Thursday, March 29, 2007


WATSON: I say, Holmes...

HOLMES: What now, Watson?

WATSON: Says here the greatest joke never told has just been found in the vault at the Bank of England.

HOLMES: Oh, really. And you're telling me this because...

WATSON: Look, I'm sorry, old man, that you lost your life savings on that damnable pyramid scheme that came highly recommended by Patrick Shortfartering, who happens to be a long-running associate and croquet buddy of mine, but well, past is past. A fool and his money are easily parted what what what.

HOLMES: Don't speak too soon, you abominable quack. You lost all YOUR life savings too AND Hudders' inheritance from her great-great grandmother's beauty salon.

WATSON: Indeed. Which is why I think we are all in need of a jolly good belly laugh.

HOLMES: Get to the point, will you, before I get to YOUR point.

WATSON: Well, I was thinking why don't we all take a stroll down to the Bank and er... have a peep. I'm sure it will do us all the world of good.

HOLMES: Firstly, who says it's the greatest joke never told? Secondly, how can a joke be funny if it's never been told? Thirdly, who says it's in the vault at the Bank of England? Fourthly, who says that you and I and sweet Hudders share the same sense of humour? Fifthly, what guarantee is there that even if it does make us all laugh that it won't merely provide a temporary respite from this unending gloom? Sixthly... well, I'm sure five considerations are more than enough for your less than satisfactory bonce.

WATSON: I say, Holmes, I take exception to that last remark. If you are hoping to incur my wrath, I can tell you I shall not give you the satisfaction.

HOLMES: My dear Watson, it is quite clear to me that you and I do not share the same sense of humour. Indeed, your sense of humour is so coarse that one wonders that if baked beans and flatulence were banned whether you would ever laugh again.

WATSON: Confound it, Holmes. You're pushing my ire here. I'm warning you! Anyway, aren't you curious to know what the greatest joke never told is?

HOLMES: Why should I be when I already know it?


HOLMES: Yes, it is true. It is no mystery to the great Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, because I penned it.

WATSON: You? But that's preposterous! You've never told a joke in your life.

HOLMES: On the contrary, Watty Botty. Under my pseudonym, I have penned the top 300 greatest jokes ever!

WATSON: But but but but... and more buts.

HOLMES: It is a welcome distraction from the chemistry set and wayward waifs on Hampstead Heath.

WATSON: It's not April 1st, this isn't a dream and you are Holmes. I don't believe you.

HOLMES: That is y0ur prerogative.

WATSON: Prove it.

HOLMES: Ricky Gervais, Larry Sanders, Billy Crystal, John Cleese & co, they all come to me. Why do you think the greatest joke never told is under lock and key at the Bank of England?

WATSON: I haven't the foggiest.

HOLMES: To prove that it was I that was the funniest comedian of them all. Because I am weary of propping up the careers of these comedians that in modern parlance have been "milking me for all they can get". And also because I've just signed an exclusive multi-million-squillion deal with National Lampoon.

WATSON: But that's insatiable.

HOLMES: Quite.

WATSON: What about the detective work? What about making old Albion a safer place for people to live in?

HOLMES: There won't be any time for that, old chum. That's why I'm handing the reins over to you.

WATSON: To me?! But... we're a team, a double act. Without you...

HOLMES: You'll be fine. Stiff upper lip, walk tall and proud, God save the Empire.

WATSON: Oh, well, I suppose I could possibly surely definitely keep fighting the good fight what what what.

HOLMES: That's the spirit!

WATSON: Just one last thing, Holmes.

HOLMES: Certainly.

WATSON: What is the greatest joke never told?

HOLMES: You'll soon find out, old chap. Suffice it to say that it involves a cabbage, a vestal virgin and a fishing rod.

WATSON: (chuckles) But Holmes... that's... a cabbage... a vestal... virgin... and a fishing rod... (guffaws, farts loudly before falling off armchair and rolling around on floor)

HOLMES: That is precisely why I didn't want to say anything to you. Hudders!

MRS HUDSON: Yes, Mr Sherlock?

HOLMES: The lavender and aloe vera spray, quick!

MRS HUDSON: Coming right up, sir. Filter at eleven!

HOLMES: Oh, I do hope so!

Sunday, March 25, 2007



BUFFALO: Birdy, you der?

BIRD: Freshly flocked and feathered, Buff.

