Tuesday, August 28, 2007


BIRD: Cor blimey, mate, how's your father, I've gone and soiled myself, like!

BUFFALO: You gormless jerk-berk! What the hell did you do that for?

BIRD: An aberration, Buffers. I was glued to the keyboard, sitting on the edge of my seat, engrossed in an Internet debate about "The Unbearable Rightness of Peeing", lost track of the time, forgot to eat, my blood sugar plummeted and my legs fell asleep, so naturally I assumed I was sitting on the old porcelain having a bit of a read, innit? I had just made a particularly piquant point about the indecipherable prose of Milos Koonteriyaki, and it apparently induced a prolonged bout of peristalsis.

BUFFALO: In udder words, you shat yourself.

BIRD: Well, in essence, that is substantially correct.

BUFFALO: Great flaming wombats, Birdy. What are you going to do now?

BIRD: Dunno, Buff, I'm rather afraid to move, at the moment. Everything's gone all squishy, like. I'm reviewing my options.

BUFFALO: And what might those be?

BIRD: Well, hoovering, for one thing.

BUFFALO: That's disgusting, like, bagging your own fudge rockets.

BIRD: On second thought, it's not very practical, seeing as how I've got only the upright model.

BUFFALO: Why not call one of those professional carpet cleaning services, you know, the lads with the 200 foot flexible hoses and the vacuum pump that can produce near outer space conditions?

BIRD: Blimey, Buff, that's all I'd need, my neighbours to see a 200 foot electric python serpentining up the stairs, and me howling like a crazy monkey, trying to prevent meself from being disemboweled.

BUFFALO: Good point. It may be too late to do anything about your present gaff. I suggest that you focus on preventive maintenance from now on.

BIRD: Enlighten me, Buffers.

BUFFALO: Lay in a good supply of Depends, Birdy, and be sure to don one before you, pardon the expression, get sucked into any more literary donnybrooks on the old InnerTube.

BIRD: Alas, Buffs, has it come to this? It's total horrorshow fookwitting humiliating, like... not to mention the potential damage to my self-image.

BUFFALO: Well, then, move your computer into the loo and do all your surfing with your Baron Harry McButt hovering over the still and deep waters of Lake Placid, so to speak.

BIRD: Am I to be reduced to either hovering, hoovering, or nappy changing?

BUFFALO: Either that or banish fiber from your diet.

BIRD: But then I'd back up like an old drain pipe and eventually explode, wooden eye?

BUFFALO: Hare lip! Hare lip!

BIRD: Come again, Buffs?

BUFFALO: Sorry, Birdy - I thought you were mocking me. Retaliating, like. Humble apple polly woggies and all that. Where were we?

BIRD: We were talking about backdated fudge sludge, like.

BUFFALO: Right. Have the plumbers in to install a pressure relief valve, and vent it out the nearest window.

BIRD: I couldn't do that, Buff, I'd be condemning dear old Mrs. Fairweather-Witheringbottom to a fate worse than death.

BUFFALO: Tell her to keep an umbrella handy. Look, Birdy, I've got things to screw and people to do, gotta run.

BIRD: Perfectly understandable. Things have solidified a tad this end and I think I can manage to waddle to the evacuation point now. . . though I fear that my undergarments are shot beyond repair.

BUFFALO: Shouldn't that be "shat".

BIRD: Indeed. Thin crusty brown fudge rockets at six o'clock?

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

Wednesday, August 22, 2007


BIRD: Buffers, did you fall in?

BUFFALO: Very nearly, Birdy. I've been poisoned by the fookin' Chinese.

BIRD: You've been eating Barbie dolls again?

BUFFALO: No, not that, they poisoned my Lo Mein! I told 'em to hold the MSG, and asked for plum sauce for my egg roll, but they gave me plumbum instead!

BIRD: Blimey! They injected plum sauce up your bum?!

BUFFALO: No, you plank, they laced my lunch with lead!

BIRD: Was that a la carte?

BUFFALO: (GROANS) No, it was the white plate special. The bloody china hadn't been properly fired, and it leached lead into my Bung Cow Chicken. I'm fookin' contaminated, mate!

BIRD: But, Buffers, how do you know for certain that you've been poisoned?

BUFFALO: I'm having all the classic symptoms of those ancient Roman wheezers. They all went bonkers, y'know, from sipping water from lead pipes. They lapped it up cuz it tasted sweet, the stupid berks.

BIRD: Ah, I see. . . so you've gone off your twig, then?

BUFFALO: I'm getting there. At first I was having a wonderful time. . . thought I was Catullus, y'see, but now I think I'm Caligula. Tried to stuff Sparky in the Cusinart, feet first. . . until he objected, like.

BIRD: Sacre bleu! Where is he now?

