Thursday, April 19, 2007



Dear world!

Yes, it's me! I'm in the post-recoiled wing of St Just's Hospital, East Fenwick. I've just had me supper - a burnt kipper (that's a fish for all you dudes from the US of Eh?!) - and a mug of rabbit's P. Well, that's what it tastes like, anyhoo. There's been a lot of prodding going on today, and I've been twisted this way and that. And that's just by me mum! Look, I told her not to come but would she listen? Eh, A, Ay? She brought me a Mars bar and twelve packets of Marks & Spencer's sea salt and pepper crisps. But I really only wanted a Coke and the book that I was reading before this horrible thing happened to me whilst stretching meself in bed. The book, by the way, is the prequel to CONFESSIONS OF A POOP-SCOOPER & OTHER TALES OF EXCEPTIONAL LOBOTOMIES, which hasn't been written yet. The latter, I mean. And the former is kinda sketchy too, but hilarious. It's called THE SQUASHED GROPE IN THE PANTRY & THE ENEMA THAT REFUSED TO DIE. Nurse Schlapenbumfen has warned me that if I wet the bed one more time, she'll put me on a strict regime of sensory degradation, and take away my teddy bear and socks. But honestly, I think she just enjoys PRETENDING to be a Nazi stormtrooper with the tightest arse this side of the Revolving Curtain. I doubt that a bow anchor would make it up there, or anything else come to think of it, which I'd rather not, you know, think about, cos, well, I won't go on. So as I was saying, who could possibly know how tough it is to bump off an enema? At this juncture, I really have no idea how they're going to do it but I strongly suspect that it involves the following, but I may be wrong:
1) A pitch fork
2) A hose pipe
3) A CD player with Coldplay's last album on a loop
4) A piece of shipping rope
and 5) Sulphuric acid

Why does it hurt when I turn on my side? Because that's what grumbling placentas do. The throbbing badger... well, that's just to work up some sympathy innit. I wouldn't know what a throbbing badger in pantaloons looked like if it grabbed me by the Freddy, but naturally, I wouldn't want one neither. And when I'm cured, I want to go back to writing my memoirs and growing the perfect parsnip. Do I heck! Buff and me are in the middle of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries and a zillion other projects. Oops. Forgot. Wasn't supposed to tell anyone about that till National Lamb-Poo sorted out the contract. Doesn't matter, I guess, in the wider scheme of rings. As long as we get laid. I mean PAID.

Dammit! Schlapenbumfen is on the warpath again. I'd better wrap this baby up and smuggle it out. I'm feeling a bit wibbly but I think that's mainly due to my lack of Marmite sarnies. And I'm getting totally fed up with mashed potato and spinach but on the plus side, I'm warm, dry, well-tranked up and in full contention of my facilities.

As always, your humble recalcitrant,


PS Can someone water me cammelia on the patio? Ta.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007



I regret to inform you that on the morning of the 17th of April, in the year of our Lord 2007, the universally abhorred comedian Mr Bird was admitted to St Just's Hospital East Fenwick suffering from a throbbing badger in his pantaloons. Sorry, let me regurgitate. In laymen's speak, the avian patient was suffering from a spasm of the lower placenta which meant he was unable to sit straight, talk straight or bend over without requesting assistance from a nurse with a potty handy. Or a handy potty. Same difference, rarely.

The appropriate treatments were subsequently applied according to the medical code. They involved steam cleaning the rogerer, massaging the todgerer, and creaming the frotherer. Unfortunately, Mr Bird responded badly to the first treatment, slightly warmed to the second treatment, and was positively impressed and thoroughly irrigated by the third treatment.

However, overnight, the patient took a turn for the wurst and ended up wandering down an unmarked corridor whereuon he impaled his upper teater on a passing gurney. He was consequentially operated on immediately to remove excess fluid and stray shrapnel.

I am elated to announce that this morning Mr Bird has regained conscientiousness and is sat up in his hospital bed playing with his Benadryl drip and entertaining the nurses in the way he knows best. It is the considered opinion of a hastily arranged panel of cardio-thoracical experts that the patient will make a full recovery, eventually, undoubtedly, possibly within the coming weeks and months. In the meantime, I would ask you, the assembled media of various blood types and feral orientations to please give the sickly tweeter some privacy and understanding whilst he embarks on this troublesome road to a full recovery of his limited assets. Naturally, we will update you on any further envelopments as and when they recur. I'm sure that all our thoughts and the thoughts of udders are with Mr Bird on this uncommonly sunny day in April. Thank you.