BUFFALO: Remember my asshole buddy G-Force?

BIRD: The Mesomorph beefcake chap with OCD? The one who's always full mast?

BUFFALO: Yeah. He’s been gainfully unemployed for a while, but still working part-time as a weekend bouncer at some trendy singles bar in the upscale burbs. They let him flex his biceps in tight black t-shirts to lure in flocks of vacuous birds who get blind pissed drunk and rogered in the back seats of Camaros in the parking lot at closing time. Anyhoo, he's finally landed another gig in his chosen career field.

BIRD: Professional muff-diving?

BUFFALO: No, something to do with computers. “IT” or “ID” or some damn Freudian thing. He’s tried to explain it to me but it makes my head hurt. Ah, speak of the Devil. . .

G-FORCE: Dude, thanks for helping me find a job. You’re a real friend.

BUFFALO: So, you're gainfully employed for another 90 days, is it?

BIRD: Ninety days? What’s that about, then?

BUFFALO: Mandatory probation period. G-Hole invariably gets released on the 90th day, like Swiss clockwork, as he suffers from chronic hoof-and-mouth disease.

BIRD: Is that like a permanent yeast infection?

BUFFALO: No, it's much worse. He can’t keep either his trousers or his pie hole zipped, and every time he opens his gob he puts his foot in it. So, after three moons, the boss puts his boot up G-Hole's bleedin' ass.

G-FORCE: (sighs) Yeah, I’m my own worst enema. Hey, dude, can you spot me a Finn until payday?

BUFFALO: Yeah, Huck Finn. I thought I warned you about Finns. Find yourself a nice girl with bipolar disorder instead. Much safer. And try to save some jack this time instead of blowing it all on she-male hookers. No offense, Birdy.

BIRD: None taken, you great shaggy, nappy-headed drunken horny brute.

BUFFALO: Look, G-Plug, buy yourself a case of Vaseline Intensive Hand Care Lotion and a twelve pack of Puffs. Use your imagination to fuel your sexual fantasies instead of employing it to work yourself into a suicidal lather, you maniacal bugger.

G-FORCE: (sighs) Yeah, I know, I've got to cut back on watching Internet porn on the job, and stop thinking about pussy all the time.

BIRD: Good Lord. Is it true what Buff says, that you work with a perpetually throbbing woody?

G-FORCE: It comes and goes. Speaking of which, I’ve got to get to my bouncing job.

BIRD: Tell me, Geefours, do you literally bounce rowdies out of the bar?

G-FORCE: Depends on how rowdy they are, and how big. The little squirts bounce real good. The big galoots don't bounce very well, unless you fling them off the roof.

BIRD: Ah, yes, I see. What about the birds then?

G-FORCE: Oh, hell, anybody can bounce a girl, but we hardly ever do, except for the biker chicks. Of course it takes three or four of us to toss one of them bull dykes into the alley.

BIRD: Why the alley?

G-FORCE: It pisses 'em off no end if we toss ‘em out the front door, and then they beat the shit out of our customers in the parking lot.

BUFFALO: So when does the new gig start?

G-FORCE: Monday morning. I’m dreading it. I have to be there at 8 AM and I usually don’t get to bed until around 4 AM.

BIRD: Blimey, how do you do it?

BUFFALO: G-Plug swills Red Bull like you and me drink Hobgoblin Ale, Birdy.

BIRD: But wouldn’t that cause your heart to explode after a while?

G-FORCE: Not if you know how to pace yourself.

BUFFALO: Right. . . when did you ever pace yourself?

G-FORCE: So, Buff, ya got any advice for me, for the new gig, like?

BUFFALO: Yeah. Keep your ears open, your mouth shut, your nose to the grindstone, don't be dealing women on the clock, and for God's sake don't tell them about the alien abductions, the cattle mutilations, or that secret deal with the Venusians. I'd leave out the chicken sodomy, too.

G-FORCE: Wait, I wanna write that down. Got a scratch pad and a pencil?

BUFFALO: Here’s a ballpoint pen. Write it on your Freddy so you won’t lose it.

BIRD: Arf, arf!

BUFFALO: X-rated film at eleven.

G-FORCE: This isn’t working, dude. I keep puncturing myself. You got a magic marker?


Thursday, March 15, 2007


SPARKY: Birdy, are you there?

