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!