Monday, April 16, 2007


FIFI LAMOUR: And... action!

BUFFALO: So I hear Prince William has dumped his gal, like.

BIRD: Kate Middleton. Yep. Tragic. Nice gal if you can hack the plum in the mouth and the funny walk.

BUFFALO: She'd have made a nice queen.

BIRD: Maybe. Although Diana probably would've been better. Thing is the monarchy'll be done and dusted once our Madge falls off her perch.

BUFFALO: "Our Madge"? Friend of yours is she? The QUEEN to you. And to everybody else.

BIRD: It's affectionate, like. She's the people's QUEEN or some Finn like that.

BUFFALO: Tut tut on you. You Brits are so cazh with yer traversions. Moving on.

BIRD: Please do.

BUFFALO: To bees.

BIRD: Oh, I know this one. A Parent Lee, mobile phones are killing them off and we won't have any crops any more and the world will subsequently die an excrutiating death from mega starvation so that when the asteroid hits it won't make no difference what-so-ever. Right?

BUFFALO: Spot on, Birdy. And Final Lee, Iraq.

BIRD: Oh, lumme. Must we?

BUFFALO: Indubitably. It's sliding into civil war, they say.

BIRD: Er, that's about the quince of it. What's the question?

BUFFALO: What was the big story there last week?

BIRD: Um, er, oh yeah, the two British naval personnel selling their stories to the Daily Bumhole.

BUFFALO: That's right.

BIRD: And we had the revolutions that Faye Turkey was deprived of her favourite ciggies and her beloved fish and chips for ten days. And they wouldn't give her new underwear neither. Or let her wash her old ones after the old lamb kebab went down the wrong way.

BUFFALO: Indeed. And then she sat blindfolded as her interrogator peeled an orange over her lap.

BIRD: Yewk! Lou Rid!

BUFFALO: And wot is the interrogator purported to have said to her?

BIRD: "I have good peeler. You want juice?"

BUFFALO: Nearly. He Actual Lee said, "You peel my orange, blondie? I give you enjoyment".

BIRD: Omigod! The things sailors have to endure in the name of honour.

BUFFALO: And the final round...


BUFFALO: The missing headline from Iranian Democratics Institutionalised Then Reprogrammed Monthly - "The ***** ****** ***** Beg For ****** ******* *******".

BIRD: Oh, yeah, I saw this one. "The Revolutionary Guard Dogs Beg For Cadbury's Chocolate Biscuits".

BUFFALO: Correct. This is the story about the vicious Iranian border collies who guard the opening to the Al-Shat On Constantly But Our Reward Is In Heaven waterway who have been spoilt by British patrol boats bunging them Cadbury's choccie biscuits because according to their commanding officer they are "so thin they make Kate Moss look pork worthy". And now the dogs refuse to eat the leftover lamb kebabs the guards toss them after lights out. And what happened to several of the border collies?

BIRD: Um, I believe they swam across the Al-Shat On etc waterway and were picked up by foxtrot Freddy 0.5 and held by the Royal Navy as a bargaining chip in case negotiations to release the British service personnel went tits up.

BUFFALO: Full points. And where are they now?

BIRD: Strolling and sniffing their way up and down HMS Cornwall cos the Iranians didn't want them back, and I quote, "because the pig dogs yielded their stomachs to the delicatessen of the vegetating West".

BUFFALO: That's right, Birdman. You really are the most knowledgeable tweet your country has to offer. The U in K should be veritably proud. And that just leaves me time to announce that it is official - Basil Fawlty has been voted the funniest UK TV comedy character EVER, and we wrap up this Podcast with a clip from Fawlty Towers in which Basil greets some German guests -

BASIL: Ah, wonderful! Vonderbar! Ahh! Please allow me to introduce myself, I am the owner of Fawlty Towers. And may I welcome your war... your war... you all... and hope that your stay will be a happy one. Now, would you like to eat first, or would you like a drink before the war... AHH! Er... trespassers will be tied up with piano wire... SORRY, SORRY!

BIRD & BUFFALO: Good night!

Thursday, April 12, 2007


WATSON: I say, Holmes...

HOLMES: Oh, if you must, Watson.

WATSON: This letter just came for you, slipped under the fortified door what what what.

HOLMES: How utterly tedious. Read it out, old boy. There's something in my toe nail.