BIRD: Right here, Sparkers! Got the day off for good behaviour again?

SPARKY: Yeah. (sighs) I have to appear at the sanity hearing.

BIRD: Crikey. For the Buff, y'mean? That was for real, like?

SPARKY: All too real for my taste, man.

BIRD: What taste? Buffers said you can't taste a bleedin' thing since you went off the sauce all of eight years ago.

SPARKY: Eight and half, man, but who's counting?

BIRD: All right then, give us the skinny, dude. Has the randy old Buff gone off his melon?

SPARKY: That groovy cat's been off his melon as long as I've known him -but he's outdone himself this time, man.

BIRD: Good Lord. . . let me guess. He's acted out his fantasies about his therapist, innit? The Jenny Agutter/Annette Benning hybrid? He's gone and jammed his great gnarly nappy head up between her porcelain knees and goddess-like thighs and given her both barrels, er, horns, like?

SPARKY: Oh, he did that many celestials ago, man.

BIRD: What? And he wasn't arrested?

SPARKY: Actually, she was totally flattered by the attention. Blushed a bit, billed him an extra twenty for the session, and made him buy her a new pair of sheer panty hose, but otherwise he got off Scottie-free.

BIRD: I see. So, spill the legumes, Sparkers, what has he done?

SPARKY: Pulled a Cool Hand Luke.

BIRD: Omigod. He's eaten 50 hard boiled eggs all in one sitting?

SPARKY: No, though he did try it once. . . emptied his gizzards after only 23.

BIRD: Well, then, has he escaped from the chain gang or buggered the blood hounds?

SPARKY: Nah, he borrowed a pipe-cutter from Rockin' Jim and after the bars closed he went and decapitated all the parking meters in front of the county courthouse.

BIRD: Great flaming bollax! Really? Now that's what ya call Homeric!

SPARKY: It was a metallic massacre. All the bums woke up Saturday morning, saw the carnage, and fainted in coils. Aw, shit, the time. . . Gotta go to the sanity hearing.

BIRD: Will they finally lock him up, d'ya think?

SPARKY: Man, he's been locked up since Friday night. That's when he drank all the cleaning products and did the Charlie of all deeds. It's created quite a Purple Haze here. . . there's thousands of irate citizens picketing the courthouse, demanding that he be let off.

BIRD: He's become a causal celebre?

SPARKY: No. . . he's still straight as far as I know. But his defense is that all the parking meters in Mt. Clemens are as crooked as a dog's hind legs, and under the provisions of the city charter he had a perfect right to, how did he put it. . . "decommission" them. The community is solidly behind him. They've burned the Mayor in effigy, barricaded the streets and hung all the flags upside down as a signal of distress. The Governor is threatening to send in the Natural Guard. He's signed a book deal already and Paramount's optioned the screenplay.

BIRD: Bully for Buffy!

SPARKY: But man, what am I gonna do if they have him committed and kick him off the pineapple?

BIRD: Pineapple?

SPARKY: Take his bucks away.

BIRD: Oh. . . yes, that would be a real bite in the farce-arse, wooden tit? Well, let's hope he gets an advance on the book deal. Tell the Buffster to keep shakin' that bush!

SPARKY: Oh, man, he's shakin' that bush, spanking that blutwurst, filling in da ho's, I mean holes. Gee, that guy's got more juice in him than Texas has oil, and that's a lotta oil, man! Hope they don't zap his shit for brains before he bursts his geezer!

BIRD: Frying at eleven!

SPARKY: Arf, arf, man!

Tuesday, March 13, 2007


Hello, Ms Tatyana!

A tender blutwurst is raining buckets whilst winding for a blow. It needs maximum gratification... I feel like this now, well, all the time, as matterly fact... Cover me with your warm melons and hand me with your tender lips and I will be yours in nectarol perpetuity and eternal gratitude... If you are looking for something hard and enduring, if your Lucy misses something important...
write to me... my bed is lonely... let them meet...

Waiting for your letter/email/phone call/ring on the doorbell
Carfax Arms

BUFFALO: Whaddya think, dude?

BIRD: Yowzer, yowzer, yowzer!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Monday, March 12, 2007


Hello, Mr Buffalo!

A tender flower is crying on the cold rain and blowing wind. It
needs protection... I feel like this now... Cover me with your warm
hands and kiss me with your tender lips and I will be yours... If you
are looking for something, if your heart misses something important...
write to me... my heart is lonely... let them meet...

