IN A HIGHLY DISTURBING ENVELOPMENT, WE PRESENT TO YOU A NEW FEATURE WHICH IS SPREADING THE WHIRLED - WOT THE FREDDY! SOON TO BE AVAILABLE ON YouTube & JOOST & FREDDYNET
BIRD: So, Buff, any more mass murders on your side of the pond lately?
BUFF: No, all quiet on the Midwestern affront, Birdy. Just the odd spouse dismemberment now and then.
BIRD: You’re having me on, Buff.
BUFF: No, my avian chum. . . carving up one’s spouse has become the new state sport in Michigan. They have competitions now, with prizes and blue ribbons. Gives a whole new meaning to the expression “trophy wives.”
BIRD: Wot the Freddy!
BUFF: The latest incident was at the Sign of the Beef Carver, one of those Midwestern culinary anachronisms – the all-you-can-eat buffet, where gluttony is still considered an heroic virtue. Apparently this fellow had been standing in line for an hour and tired of his wife chewing on his ass non-stop, so he stuck her head in the roast beef slicer.
BIRD: That’s fookin’ horrible, like! Is the hubby in jail, then?
BUFF: No, it was officially ruled a suicide. . . seems that the county sheriff is the hubby’s brother. Another fellow strangled his comely wife recently, then sliced and diced her and sowed the bits all over a local Metro park. At first it was rumored that he was trying to grow his own gaggle of "Stepford Wives” - but it turned out he had no real motive, just a keen desire to try out his new chain saw.
BIRD: Fudge rocket on a stick! Me yarbles have just shrivelled up and retreated back into the old abominable cavity, like. It’s like a scene from “Clockwork Orange” – pure horrorshow. Cor, but you Yanks are a bloodthirsty lot.
BUFF: What, us? Dude, we’re a Christian nation. Ask the Indians. Before we do anything violent we always ask, “What would Jesus do?” Of course we usually conclude that Jesus would kick ass and take names.
BIRD: Let’s change the subject, Buff, before I lose my Cadbury Biscuits, like. Is it true that there’s a town in Georgia where it’s a law that you must own a gun?
BUFF: It's the fair dinkum, Birdy. And it makes perfect sense, too. An armed society is a polite society. . .
BIRD: Oh, well, at least it’s comforting to know that you don’t own a gun, Buffer.
BUFF: Like hell, Birdman. Dream on. I’ve got a .20 gage shotgun and a .357 Magnum.
BIRD: I’m horrified, like. Why do you need all that artillery?
BUFF: Haven’t needed it in a long time, but the last time I had the misfortune to find myself downriver, in Taylor-Tucky, stopped at a red light, an inbred piece of white trailer trash pulled a Dirty Harry Special on me.
BIRD: Wazzat, like a Dirty Sanchez or summat?
BUFF: No, you berk, it’s a long-barreled Colt .44 Python. Sumbitch’ll put a magnum round through a fookin’ Hummer, I mean right through the perishing engine block, and still take out two or three innocent by-standers on the way out.
BIRD: Wot the Freddy! My blood’s turned to aspic, Buff. Why would a perfect stranger pull a cannon on you, unprovoked, like?
BUFF: He was far from perfect, Birdy - more like a failed genetic experiment that’s gone horribly awry. Think “Island of Dr. Moreau” meets "Larry the Cable Guy".
BIRD: Sphincter time here, Buff.
BUFF: Ha, you should’ve BEEN there. So, anyway, this butt-ugly sister-humper unholstered his Monty. . .
BIRD: The Python, that is?
BUFF: Right-o. . . right after I flipped him the bird.
BIRD: Wot the Freddy! You give him the auld index digit? What in the name of God’s holy trousers possessed you to do that?
BUFF: I was returning the favor, like. He flipped me the twig first. See, I made the mistake of making eye contact with this Confederate shit-kicker, and he raised his left arm, ensconced in a plaster cast covered with a lot of badly-spelled graffiti, and used his middle finger to indicate his I.Q. Well, I assumed this was the Taylor-Tucky equivalent of the Welcome Wagon, so, not wishing to offend him, I returned the salute - in double digits. That’s when he cleared leather on me.
BIRD: Zut alors, Buffer, how did you survive this hair-raising ordeal?
BUFF: I gave him the “V” sign - the universal gesture that means “Wanna drag?” Well, he was driving a souped-up Road Runner, while I was behind the wheel of a Saturn SL-2 - so he flashed me a semi-toothless grin right out of “Deliverance” and when the light turned green, he peeled rubber for a hundred yards while I made an illegal left turn on westbound M-14 and fled for my life to Ypsilanti.
BIRD: Wot the Freddy! And the moral is?
BUFF: The credo of the Coast Guard: Semper Paratus. In udder wurds, never drive around unarmed.
BIRD: Bloodcurdling, Buff. Film at eleven?
BUFF: Arf, arf!