Sunday, January 07, 2007


BUFFALO: So, dude, how was it for you?

BIRD: Profoundly gastric.

BUFFALO: Flatulent, like?

BIRD: Bloated like a Jersey cow. Drunk too. God bless Rioja. Et tu, Buffters?

BUFFALO: A distant memory of a floating mediocrity. And lotsa fire water.

BIRD: Been fooked off and fooked up every since.

BUFFALO: Yahhh-p. Me too. Now why is dat?

BIRD: Some Finn to do with the cosmic circles, so Potty Dotty says. Apparently, the intergalactic plates go walkies around the end of a year and the beginning of a new year. Those of us who haven’t lost our hunter-gatherer sensibilities are pulled by the magnetic fields into a vortex of uncertainty.

BUFFALO: Wow. And when does it end?

BIRD: Only when we commit ourselves as individuals and human beings… and personalities to the year ahead.

BUFFALO: That figures. So like, New Year Executions an’ all?

BIRD: That’s about the long and tall of it. Got any?

BUFFALO: Well, there was a multiple stabbing down by the lake on the 2nd.

BIRD: Good. That oughtta do.

BUFFALO: And a contract killing over at Stuckey’s. Some feud over a Yamaha pick-up truck.

BIRD: Excellent. We had a budgie go missing at number 33 on New Year’s Day, presumed dead on the 5th. Oh, and I just had to put a Queen bee out of her misery that was clinging to our front door. Didn’t know it’d squelch quite like that.

BUFFALO: Well, that’s it den, the sacrifices to the gods, plus our own poisonal enlistment to 2007 and all that it brings.

BIRD: Well, almost, dude.

BUFFALO: Wot now, dammit?

BIRD: We’ve gotta let go of some Finn from 06, like.

BUFFALO: That all? Dat’s eezy squeezy, dude. I’m lettin’ go of Clare, golden lips or nay. She’s much happier with the Whirring Whirlitzer anyhoo, if you get m’drift.

BIRD: And I’m letting go of Short Cake, aka Berty Pansy. The guy might be a good builder but he bores the tits off me with his jokes about amorous walruses and shafting blubber. I’ll finish that patio without the big ape, you just wait and see.

BUFFALO: Feel better already.

BIRD: Me too!

BUFFALO: Now wot?

BIRD: To the bridge, old chum.

BUFFALO: Aye, aye, cap’n!

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

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