Waiting for your letter

BUFFALO: Wot the...

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Gaff, gaff!

Wednesday, March 07, 2007


SPARKY: He's on the cellphone. He's asking for ya, man.

BIRD: Thank you, God. Put him on.

BUFFALO: Meet me by the grave of Percy Longwater Gooding, by the light of the silvery moon.

BIRD: Dude?

BUFFALO: Why Percy Longwater Gooding? Because his bones are slight and the earth is soft.

BIRD: Are you OK?

BUFFALO: How we let the silence swallow us up. So little moves me any more. If only I had an extra pair of lungs.

BIRD: Just how much trank have you had, dude?

BUFFALO: I’ve kept this last piece specially for you. Sorry if I’m a little vague, but human contact was never my forte. Don't forget to water the balls, old chum. Cheerio, Lucy.

(cellphone cuts out)

BIRD: Sparky?


FIFI: Dotty?

DOTTY: Watson?

WATSON: Holmes?

HOLMES: Hm. One is reminded of The Notorious Case Of The Missing Gamete Of Bayswater, alas no longer in print, but if memory serves me right a most malicious toxic mixture of horse manure, pig's trotters' glue and Toblerone was injected into a passing coal man for a bet.

WATSON: Oh, good Lord, Holmes! That unfortunate creature went quite bonkers and after running the length and breadth of Westminster Bridge stark bollock - a-hm - naked plunged into the murky waters of the cavernous Thames never to be seen or heard of again. You don't think...

BIRD: You don't think... It's finally happened! He really has become as crazy as a shithouse rat! And all before we ever got to share that pint at the Dog & Duck. 'Tis a cruel fate that bares a false wind on the aft. Fare ye well, dear Buffters. Alas, I knew him not but his mark is undeliverable and writ large. It shall dwell in this here cyberspace FOREVER. Ah MEN!


BUFFALO: Never take a 54 mg time release Ritalin capsule at 3 in the afternoon, even if you ARE falling asleep at the wheel on I-94 driving to Detroit Metro Airport. You'd be better off to take the first exit, find a Starbuck's, and drink an entire pot of coffee so heavily caffeinated that it would bring Lazarus back to life. The caffeine will wear off in four or five hours but Ritalin is for-fooking-ever, sports fans. Nine hours and 21 minutes and I'm still totally stoked, and tempted to drive north all night to the bloody bridge just to see the sun rise behind the Grand Hotel on the off chance that Britney Spears might be there in a sheer negligee listening to variations on a theme by Paganini on a goddamned music box. What the HELL was I thinking?

BIRD: And you say that was the last you heard of him, Sparky?

SPARKY: That was the last telephone conversation we had, man.

BIRD: And that was 11 hours ago, and he never made it to the airport?

SPARKY: Exactamundo, man. That is way not groovy.

BIRD: And he didn't mention anything unusual before he left the Carfax Arms?

SPARKY: Nope. Only that "real men don't kill women, but I bet they eat quiche".

BIRD: Omigod!

SPARKY: It's the trank talking, man. It don't mean zebrashit.

BIRD: No, Sparky, you don't understand, the auld Buff LOVES quiche. Try him on his cellphone again. If you get thru, tell him... tell him... I was wrong, it was Jenny Agutter in Logan's Run, not Jane Seymour. The daft bugger hates to lose.

SPARKY: Come again, man?

BIRD: Just tell him. Lazarus, Britney, Paganini... The unholy trinity. Jeez, I hope we're not too late...

Tuesday, March 06, 2007


HOLMES: Watson!

WATSON: (panting) Yes, Holmes?

HOLMES: I draw your attention to exhibit F by the pantry.

WATSON: It's a canine deposit what what what.

HOLMES: I know what it is, you quirky quack. I want to know what you're going to do about it and exhibits A-E.

WATSON: It's Jemima, Holmes. She's away from home, in our safe keeping I might add, whilst her master embarks on a most important errand for Our Majesty. She's experiencing deep stress at being in strange surroundings.

HOLMES: Watson, the perpetrator of exhibit F is not Jemima the Alsatian, but that filthy bloodhound Toby, who really has no excuse.

WATSON: He's excited, Holmes. I think he's taken quite a shine to our Jemima.