WATSON: Righto ho. "Dear Mr Shylock, With due respect and humblelity. I am Mrs. Alice Biggins of Basingstoke. I was married to da Mr Biggins of Basingstoke for four years before he what copped it down a gold mine in Abubajan. We was very 'appy but childless. Well, da Mr Biggins, he did but curl up da feet without so much as a penny for da pee pot. And I was thinking... p'raps you'd be persuadable to take pity on dis little misses, who I happen to add is seriously well in debt and in need of heavy remittance, if you could possibly bung a coupla hundred bum wipe smackers my way. I'd do anyfink to pleasure your highness.

God bless ya, guv'nor!

Lots of luv,


PS And if by half a perchance, you could see your sideways to givin' me another coupla hundred big'uns, I shall invest da funds into helping da churches and orphanages and such like."

HOLMES: Good gracious!

WATSON: So, er, what do you think, Holmes? Do you feel inclined to help this unfortunate wretch of Basingstoke?

HOLMES: Oh, really, Watson! Give me that.

WATSON: Careful, old boy. You'll tear it.

HOLMES: Tear it?! I shall burn it and then set Toby on you in the yard.

WATSON: I'm sure I don't know what you're meandering at, Holmes.

HOLMES: (reads letter) Surely you did not expect to fool the high and mighty sleuth of all history past and present with this childish balderdash.

WATSON: What?! You're not... Why, you think I had a hand in this, old man? But that's preposterous!

HOLMES: A cowardly act even by your standards.

WATSON: I take offence at that last utterance, old bean, I don't mind telling you.

HOLMES: I see. Since you insist on pursuing this charade, I shall expose your fatal mistakes and then I expect a full apology whilst I consider an appropriate punishment for your moronic prank. Your first mistake was to use the name Alice Biggins. You should know full well that Alice Biggins was the third victim of the Ripper of Reading. Her entrails were found lining the A329 between Binfield and Wokingham.


HOLMES: Originality has never been your forte. Then the language. It is clearly the work of an educated person endeavouring to talk common. A simple individual would never overuse "da", nor display obvious rudeness - "a coupla hundred bum wipe smackers" indeed!

WATSON: Yes, well, perhaps the language is rather on the colourful side...

HOLMES: And lastly, I heard you and Hudders late last night in the pantry conspiratorily hatching the whole plot. It is possible that had you not both tittered like a pair of bloated hyenas, my slumber would not have been interrupted.

WATSON: Oh, dear. Well, um, I can explain...

HOLMES: You needed the money.

WATSON: Yes, you see...

HOLMES: When will you learn, Watty, that the end NEVER justifies the means?

WATSON: But it's Hudders' dear mater...

HOLMES: Just ask, dear fellow. That's all you have to do. I look after my own, don't you know?

WATSON: Sorry, Holmes. I felt so damned awkward...

HOLMES: You understand that I still have to punish you.

WATSON: But of course.

HOLMES: Now run along to Hudders and tell her that Mr Sherlock has already taken care of her mother's financial embarrassment and secured her wellbeing for the rest of her days.

WATSON: Oh, good Lord! Thank you so much, Holmes. How can I ever repay you?

HOLMES: I'll think of some way, don't be remiss of that.

WATSON: Scones at eleven?

HOLMES: Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007


WATSON: I say, Holmes...

HOLMES: What is it now, Watson?

WATSON: Did you read that article by Rochester in the Times?

HOLMES: That confounded old wind bag? What's he been saying now?

WATSON: Says we can't be held responsible for gaps in other people's education what what what.

HOLMES: A-ha! Some sense from the big lump of lard at last!

WATSON: But he does take a pop at you, old thing.

HOLMES: What's that?!

WATSON: Claims you make the solving of crimes over-complicated and difficult to follow.

HOLMES: (sighs) The man's riddled with contradictions. The triumph of the oiks is upon us, I can see it coming.

WATSON: Quite, but he does have a point, old man. I mean, that last case, The Mysterious Mr Peg Leg & His Performing Piccolo... well, I'm blowed if I could follow the counter revolutions.

HOLMES: Convolutions, Watty Botty. The fault lay not in the explanation, which was an outstanding example of lucid thinking and deductive reasoning, but in the 15-second attention span of both you and the masses at large.

WATSON: What's that, old bean? Oh, yes, quite. Well, you see, since my bicycle accident when I fell into the mire and swallowed that trout, I find the ringing in my ear and in my posterior impedes my ability to concentrate.

HOLMES: It doesn't exactly aid your ablutions either, but that's another kettle of sea bass. Just be grateful dear Hudders is so understanding.

WATSON: She's an absolute treasure, that woman. What would we do without her?

HOLMES: Yes, candlelit Su Doku does have its limitations.

