Already won it? How come?
HOLMES: Because Rollicksome-Braithwaite, the editor, has seen my entry and laughed so much his haemorrhoid's fell out.
WATSON: Good Lord!
HOLMES: He assured me from his hospital bed that my Limerick shall not be surpassed. Indeed, he wants me to be the judge for next year's competition.
WATSON: Good Lord! I didn't know you had a saucy bone in your body, Holmes.
HOLMES: It's almost all sauce, old chum. With a bit of cartilage.
WATSON: (sighs) Is there anything you CAN'T do?
HOLMES: I can't see in the dark or get to the end of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations, irrespective of how many jelly babies I consume.
WATSON: Dashed again. I can't do those things, either. Can't rhyme Hubbard with anything, Holmes. As hard as I try.
HOLMES: Never mind, Botty Watty. You'll come good, eventually. Here, take this Thesaurus. It will provide you with solace and many new words and phrases to add to your internal quandary.
WATSON: Holmes, you fraud. Why, I've got a good mind to phone Frolicking-Rattyweight and expose you.
HOLMES: Oh, come now, Watson. I helped my old pal Roget compile the Thesaurus. I didn't use it. Indeed, I thought up the winning Limerick in 12.56 seconds flat, a world record, I believe, but I ingratiate.
WATSON: I give up, Holmes! I can't compete with you. I'll always be second best.
HOLMES: Not to Hudders, you won't.
WATSON: True. Thank you, Holmes. You're all heart, really, beneath the armadillo-like exterior.
HOLMES: Crumpet at eleven, Watson.
WATSON: Not 'arf! Hudders, get those new satin stockings on, I'm on my way!
AND THE WINNING ENTRY:
Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To fetch her poor dog a bone
But when she bent over
Rover took over
For he had a bone of his own!
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I'm thinking of entering The Times Limerick competition, the theme being Old Mother Hubbard.
HOLMES: Oh, don't bother, old chap. You haven't got a ghostly.
WATSON: Oh, really, old bean? And why's that then?
HOLMES: Because, old man, I've already won it.
WATSON: Already won it? How come?
HOLMES: Because Rollicksome-Braithwaite, the editor, has seen my entry and laughed so much his haemorrhoid's fell out.
WATSON: Good Lord!
HOLMES: He assured me from his hospital bed that my Limerick shall not be surpassed. Indeed, he wants me to be the judge for next year's competition.
WATSON: Good Lord! I didn't know you had a saucy bone in your body, Holmes.
HOLMES: It's almost all sauce, old chum. With a bit of cartilage.
WATSON: (sighs) Is there anything you CAN'T do?
HOLMES: I can't see in the dark or get to the end of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations, irrespective of how many jelly babies I consume.
WATSON: Dashed again. I can't do those things, either. Can't rhyme Hubbard with anything, Holmes. As hard as I try.
HOLMES: Never mind, Botty Watty. You'll come good, eventually. Here, take this Thesaurus. It will provide you with solace and many new words and phrases to add to your internal quandary.
WATSON: Holmes, you fraud. Why, I've got a good mind to phone Frolicking-Rattyweight and expose you.
HOLMES: Oh, come now, Watson. I helped my old pal Roget compile the Thesaurus. I didn't use it. Indeed, I thought up the winning Limerick in 12.56 seconds flat, a world record, I believe, but I ingratiate.
WATSON: I give up, Holmes! I can't compete with you. I'll always be second best.
HOLMES: Not to Hudders, you won't.
WATSON: True. Thank you, Holmes. You're all heart, really, beneath the armadillo-like exterior.
HOLMES: Crumpet at eleven, Watson.
WATSON: Not 'arf! Hudders, get those new satin stockings on, I'm on my way!
AND THE WINNING ENTRY:
Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To fetch her poor dog a bone
But when she bent over
Rover took over
For he had a bone of his own!
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
WOT, NO BLOG Q DESIREE DISARRAY
BIRD: Everything OK, dude? You've been a big quiet, like.
BUFFALO: Dude, it's Desiree. She's driving me to retractions!
BIRD: Share it, dude. Lighten the load.
BUFFALO: There was a belated birthday celebration for her last nite at the old hacienda.
BIRD: Nice.
BUFFALO: She drove us all insane with her non-stop patter... "Do you want some ice cream with that cake? How about you, Joe? Ice cream? On your cake? You have to take some of this cake home with you. And some guacamole. How about you, Amanda? Cake? With ice cream? No? Some coffee, then? No? Some pop? No? Some milk? No? We have root beer, too, and Coke and Dr. Pepper, and Sprite, and Vernors, and..." Honest to God, I thought I was going out of me fookin' mind.
BIRD: Sounds like high spirits to me, old Buffters.
BUFFALO: Well, fook dat with a barge pole, dude. Everyone was catatonic from her relentless banter. I thought about drowning her in the punch bowl or sticking her head in a vat of ice cream to freeze her brain and hopefully shut down her speech center.
BIRD: Might've been a bit of a shop stopper, that.
BUFFALO: Then, at one point, when she stood in a certain light, she looked exactly like her mother (my ancient nemesis) and I almost screamed in horror. I think everyone was glad to escape. Maybe she'll calm down a bit if her parents go through with their current plan to move back here from Florida.
BIRD: What? Don't people move TO Florida, like?
BUFFALO: Not so much since the murder rate shot up. Geddit? They've been out looking for new digs. Everyone but Desiree agrees that they should buy a modest condo, but they seem determined to make it a "mobile home" instead... definition of a "mobile home" - a prefabricated domicile (loosely anchored to a concrete block foundation) that becomes mobile in the presence of a tornado, i.e., flies away like Dorothy's farmhouse in the Wizard of Oz.
BIRD: Sounds like a lorra fun.