BUFFALO: He's popped off to an AA meeting, blathering about "drug crazed Belgian leotards" and other assorted Puritanical rubbish.

BIRD: Ah... have you noticed any other effects?

BUFFALO: Well, it's definitely put lead in my pencil, so to speak.

BIRD: Your Freddy's gone full mast, like?

BUFFALO: Like a flamin' Maypole, Birdy. You could stack Christmas wreathes on the perishing thing. The FAA just phoned and said I have to put a red beacon on the end of me knob, that it's a menace to commercial aviation.

BIRD: Homeric, Buff!

BUFFALO: More like homoerotic, Berky. I've had marriage proposals from half the lounge lizards at the local fookin' fruit market. . . and now all my fookin' hair's fallen out!

BIRD: You've gone bald?!

BUFFALO: Well, only below the waist. . . but I look like an over-inflated bratwurst! It's humiliating, like. Bloody Chinese criminal fookin' bass turds!

BIRD: Have you reported this to the FDA?

BUFFALO: Have you been in the fookin' cookin' sherry again, Dilbert? Those FDA wonkers gave the yellow peril carte blanche to poison us in the first fookin' place!

BIRD: Oh, dear. . . is there nothing to be done, then?

BUFFALO: Fook no. Raising the quality control standards for Chinese imports will raise prices at Wal-Mart, which is tantamount to treason under the fookin' Pastry Act. My only hope is to ingest massive amounts of Ginseng extract, to leach the lead out of my contaminated carcass before my brain turns to fookin' Silly Putty!

BIRD: Right. . . but doesn't all the Ginseng extract come from China?

BUFFALO: Too bloody true, mate, the devious and inscrutable fookers have cornered the Ginseng market, and moreover, they've gone and spiked it all with saltpeter!

BIRD: Those filthy swine! Well, look on the bright side, Buffers. It'll cure that rigid and intractable problem you're having with your Freddy, innit?

BUFFALO: Too true, Birdy. I'll be as limp as a Shanghai poodle.

BIRD: Surely you meant to say "noodle".

BUFFALO: Right, noodle! And stop calling me Shirley, you plank.

BIRD: My, you ARE irritable, aren't you?

BUFFALO: Irritable isn't the half of it. . . it's only been an hour since I ate that wretched lead-laced Chinese food and I'm already fookin' HUNGRY again! I must have some Mooshu Pork at once! I'm starting to imagine that I'm Mussolini, in short leather pants!

BIRD: But it's Chinese food, innit? Why would that cause you to imagine that you're turning into a psychotic Italian lederhosen?

BUFFALO: Argh! Fookin' puns! I can't abide them! It was Marco Polo's fault! That poncy Italian fooker brought NOODLES back from China, don't you see? It's genetic, or Genoese, or whatever the fook! (DROOLS A BIT)

BIRD: Blimey, you've gone right off your flapjack, Buff!

BUFFALO: Dim sum! I must have Dim Sum at once, with plumbum sauce and Moo Goo Gai Pan a sonic hedgehog the lime light of the silvery moon pie squared eagles the circumference of a circle jerk berk bloody fookin' toss yer Chinese fortune cookies. . . arrrggghhhhh, arf, arf!! (FOAMS AT THE MOUTH).

BIRD: Oh, dear! It's tartar film at eleven for you, I fear!

BUFFALO: Gung hoy fat choy!! Bring me number one son's head on a platter, you white devil! More pom-diddle-di-pom opi-om!!

BIRD: Call out the home guard! Warn the gentry! Someone fetch the HOOK!

Tuesday, August 14, 2007


WATSON: I say, Holmes.

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: I'm thinking of entering The Times Limerick competition, the theme being Old Mother Hubbard.

HOLMES: Oh, don't bother, old chap. You haven't got a ghostly.

WATSON: Oh, really, old bean? And why's that then?

HOLMES: Because, old man, I've already won it.

WATSON: Already won it? How come?

HOLMES: Because Rollicksome-Braithwaite, the editor, has seen my entry and laughed so much his haemorrhoid's fell out.

WATSON: Good Lord!

HOLMES: He assured me from his hospital bed that my Limerick shall not be surpassed. Indeed, he wants me to be the judge for next year's competition.

WATSON: Good Lord! I didn't know you had a saucy bone in your body, Holmes.

HOLMES: It's almost all sauce, old chum. With a bit of cartilage.

WATSON: (sighs) Is there anything you CAN'T do?

HOLMES: I can't see in the dark or get to the end of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations, irrespective of how many jelly babies I consume.

WATSON: Dashed again. I can't do those things, either. Can't rhyme Hubbard with anything, Holmes. As hard as I try.

HOLMES: Never mind, Botty Watty. You'll come good, eventually. Here, take this Thesaurus. It will provide you with solace and many new words and phrases to add to your internal quandary.