WATSON: I say, you're a bit frosty today, old boy. It wouldn't have anything to do with the contents of that letter delivered by hand but five minutes ago?

HOLMES: Watson, you never cease to amaze me. Just when I think your cerebral activity has fallen below that of a dehydrated sickle cell, you pull another rabbit out of the hat.

WATSON: Let it out, old bean. It's the best of therapies.

HOLMES: In all honesty, I am not inclined to "let it out" as you suggest, but I suppose that you will have to be told sooner or later.

WATSON: Holmes, you're crying.

HOLMES: Nonsense, Watson. I have merely suspended the act of blinking so that an eyelash may be removed from the tear duct in my left eye.

WATSON: Oh, for Pete's sake, man. Tell me what's in the letter. You'll get me at it in a minute.

HOLMES: Well... old... chum... it's... Samantha Hardcastle.

WATSON: Samantha Hardcastle?! That fallen waif of the night who met an untimely fate at Limehouse down by the docks?

HOLMES: Yes... she's... been found in a field in Kent eating grass and responding to the name Daisy.

(Holmes turns away and hides his face in his bathing towel)

WATSON: Holmes, you mustn't blame yourself. You did all you could to save her.

HOLMES: I... just... think... if I hadn't prized her away from that blackguard Gerald Bonkerbottle, she'd still be...

WATSON: A fallen woman with boils, jagged teeth and rancid gums. You found her a dentist, paid for the dermatologist, hired a dress maker to give her a new start.

HOLMES: I know... and now she thinks she's a cow!

WATSON: Yes, well, you know, you win some, lose some.

HOLMES: Thank you, Watson, you've been a great comfort.

WATSON: Good Lord! Have I? Yes, I suppose I have. Well, maybe the lesson here is that you should, um, stick to solving crime and leave the social engineering to someone else... someone more qualified.

HOLMES: Indeed. The oiks have it again. As Plato once said, if the tree is meant to fall, leg it.

WATSON: Clever chap, that Plateau.

HOLMES: Farewell, dear Samantha. May your glades be forever moist and supplemental.

WATSON: Um, quite.

HOLMES: Buttercups at eleven.

WATSON: Arf, arf!

Tuesday, April 10, 2007


BIRD: Buffers, are you conscious?

BUFFALO: Semi, Birdy. Wuzzup?

BIRD: Just checking to see if you're still among the quick.

BUFFALO: Aye, still hanging in here, trying to weather the latest Arctic blast. The bloody wind's like "Mariah" today.

BIRD: Mariah Carey?

BUFFALO: No, more like Drew Carey. . . overdone and not very funny. Also it's colder than a witch's nips out there, or so I'm told by Osbee, who just phoned to find out if I'd invalidated my life insurance policy yet.

BIRD: Lordy, you're not thinking about taking Old Betsy out for a stroll in the woods again, are you?

BUFFALO: Oh, hell, no, Birdy. It's too frickin' cold. I'm waiting for better weather so I can accidentally drown meself in the lake, like.

BIRD: Why not drown your sorrows in a six pack of Hobgoblin Ale, instead?

BUFFALO: It's a pleasant thought, but as the song goes, "I tried drowning my sorrows, but my sorrows had learned how to swim."

BIRD: Blimey, that's diabolical. Speaking of which, how's Sparky's romance with Lilith going?

BUFFALO: Well, I assume, as you can't find a drop of K-Y around here to save your Freddy.

BIRD: So he's spending a lot of time at the Castavet's then?

BUFFALO: Yes, judging by all the howling, moaning, caterwauling and flute playing going on next door all night long.

BIRD: Suspicions confirmed then? It really is a coven?

BUFFALO: Fed-Ex has been delivering Belgian chocolates, naked female aristocrats and white horses day and night. The whole building's starting to sound and smell like a three ring Circus Maximus, complete with Roman candles, chariot races, and Christians on the bill of fare.

BIRD: And you still think the motive for all this is for Sparkers to impregnate Lilith with his demon seed?

BUFFALO: More like to have Sparky fertilize her demon egg with all the sploodge he's been saving up since the winter of '98.

BIRD: Good lard, with nary a venal sin or nocturnal emission in the interim?

BUFFALO: Not according to Sparky, who is terrified of contracting carpal tunnel syndrome.

BIRD: So, has he loosed this veritable tsunami on her yet?

BUFFALO: I doubt it, as I've heard no screaming yet. See, I've calculated that all that accumulated back pressure would rupture her eardrums and shoot her eyeballs out of her head like ping pong balls.

BIRD: Hors alors! Talk about "We Shall Overcome!"

