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!