Tuesday, December 18, 2007
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: You haven't, have you?
HOLMES: Not yet, but I was thinking about it.
WATSON: Shall we?
HOLMES: Well, I don't see why not.
WATSON: One, two, three...
WATSON: Toby, you filthy mutt!
HOLMES: Abominable hound!
WATSON: Whiffy woofer!
HOLMES: No more beans for you, my lad.
WATSON: Hudders, take him away.
HOLMES: Lock him in the pantry and throw away the key.
WATSON: Serves him right.
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I can feel another one coming on.
HOLMES: Me too.
WATSON: But now there's no Toby to take the flak.
WATSON: What to do what what what.
HOLMES: Open the window quick and get the bellows ready.
WATSON: Top hole!
HOLMES: Quick, I said!
(WINDOW IS FLUNG OPEN, FOLLOWED BY LOUD RIP)
HOLMES & WATSON: Ahhhh...
WATSON: Merry Christmas, Holmes!
HOLMES: Merry Christmas, Watson!
WATSON: Ablutions at eleven.
HOLMES: Not half!
Monday, December 17, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
Sunday, December 09, 2007
BUFFALO: Fookin' up, as usual.
BIRD: What's he done now?
BUFFALO: I've been waiting all week for my first DVD from NetFlix. It finally occurred to me that bonehead might've intercepted it. Sure enough. The flaming twit didn't even bother to read the address label. He sent it back, because HE hadn't ordered it.
BIRD: Have you properly chastised him, then?
BUFFALO: No, it does no good. He just stands like a plank, inscrutable as a bleedin' Buddha. Doesn't matter if you praise him and give him a dog biscuit or smack him upside the head with a snow shovel. No reaction. It's inhuman, like.
BIRD: What about his cooking? Has it improved at all?
BUFFALO: Not a bit. Every day when he returns from work he nooks some kind of vile concoction in the nooker. No idea what it is, but it smells like the toxic residue from the horse-knacking factory. I have to fumigate the oven before I can use it, and I'm spending a small fortune on room deodorizers. It's a wonder the silly twit isn't glowing in the dark.
BIRD: Has his smeller gone tits up, then?
BUFFALO: Apparently so. I doubt if he can taste anything, either. He spent 22 years pickling his tongue with vodka, y'know.
BIRD: Ah, right, he was the original old booze machine, innit? He's still on the wagon, though?
BUFFALO: Yeah, but he was a lot more fun when he was on the sauce. Now he has the sense of humor of a Catholic missionary, which is to say, nun at all.
BIRD: Blimey. Has he no hobbies?
BUFFALO: Well, there's a persistent rumor that he weaves macramé key chains from his own ass hairs, but personally I doubt if he has that much ambition.
BIRD: Do the two of you ever just sit around and chew the fat?
BUFFALO: No, even when he was still putting away a quart of shellac a day, it was like trying to talk to your big toe, only to find out that it had become anti-social, like. The attention span of a two year old when he was in his cups.
BIRD: So, what exactly is the glue that keeps this relationship together?
BUFFALO: He pays half the rent and keeps a low profile. It's a lot like being married, with only half the inconvenience.
BIRD: You two are the contemporary Odd Couple, fur shore, Buffers.
BUFFALO: True. I could write a book.
BIRD: Or a blog.
BUFFALO: There's an idea.
BIRD: Well, have to go now. Time to wax the oven.
BUFFALO: Same here. I have an appointment to have my bowling ball redrilled.
BIRD: Good luck with that.
BUFFALO: Righto, and by the by, tanks for da mammaries.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
BUFFALO: As you may have guessed, I didn't hang myself after all.
BIRD: Glad to hear it, dude.
BUFFALO: Although I should have.
BIRD: What stopped ya, like?
BUFFALO: Mammaries, I mean memories.
BIRD: Ah, memories. They won't let you down.
BUFFALO: Even though most of them are bad ones. Horrorshow nightmares, like.
BIRD: But at least they're yours.
BUFFALO: And they keep coming back, stabbing me when I'm not looking.
BIRD: Wot, memories?
BUFFALO: Mammaries, memories, aren't they the same thing, all things sagged and done? I just know that if Mom hadn't denied me that lactose at birth, I'd be a happier bison now. Dad always said jugs would be my downfall.
BIRD: Dude, you're not making much sense.
BUFFALO: Every time I try to reach out to them they elude my touch, fall out of focus, slip softly away leaving no trace. I've spent my life trying to grasp them, trying to BE with them. But no, they don't want me, they never did, and here I am again, clutching at contours, wondering why they won't let me in. But I've got a cunning plan.
BIRD: Great. Please spill.
BUFFALO: Yeah, I'm gonna sneak up on them when they least expect it and when they stop, when they pause for thought, I'm gonna wrap my paws over them and squeeze 'em tight and I ain't never letting go. And they will reveal to me their hidden truths. Oh, yes, they will. And no more shall I flounder in a sea of emptiness and stale gloves. For they shall be mine. Mine, ya hear! ALL MINE!
BIRD: Dude, I think you've been at the creosote again. When are ya seeing the head doc again?
BUFFALO: Short Lee, Birdy, my old feather. Wait, I can hear some coming. Ha-ha! Come to me, sweet little mammaries, come to Dadda! Laters, dude.
BIRD: Fulfeeling at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
THIS EXTRACT IS FROM THE FORTHCOMING BIRD & BUFFALO POTBOILER JUGS FOR THE MAMMARIES, A PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO THE MECHANISMS OF SENSORY WITHDRAWAL 1901-1913 TO BE PUBLISHED BY SUCCULENTPAIRS.COM
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Monday, December 03, 2007
BIRD: A pecker made of pine even, hence the expression, pining for you!
BUFFALO: The Plywood Pecker. . . good name for a bar.
BIRD: Serving fresh woodies daily.
BUFFALO: Made my vanilla sundae, innit.
BIRD: And my raspberry cheesecake.
BUFFALO: And don't forget the mugs, thousands of them, floating into space.
BIRD: To educate and alleviate the asses.
BUFFALO: Quite right, Lee. Expressing our infernal gratitude to the Foxy Finn for immortalizing us in pen, ink and drool.
BIRD: And so she has. A blog isn't a blog without a good logo.
BUFFALO: A blogo, like.
BIRD: Egg-zack-lee! Aren't you the clever Buff?
BUFFALO: Well, I don't have a brain the size of a pea, innit?
BIRD: You filthy beast! Jeremiah, fetch my Hawkin gun! Take that, you cowardly bovine!
BUFFALO: Ouch! That hurt!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!