BUFFALO: Dude, you couldn't pay me to live in a mobile home. It's not tornado alley here, but we do get them every year, and we've had a few close calls. I narrowly escaped one a few years ago while I was driving through Grosse Pointe. There was an ominous sky behind me as I left Dodge heading for Durance Vile... and ten minutes later I heard on the radio that a twister had swept through the very spot I'd been just a few minutes before. Tore a building off its foundation and carried it several hundred yards out onto Lake St. Clair, along with a few of Desiree's cousins. Mobile home, my arse. Hey, wait a minute. Hmm. Might just work.
BIRD: Dude, behave. Give her some space. There's always problems 'tween couples during the bedding in period, innit.
BUFFALO: I swear, dude, if Desiree doesn't quite yacking, I'm gonna become a Jehovah's Witness.
BIRD: Hey, woo, steady on there. Don't do nothing drastic just yet. Maybe she's just testing you.
BUFFALO: Dude, I am THIS far from testing her with a toasting fork.
BIRD: Crikey! You're really not happy about this developing situation.
BUFFALO: So much so that I told her not to call me any more.
BIRD: Good move. Let her down gently.
BUFFALO: But she won't leave the friggin' apartment, dude. I'm only talking to you now cos she's taking a dump. What am I gonna do?
BIRD: Start humping Sparky. When she gets out of the bathroom, she'll get the message.
BUFFALO: Are you friggin' insane?! Sparky might get the message too! The wrong message! Of all the shitty brainwaves you've had...
BIRD: Don't really hump him, like. Fake it.
BUFFALO: Oh, fake it! Yeah, I could do that. Hold on, I can hear her fumbling with the faucet. Sparky, could you come out of your cave for a mo? There's something I'd like you to do for me. Dude, you're a genius.
BIRD: Good luck.
SPARKY: What's going on, man?
BUFFALO: Bend over. I'll explain later.
DESIREE: What's that, hon?!
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
DESIREE: Now does anybody want more ice cream? What the...
BUFFALO: Dude, it's Desiree. She's driving me to retractions!
BIRD: Share it, dude. Lighten the load.
BUFFALO: There was a belated birthday celebration for her last nite at the old hacienda.
BIRD: Nice.
BUFFALO: She drove us all insane with her non-stop patter... "Do you want some ice cream with that cake? How about you, Joe? Ice cream? On your cake? You have to take some of this cake home with you. And some guacamole. How about you, Amanda? Cake? With ice cream? No? Some coffee, then? No? Some pop? No? Some milk? No? We have root beer, too, and Coke and Dr. Pepper, and Sprite, and Vernors, and..." Honest to God, I thought I was going out of me fookin' mind.
BIRD: Sounds like high spirits to me, old Buffters.
BUFFALO: Well, fook dat with a barge pole, dude. Everyone was catatonic from her relentless banter. I thought about drowning her in the punch bowl or sticking her head in a vat of ice cream to freeze her brain and hopefully shut down her speech center.
BIRD: Might've been a bit of a shop stopper, that.
BUFFALO: Then, at one point, when she stood in a certain light, she looked exactly like her mother (my ancient nemesis) and I almost screamed in horror. I think everyone was glad to escape. Maybe she'll calm down a bit if her parents go through with their current plan to move back here from Florida.
BIRD: What? Don't people move TO Florida, like?
BUFFALO: Not so much since the murder rate shot up. Geddit? They've been out looking for new digs. Everyone but Desiree agrees that they should buy a modest condo, but they seem determined to make it a "mobile home" instead... definition of a "mobile home" - a prefabricated domicile (loosely anchored to a concrete block foundation) that becomes mobile in the presence of a tornado, i.e., flies away like Dorothy's farmhouse in the Wizard of Oz.
BIRD: Sounds like a lorra fun.
BUFFALO: Dude, you couldn't pay me to live in a mobile home. It's not tornado alley here, but we do get them every year, and we've had a few close calls. I narrowly escaped one a few years ago while I was driving through Grosse Pointe. There was an ominous sky behind me as I left Dodge heading for Durance Vile... and ten minutes later I heard on the radio that a twister had swept through the very spot I'd been just a few minutes before. Tore a building off its foundation and carried it several hundred yards out onto Lake St. Clair, along with a few of Desiree's cousins. Mobile home, my arse. Hey, wait a minute. Hmm. Might just work.
BIRD: Dude, behave. Give her some space. There's always problems 'tween couples during the bedding in period, innit.
BUFFALO: I swear, dude, if Desiree doesn't quite yacking, I'm gonna become a Jehovah's Witness.
BIRD: Hey, woo, steady on there. Don't do nothing drastic just yet. Maybe she's just testing you.
BUFFALO: Dude, I am THIS far from testing her with a toasting fork.
BIRD: Crikey! You're really not happy about this developing situation.
BUFFALO: So much so that I told her not to call me any more.
BIRD: Good move. Let her down gently.
BUFFALO: But she won't leave the friggin' apartment, dude. I'm only talking to you now cos she's taking a dump. What am I gonna do?
BIRD: Start humping Sparky. When she gets out of the bathroom, she'll get the message.
BUFFALO: Are you friggin' insane?! Sparky might get the message too! The wrong message! Of all the shitty brainwaves you've had...
BIRD: Don't really hump him, like. Fake it.
BUFFALO: Oh, fake it! Yeah, I could do that. Hold on, I can hear her fumbling with the faucet. Sparky, could you come out of your cave for a mo? There's something I'd like you to do for me. Dude, you're a genius.
BIRD: Good luck.
SPARKY: What's going on, man?
BUFFALO: Bend over. I'll explain later.
DESIREE: What's that, hon?!
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
DESIREE: Now does anybody want more ice cream? What the...
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