HOLMES: And he displays his amorous interest in her by fouling up the place? Pull the other one, it's got church bells on it.

WATSON: It's only for a few more days, old boy. Perhaps if you were more playful with them, they'd relax more.

(loud parp in distance)

HOLMES: Watson, there goes another. It's got to stop, I tell you, or I shall drag both of those sorry mutts down Baker Street into Regent's Park and deposit the finest buckshot right up their derrieres.

WATSON: I say, there's no need for that language, old chum. They're only a pair of defenceless, vulnerable pups in need of a hug and a stroke.

(another loud parp, this time in parlour)

HOLMES: Toby! If that's you, I shall blow your little furry brains out and sell you for soap! Do you hear?! And then I shall shoot that namby pamby fawning Jemima to buggery!

WATSON: Confound it, man, you've got to calm down. You'll have a cardiac.

HOLMES: And then I shall turn the shotgun on myself and leave you to clear up all the mess, you Hippocratic buffoon!

(a further parp resounds on the landing)

HOLMES: That's it! I warned you! (grabs shotgun and loads barrels)

WATSON: Holmes! Have you taken leave of your senses?! Put that gun down.

HOLMES: Get out of my way, Watson.

WATSON: I'm not moving. You'll have to shoot me first before you get to the pups.

HOLMES: I'm warning you, old chum.

WATSON: Holmes, no!


WATSON: Holmes, you're hit!

(Holmes slumps to the ground, Toby and Jemima come scampering into parlour, hurl themselves at Holmes and lick either cheek profusely)

WATSON: Ahhh, that's nice. A more touching scene of canine outpouring have I not seen since the Baskervilles.

HOLMES: An ambulance, Watson. Get me an ambulance! I'm dying!

WATSON: Just so, old boy. An ambulance, you say? Right you are. An ambulance...

HOLMES: (rolls eyes) What a terrible way to go. I hope mummy doesn't see me like this. Ohhhh...

Saturday, March 03, 2007


BIRD: "I am home now. At least I think it's home. I don't recognise my room and the people claiming to be my parents haven't yet told me what they've done with my real parents. I buried Bud this morning in a simple yet deeply moving ceremony. I have just watched the video of it, so I know what I'm talking about. RIP Bud, we love you. Well, I do, anyway. I am still afraid. In 19 days time I shall be nine."

BUFFALO: (sighs) I'm touched, dude. Rewinds me of when my dear old Goldfish Fred bit the bullet, like.

BIRD: "I have just been told that my brother has found a new girlfriend and won't be coming home any more. As a parting present, he gave me a copy of Playboy and told me to 'toss myself silly' over it. I really have no idea what he's talking about. It isn't Pancake Day and I'm rubbish at cooking, anyway. This evening, Fatty Rupert came round and asked me for money. 'That fiver you owe me, I want it back,' he said. I told him I didn't know anything about a fiver and after he shook me a few times and threatened to rearrange my face, I ran to my room and locked myself in. Fatty Rupert is banging on the door as I write. And now he's shouting, 'I'm gonna shove your head up your arse and make you swallow your own poo!' I am still afraid. In 18 days time I shall be nine years old."

BUFFALO: Gawd, is that all? I woz expecting much worse.

BIRD: "After school today, Fatty Rupert and his chums were waiting for me at the bus stop. He personally stamped on my testicles and made a determined effort to shove my head up my bottom. When he failed, he broke some of my limbs instead. I am now back in hospital, sitting on the toilet with serious diarrhoea. I am still afraid. In 17 days time I shall be nine years old."

BUFFALO: Broke your limbs, you say? How fooked is that! I hope you got yer own back on him, like.

BIRD: "The man in the next bed is incontinent. I think it means he travels a lot. He is very smelly and miserable. I requested to be moved to another ward. The nurse told me to show some compassion. So I decided to talk to him. He told me he wanted to die, because 'My grandparents are dead, my parents are dead, my wife hates me, I've lost my job, my house, my friends and I owe the bank £70,000'. I agreed to put a pillow over his face and press hard after everyone else was asleep. 'But the worst thing,' he said, 'is knowing that when you're dead you're gone forever - you'll never laugh, cry, love again. And eventually even the ashes will disappear. So what's the point of living, anyway?' I decided to put the pillow over my own face and press hard instead. Goodbye, cruel world. In 16 days time I would have been nine years old."