BUFFALO: Would serve her right, too, for trying to corrupt an upright Christian lad like Sparkers just to bring another devil spawn into the world.

BIRD: Are there others, then, aside from B. L. Selbubb?

BUFFALO: Three that we know of, though only by their first names: Richard, Donald, and George. Minnie calls them "Huey, Dewey and Louie."

BIRD: You don't mean "The Three Amigos"?

BUFFALO: 'Fraid so, Birdy.

BIRD: Buff, you've got to rescue Sparky from that den of iniquity before it's too late! If he knocks up Lilith it could wreak havoc on the world!

BUFFALO: Really? How would you be able to tell? But seriously, I suppose you're right. I'll call the Health Department.

BIRD: To report devil worshippers?

BUFFALO: Naw, I'm gonna turn 'em in for running a stable without a license. Chances are they can slap a bestiality charge on 'em, too.

BIRD: Bwilliant!

BUFFALO: I do have my moments.

BIRD: But what about Sparkers? Will he be crushed, like, having to give up his Satanic lover?

BUFFALO: No problem. He's got an AA meeting tonight. I'll lace his barley water with a good stiff dose of Viagra, and swap his cologne for that stuff that's loaded with male pheromones. By the time he gets up to testify he'll be doing his famous imitation of the Battle of the Bulge. He'll have half a dozen drunken horny floozies dripping from his arms by the time he hits the parking lot.

BIRD: But what about the dreaded sploodge tsunami?

BUFFALO: Well, I figure they'll rip off his clothes immediately - he'll be full mast, of course - and they'll pounce on his Freddy, which will be on a hair trigger by then. It'll be like Chapter Eleven of "Moby Dick" - you know, "Thar she blows!" The girls will have a whale of a time. I should videotape it and sell the footage to the National Harpoon.

BIRD: Homeric, Buff. This is the stuff that sit-coms are made of.

BUFFALO: You're right. I could peddle this to the Fox Network.

BIRD: Call Fookwit Moloch!

BUFFALO: Perhaps later. I have to go wash the octopus now.

BIRD: Oh, dear. . . in arm's way again.

BUFFALO: Well, someone has to do it, and it's the maid's day off.

BIRD: Molly Maid?

BUFFALO: Molly Broom, honolable Bild-san.

BIRD: Ah, a dublin-entendre. . .yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. . . and always yes!

BUFFALO: Up the Republicans! Film at eleven.

Thursday, April 05, 2007


BIRD: Buffmeister, are you decent?

BUFFALO: More or less. I'm up, robed, oatmealed, and slurping tea.

BIRD: Prince of Wales?

BUFFALO: No, alas, regular old Lipton, supplied by my new neighbor, Minnie Castavet, just moved here from North or South Dakota - she was a bit vague about that - keeps saying "The Dakota".

BIRD: Crikey, Buff, you don't think she's referencing John Lennon's old digs?

BUFFALO: Damn, I thought that tea had a chalky under-taste. . .

BIRD: Er, does she have any children?

BUFFALO: Yes, a son. Right ugly little tyke. He has some sort of 'orrible skin condition, all scaly like. Also, sounds as if he's incredibly clumsy.

BIRD: Oh, how so?

BUFFALO: Well, Minnie's constantly complaining that he has hooves for hands.

BIRD: What's the little tyke's name, then?

BUFFALO: B. L. Selbubb. They call him "Bub" for short.

BIRD: What's the "B. L" stand for?

BUFFALO: Babylon Lucifer, I think.

BIRD: Blimey. Do you ever hear chanting through the walls late at night?

BUFFALO: How would I know? I'm constantly bombarded by the bass beat from Rap and Hip-Hop, pretty much 24/7.

BIRD: Do you socialize much with the Castavets?

BUFFALO: Well, I don't. . . their apartment reeks of sulfur and I'm allergic to it. Sparky's been spending a lot of time there, though. Apparently they're trying to set him up with some exotic babe named Lilith.

BIRD: Good Lord, Buff, isn't she a Succubus from the Seventh Level of Hell?

BUFFALO: No, I think that's Ann Coulter.

BIRD: But they're related, aren't they?

BUFFALO: Well, you're probably right about that. They're both cloven-hooved and have snakes for hair.

BIRD: Rug and carpet both?

BUFFALO: Copperheads on top, asps on the fertile delta of denial.

BIRD: Talk about anguish in herba, eh?

BUFFALO: Too true. Sparky has to wear fang mail when he goes courting.

BIRD: Have you considered moving?