WATSON: Holmes, you fraud. Why, I've got a good mind to phone Frolicking-Rattyweight and expose you.

HOLMES: Oh, come now, Watson. I helped my old pal Roget compile the Thesaurus. I didn't use it. Indeed, I thought up the winning Limerick in 12.56 seconds flat, a world record, I believe, but I ingratiate.

WATSON: I give up, Holmes! I can't compete with you. I'll always be second best.

HOLMES: Not to Hudders, you won't.

WATSON: True. Thank you, Holmes. You're all heart, really, beneath the armadillo-like exterior.

HOLMES: Crumpet at eleven, Watson.

WATSON: Not 'arf! Hudders, get those new satin stockings on, I'm on my way!


Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To fetch her poor dog a bone
But when she bent over
Rover took over
For he had a bone of his own!

Tuesday, August 07, 2007


BIRD: Everything OK, dude? You've been a big quiet, like.

BUFFALO: Dude, it's Desiree. She's driving me to retractions!

BIRD: Share it, dude. Lighten the load.

BUFFALO: There was a belated birthday celebration for her last nite at the old hacienda.

BIRD: Nice.

BUFFALO: She drove us all insane with her non-stop patter... "Do you want some ice cream with that cake? How about you, Joe? Ice cream? On your cake? You have to take some of this cake home with you. And some guacamole. How about you, Amanda? Cake? With ice cream? No? Some coffee, then? No? Some pop? No? Some milk? No? We have root beer, too, and Coke and Dr. Pepper, and Sprite, and Vernors, and..." Honest to God, I thought I was going out of me fookin' mind.

BIRD: Sounds like high spirits to me, old Buffters.

BUFFALO: Well, fook dat with a barge pole, dude. Everyone was catatonic from her relentless banter. I thought about drowning her in the punch bowl or sticking her head in a vat of ice cream to freeze her brain and hopefully shut down her speech center.

BIRD: Might've been a bit of a shop stopper, that.

BUFFALO: Then, at one point, when she stood in a certain light, she looked exactly like her mother (my ancient nemesis) and I almost screamed in horror. I think everyone was glad to escape. Maybe she'll calm down a bit if her parents go through with their current plan to move back here from Florida.

BIRD: What? Don't people move TO Florida, like?

BUFFALO: Not so much since the murder rate shot up. Geddit? They've been out looking for new digs. Everyone but Desiree agrees that they should buy a modest condo, but they seem determined to make it a "mobile home" instead... definition of a "mobile home" - a prefabricated domicile (loosely anchored to a concrete block foundation) that becomes mobile in the presence of a tornado, i.e., flies away like Dorothy's farmhouse in the Wizard of Oz.

BIRD: Sounds like a lorra fun.

BUFFALO: Dude, you couldn't pay me to live in a mobile home. It's not tornado alley here, but we do get them every year, and we've had a few close calls. I narrowly escaped one a few years ago while I was driving through Grosse Pointe. There was an ominous sky behind me as I left Dodge heading for Durance Vile... and ten minutes later I heard on the radio that a twister had swept through the very spot I'd been just a few minutes before. Tore a building off its foundation and carried it several hundred yards out onto Lake St. Clair, along with a few of Desiree's cousins. Mobile home, my arse. Hey, wait a minute. Hmm. Might just work.

BIRD: Dude, behave. Give her some space. There's always problems 'tween couples during the bedding in period, innit.

BUFFALO: I swear, dude, if Desiree doesn't quite yacking, I'm gonna become a Jehovah's Witness.

BIRD: Hey, woo, steady on there. Don't do nothing drastic just yet. Maybe she's just testing you.

BUFFALO: Dude, I am THIS far from testing her with a toasting fork.

BIRD: Crikey! You're really not happy about this developing situation.

BUFFALO: So much so that I told her not to call me any more.

BIRD: Good move. Let her down gently.

BUFFALO: But she won't leave the friggin' apartment, dude. I'm only talking to you now cos she's taking a dump. What am I gonna do?

BIRD: Start humping Sparky. When she gets out of the bathroom, she'll get the message.

BUFFALO: Are you friggin' insane?! Sparky might get the message too! The wrong message! Of all the shitty brainwaves you've had...

BIRD: Don't really hump him, like. Fake it.

BUFFALO: Oh, fake it! Yeah, I could do that. Hold on, I can hear her fumbling with the faucet. Sparky, could you come out of your cave for a mo? There's something I'd like you to do for me. Dude, you're a genius.

BIRD: Good luck.

SPARKY: What's going on, man?

BUFFALO: Bend over. I'll explain later.

DESIREE: What's that, hon?!

BIRD: Film at eleven?

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

DESIREE: Now does anybody want more ice cream? What the...