BUFFALO: Omigod! What did you do then?


BUFFALO: Speak to me, dude. Ya didn't try to lop yerself, did ya? Dude?

BIRD: (softly) They're known as The Lost Years: 9-17. Available at "A harrowing read" - The Litter Hairy Gazette. "A journey to hell and back with lots of chocolate and tight trousers" - Profanity Fair. "A roller coaster ride with your cock stuck in the wheels" - Wonkers Weekly.

BUFFALO: Ordering 50, no, 100 copies right now!

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Friday, March 02, 2007


BIRD: "When I was released from hospital, Mad Billy and his chums ambushed me when I went to the letter box to post a thank you letter to the doctors and nurses for being so kind. I was kicked to the ground, and then beaten unconscious with a cucumber from our garden. I am not afraid. In 27 days from now I shall be nine years old."

BUFFALO: Fookin' L, dude! So you went back to hospital, like.

BIRD: "I'm not sure what time it is, but it's late. I am back in hospital, under the sheets with a torch. I don't remember how I got here. The man in the next bed says they took me for a brain scan. My mother came to see me and was very pale. 'Don't leave us, Birdy!' she wailed. It was most embarrassing. Of course I'm not going anywhere. My parents feed and clothe me. I know when I'm on to a good thing. I am not afraid. In 25 days time I shall be nine years old."

BUFFALO: Not sure I can take much more of this, Birdman.

BIRD: "This morning they took away my torch, so I am writing this in the toilet. It is the only place where I can enjoy some privacy. Last night, a very nice nurse was hitting me on the chest and shouting, a little too loudly for me, 'I think we've lost him, doctor!' How many times do I have to tell them? I'm going NOWHERE! I miss Bud. That's my budgie. I hope my mother is feeding him. He'll starve otherwise. I am not afraid. In 22 days time I shall be nine years old."

BUFFALO: What the Freddy! Gimme a minute, will ya? It's all too much.

BIRD: "Bud died yesterday, just after the six o'clock news. I suspect foul play but I can't prove it. The man in the next bed told me, 'Life's a bitch and then you die'. I think he's missing his dog. Luckily, I don't have a dog so I can't miss it, but I don't mind telling you I am very upset about Bud, although it means I won't have to clean up his poo any more, which is a big relief. After tea, a strange woman came, claiming to be my mother. She was with a strange man, who was most insistent that he is my father. Tomorrow, they are coming to take me away. I am afraid. In 21 days time I shall be nine."

BUFFALO: I can't take it any more, dude! Pass me the Kleenex, will ya?!

BIRD: It's OK, Buff, there's only one more part. True, the most horrific part, but it'll soon be over.

BUFFALO: Gawd! And I thought I had a traumatic childhood.

BIRD: We'll soon find out. It's your turn next.

BUFFALO: O my Goddddddd!

BIRD: No one gets outta here alive!

BUFFALO: Time to die!

BIRD: Here's lookin' at you, kid!

BUFFALO: I'll be back.

BIRD: Fill Mwah at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Thursday, March 01, 2007


BIRD: "I dreamt last night of a bathroom. The door is creaking backwards and forwards, beckoning me inside. The bathroom is divided into three. The basin is straight ahead. To my right is Deborah in the bath, fully clothed. She's on the phone, laughing. To my left a towel is being sprayed with water to make it dry(!). There is a ball falling from a great height towards me. I am not afraid. One month from now I shall be nine years old."


BIRD: "Today, at school I got hit in the face by a ball. I have lost three teeth, broken my jaw and have double vision. How spooky is that! I am not afraid. In 30 days from now I shall be nine years old."


BIRD: "I woke up this morning to find I had lost all feeling in my left leg and my right eye was the size of a very large potato. As I was stumbling to the bathroom, I slipped and fell down the stairs. My head made heavy contact with the reinforced glass on the front door. I lost consciousness for two and a half hours. The ambulance came very quickly. This afternoon they are taking me to be operated on for serious head injuries. I am not afraid. In 29 days from now I shall be nine years old."

BUFFALO: Holy Fruit Bat Shit On The Loom, dude. Then what happened?

BIRD: Part 2. Tomorra.


BIRD: Yep. Horrorshow at eight.

BUFFALO: Redemption at nine? Arf, arf!