BUFFALO: Oh yes, but they've just offered to renew the lease again, at last year's rate, which was a considerable reduction over the previous year's rent.

BIRD: How did you manage that?

BUFFALO: By constantly bitching and moaning about my fookwit neighbors, who leave trash on the stairwells, roast goats over open fires in their living rooms, and sacrifice their first born to the god Quetezcoatal, judging by the bloodcurdling screams on nights of the full moon.

BIRD: You're got to get out there, Buff, before Sparky knocks up that Succubus. There'll be Hell to pay then. So, how's the weather?

BUFFALO: It's the blustery day here. I expect to see Winnie the Pooh fly by any minute, with a honey pot and sticky buns.

BIRD: Windy, is it?

BUFFALO: Aye, a cold blast of Arctic air funneled down from Canada, using giant wind tunnels. Since NAFTA we've been raping and pillaging the Canuck's natural resources, so they're giving us the cold shoulder, so to speak. I think the wind chill factor today is around forty below - Fahrenheit, that is. Cold enough to freeze Ann Coulter's nips off.

BIRD: Why not stay indoors all snug and warm watching "Girls Gone Wild" on the telly?

BUFFALO: Gotta rescue my granddaughters from latch key at 1PM - otherwise they're stuck there until 4:00 at the mercy of the horrible Helgas and Gretchens who force them to weave macramé key chains or play basketball until they drop.

BIRD: Sounds a bit Medieval.

BUFFALO: Aye. A good deal for me, though. I get to scope all the MILFs who've come for their Kinder. There's usually a plethora of them, which is good for the old ego as I am usually mistaken for Sasha and Samantha's father - and those MILFs do love to flirt with the sensitive types who rescue their Kinder from latch key, especially hotshot Hollywood screenwriters.

BIRD: You darty auld Buff.

BUFFALO: Hey, whatever blows their skirts up.

BIRD: And what do your grandchildren say about this?

BUFFALO: Oh, they cull out the good ones for me. "Gramps, check out the brunette in the cashmere sweater. You could do Romeo and Juliet on that balcony."

BIRD: That's despicable, like!

BUFFALO: Not at all, they're well-compensated. I always take them to the Frigid Queen afterwards for banana splits and sundaes. Speaking of which, it's time to steam clean the melon and suit up for the ordeal. Have to don Arctic gear for this run.

BIRD: Watch out for the Succubi.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007


BUFFALO: Guten Morgan, mein Tweeter.

BIRD: Wotcha, Buff! So, how's it going today?

BUFFALO: Well, I managed to get out of bed - no easy task.

BIRD: Still nauseous and full of fear and loathing, are you?

BUFFALO: Yeah, pretty much, compounded by a horrible fookin' dream brought on no doubt by seeing a silly ass Frog Flic last night at the Silver Cinema.

BIRD: A French film? You? A Buffalo?

BUFFALO: Don't know what possessed me. It was "Arthur and the Invisibles". I was the only person in the theater. A bit eerie, that. Very strange animated film. So fast paced you'd swear you were on speed. I was friggin' exhausted when they ran the credits. Dreamed I was being eaten by thousands of tiny little crabs about the size of dimes. Woke up in a cold sweat, craving seafood.

BIRD: Any Freudian symbolism there, you think?

BUFFALO: Could be. Osbee's a Cancer, y'know. That might explain it. Or it could be a warning to stay away from Clare, lest I contract the old crabs, like.

BIRD: So, have you had your oatmeal yet?

BUFFALO: No, nor my tea, either. Polished off the orange juice, lest I get scurvy. Starting to feel like Nick Nolte in "Down and Out in Beverly Hills" - living off cans of discarded pate in alley ways, consorting with fickle canines.

BIRD: Any light at the end of the tunnel?

BUFFALO: A glimmer of light, but with my luck it's probably the 4:15 express to Grand Rapids.

BIRD: Still nauseous from the meds, then?

BUFFALO: Yeah. Came close to tossing my biscuits this morning.

BIRD: Getting any work done?

BUFFALO: Only drivel suitable for wrapping fish or lining bird cages.

BIRD: So what the Hail Mary are you going to do, me old fruit?

BUFFALO: I'd stick my gulliver in the Cusinart, but Sparky cobbled it trying to mix toe jam with Brazil nuts. He neglected to shell the nuts first, the silly sod.

BIRD: Do you have any plans for today?

BUFFALO: At the moment I'm just waiting for Pam to kick in.

BIRD: Pam?

BUFFALO: Lorazepam.

BIRD: Seeking tranquillity, are we?

BUFFALO: Yeah. With any luck I might be able to slip back into the old buffalo wallow for a bit, for a bit of a snooze, or to watch some depressing thing on the History Channel - another flaming documentary about Hitler or Moses or some damned thing. The history of chastity belts, or how candy bars are made - or toothpicks - or condoms - or nose hair tweezers - or pickles. . . witch rewinds me, do you know how to make pickle bread?

BIRD: Nope.

BUFFALO: You use dill dough. . . get it?

BIRD: Omigod!

BUFFALO: I either have to go steam clean the melon, shave, get dressed and go out, or make myself a toasted peanut butter and concord grape jam sandwich and a pot of tea and crawl back into bed to fry my brain with bad television all day, or until I fall asleep and dream of being eaten alive by rampaging ducks that have escaped from the laboratory.

BIRD: I vote for a walk at the beach and a matinee at the Hi-Ho Silver Cinema. Take a half-pint of Myer's Dark Rum with you, for lacing your Cherry Coke. A large bag of English Toffee would be nice, too.

BUFFALO: Not a half bad idea. Better than a poke up me derriere with a stick of dino-mite, or carving me initials on me jugular vein with a rusty razor blade.

BIRD: Infinitely better. Maybe you'll get lucky and sit next to a bosomy blonde waitress on her day off.

BUFFALO: A big blondie waitress. . . hmmm. . . yeah, that might get my head screwed back on tight.

BIRD: Don't forget to "tip" her.

BUFFALO: Oh, she'll get a tip all right. . . the tip of the auld blutwurst.

BIRD: Hold the mayo. . . so what's Sparker up to now?

BUFFALO: Steam cleaning toe jam off the walls. I told him everything had better be spic and span by the time I return from the movies or he gets the cattle prod, right up the old pie hole.

BIRD: Just desserts, eh?

BUFFALO: Right. Rewinds me, gotta get that toast going and put on the kettle.

BIRD: Hit the beach, Buff. The fresh air and sunshine will clear your muddy melon.

BUFFALO: It's worth a shot, I guess.

BIRD: Film at eleven?

BUFFALO: Arf, arf...

Tuesday, April 03, 2007


BUFFALO: Birdy, you dare?

BIRD: Roger, old Fartful Dodger. So you survived the armpit invasion?

BUFFALO: Just barely. Sparky saved my bacon. He was awakened from his beauty sleep by the excruciating screams, which pissed him off no end.

BIRD: Blimey, what happened?

BUFFALO: He poked his head out of his bedroom door to see what all the hub-bub was about and said "What's with the decibels, man? I've got to get up in fourteen hours to go to work!"

BIRD: Sounds rather aggressive for the Sparkster.

BUFFALO: I'll say. You could've tickled my ass with a feather and bowled me over with a large grapefruit, not to mention that it scared the pudding out of those marauding celebs. Sparkers looks a perfect fright when he first regains consciousness - like the Crypt Keeper's doppelganger on angel dust. Causes pregnant women to spontaneously abort and grown men to faint in coils.

BIRD: Sacre bleu merde! So then what happened?

BUFFALO: One of the celebs had an acid flashback. Thought Sparky was the cadaverous incarnation of a VC he'd wasted in 'Nam - a fellow known to his comrades as "Good Time Charlie". Needles touché, he freaked out and tried to escape by crawling through an overhead heating duct, but got wedged in halfway, which pissed Sparky off no end. He was screaming "You've blocked off my heat, man! Now I'm going to freeze to death!"

BIRD: Sparkers lost it, did he?

BUFFALO: I'll say. Before I could intervene, he punched out the other celebs and then retrieved a large bucket of Sparky's Jalapeno-Flavored Toe Jam from the fridge.

BIRD: Oh, no, Gott in Himmel, he didn't. . . ?

BUFFALO: Jawohl, mein Herring, he most certainly did. First he pulled the hallucinating 'Nam vet out of the heating duct, ripping off his love handles in the process, and then he stripped the lot of them and slathered toe jam all over their perfectly tanned bodies, with lots of extra jam in the armpits.

BIRD: The mind boggles. Did it kill them outright?

BUFFALO: Not by a long shot. When they woke up the first thing they noticed was the incredible stench. Naturally they assumed they'd been coated with coyote poo. They were coughing and gagging a lot. Then the jalapeno kicked in, and they thought they were on fire. They were up and bouncing off the walls at that point, making one helluva mess. Then Sparky wheeled out a barrel of chicken feathers he'd been saving for just such an occasion and a minute later they were all toe-jammed and feathered. He chased them out of the apartment with an electric cattle prod he keeps for emergencies, and they tumbled down all three flights of stairs and out the front door.

BIRD: I can't imagine anything more horribly awful.

BUFFALO: Well, actually, it was raining.

BIRD: Zut alors!

BUFFALO: Indeed. As they ran for their car, they were pursued by a pack of feral dogs that lives in the wooded area out back. The hungry hounds were lapping up the rain-diluted toe jam that was running down the legs of the fleeing celebs. Meanwhile, Sparky was leaning out the upstairs window brandishing the bucket of toe jam, shouting "And don't come back, unless you'd like Habanera Toe Jam slathered all over your atrophied balls, you cowardly baskets!"

BIRD: This is amazing. How do you account for Sparky's unprecedented outburst?

BUFFALO: Oh, that's easy to explain. Like myself he was once gainfully employed by the United Snakes Post Orifice.

BIRD: Omigod, you mean. . . ?

BUFFALO: Right, he went postal.

BIRD: I sense that there's a great moral lesson inherent somewhere in this story.

BUFFALO: Aye, Don't Ever Antagonize The Horn.

BIRD: Say what? You lost me past the chemist's, Buff.

BUFFALO: Oh, sorry, "The Crying of Lot 49" and all that. D.E.A.T.H. - in udder wurds, don't fook with the Post Office, or the postal horn, for that matter. Fook with the horn and you get the bull.

BIRD: Or the toe jam.

BUFFALO: Exactamundo, my feathered chum.

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Monday, April 02, 2007


BIRD: You still there?

BUFFALO: Yep. Strapped up in the last wagon wheel to hell.

BIRD: That good, eh? Maybe you should drop the meds.

BUFFALO: The last time I did that, Clare ambushed me in my Ford Mustang. Now the steering's gone to total bollaxery. And the eyesight ain't that good neither.

BIRD: Dude, it breaks my heart to see you like this. Is there nothing I can do to help?

BUFFALO: Dude, you've done more than enuff. Nope, this is my starring roll. The slow fadeout, the pulling of the plug on the longest pimple on the earth's bulging groin. Ain't nuffink but slowburn from now on.

BIRD: But if you hurry, maybe you can stop the article going to print.

BUFFALO: Too damned honest for my own goods. And now I shall leave this world the same way I entered it - with a sore ass in an arc of P.

BIRD: Dude, you can start again.

BUFFALO: Without mah kith and kin, universally hated throughout the Motown state and shunned in Florida?

BIRD: Screw the lot of 'em. You've still got Sparky.

BUFFALO: Dude, Sparky went over to the waxwork side, if ya get m'drift, long before he found salvation out on the ledge with a passing parakeet. No, dude. It's da end of da road for this auld Buff. And Frank Lee, I ain't got the energy to slide outta bed, never mind face the press.

BIRD: The press?

BUFFALO: And TV. Got a slot on the Jon Stewart Show tonite - because of the revelations.

BIRD: What revelations?

BUFFALO: The churlish armpits in high places! Don't you remember ANYTHING I tell you?

BIRD: Er, about 70%, which is quite high. I have no recollection whatsoever of what my parents have been babbling on about for the last ten years.

BUFFALO: Dude, armpits are big in the US of A. That's why I've been studying them for so long. That's why I'm in deep squid now. Fuggit the family woes. We're talking major celebs, Senators, academics, community leaders - they all have dark secrets when it comes to armpits. And fookwit here uncovered every last one of them. And now there's a hit out on me.

BIRD: Thou doth exaggerate, methinks.

BUFFALO: Birdman, in a matter of hours I shall be flat out on a slab as dead in body as I have been in the mind for most of my adult life. I should've known better than to mess with the armpit mafia. And now I must pay the price.

BIRD: Dude, you're infusional again. Put Sparky on. We'll get this sorted.


BUFFALO: It's happened, dude. They've come for me. Pray for my console!

BIRD: Yeah, right! Now stop mucking about!


BIRD: Dude!


UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 2: String him up by the armpits till he croaks!

UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 3: Ain't nuthin' wrong with my armpits a bit of surgery won't cure and he KNOWS THAT!


BIRD: Buff! Buff! What are you doing to him?!

UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 1: We'll give you churlish armpits, you sweat stirrer! That's it, boys, rip out the hairs ONE BY ONE!


UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 2: Say goodbye to Birdy now, Bison chops!

BUFFALO: Birdy! Argh!!!!! Don't give up, dude! Blog the good bloggggg...

BIRD: Dude!

BUFFALO: Argh-fff, argh-fff!