Tuesday, December 09, 2008
WARNING: FOR ALL THOSE WITH NUT ALLERGIES, LOOK AWAY NOW
WATSON: Good Lord, Holmes, have you read the Times this morning? There’s been a grisly murder in Whitechapel. Apparently some blighter has carved up a strumpet like a prize hog.
HOLMES: What? It actually says that?
WATSON: Poetic licence, Holmes, but that’s the gist of it. Nasty business, that.
HOLMES: Indeed. No doubt we’ll we hearing from that imbecile Inspector Lestrade at any moment.
WATSON: Dunno, Holmes, says here that Lestrade’s practically solved the case already. He’s confident that it’s the work of a Jewish butcher.
HOLMES: Absurd. No self-respecting boucher of the Hebrew persuasion would do such a thing. It’s not Kosher.
WATSON: I’m inclined to agree, but Lestrade thinks the fellow is a lunatic. One of the victim’s kidneys is missing, and a bit of her left flank as well. The Yard thinks the fellow has done a Sweeney Todd on her, and dined on steak and kidney pie.
HOLMES: Bestir yourself, Watson, we’re off to the morgue.
WATSON: Good God, Holmes, must we? I haven’t finished my kipper.
HOLMES: Sod your kipper, Watters, it’s imperative that we view the body before Lestrade mucks about with the corpse and makes a mess of it.
WATSON: According to this, the killer’s beaten him to it. Says here there’s hamburger all over the alley behind Murcheson’s Dross House. Sounds as if she’s been gutted like a mackerel.
LATER, AT THE MORGUE, VIEWING THE MURDER VICTIM’S BODY
WATSON: Gad, Holmes, I’m after losing my breakfast.
HOLMES: Steady on, Watson. I need your cold objective eye at the moment. Am I mistaken or is this the work of a skilled surgeon and not a hacker of veal cutlets?
WATSON: Bless me, Holmes, but I believe you’re right. These incisions were made with great precision, and the stitching is nothing less than exquisite.
HOLMES: What do you make of this vertical incision, Watson?
WATSON: Eh? Oh, egad, Holmes, I do believe the blighter has nicked her womb!
HOLMES: Nicked it, my Aunt Fanny, Watson. The bounder has absconded with it!
WATSON: But why, Holmes? For what diabolical purpose?
HOLMES: There is insufficient evidence to support any conclusions as yet - but look here, Watson. Do you notice these curious initials on the autopsy report?
WATSON: Hmm. PM.
HOLMES: What do you make of it, Watters?
WATSON: Post Mortem, I would imagine, Holmes.
HOLMES: Or “Professor Moriarty”.
WATSON: Holmes, have you been at the Peruvian nose powder again?
HOLMES: I’m chagrined. Upon my honour, I haven’t touched the filthy stuff in a fortnight. Don’t you see it, Watson? Who BUT Moriarty could have committed such a heinous crime?
WATSON: Eh? Well, I don’t know, Holmes - Jack the Ripper?
HOLMES: Oh, sod the Ripper, Watson! The Ripper was a dunce compared to the evil genius who dissected this diseased harlot.
WATSON: Holmes, confidentially – the Ripper – is it true that he was actually the Duke of Clarence?
HOLMES: My lips are sealed, Watson. Out of respect for the sovereign I can say no more.
WATSON: The degenerate swine, I knew it!
HOLMES: What?! How dare you speak of the Queen in such a manner, you disgusting, flatulent old reprobate! I should thrash you to within an inch of your life!
WATSON: Eh, what? No, dammit, Holmes, not the QUEEN – the RIPPER, you horrible mutt sniffer! The Cocoa Powder has addled your brains again, man. Here, have a swig of this Laudanum to calm you down while I stuff your calabash with some of this loverly Afghan ganga.
HOLMES: Very well, Watson, but you’ll not dissuade me from my deduction that Moriarty is behind all this.
WATSON: Eh, behind all WHAT, Holmes?
HOLMES: The repetitious slaughter of all these bloody TARTS, of course! It HAS to be Moriarty, man – the Duke of Clarence is on holiday in Provence.
WATSON: Provence, you say? Odd, there’s been a series of gory mutilations in Provence the past few days. Oh, well, the French, y’know, a degenerate race.
HOLMES: True. Good God, Watson but this Laudanum is filthy-tasting offal. It’s like gargling with the liver bile of a goat.
WATSON: Eh? Oh, yes, quite. Here, rinse your palate with this Absinthe, Holmes.
HOLMES: Thanks, Watters.
HE DRINKS, CHOKES, SPITS.
HOLMES: Gawd, Watters, it’s as bitter as wormwood!
WATSON: Yes, that’s right, Holmes. A dreadful libation, properly served diluted with rain water and strained over a semi-melted cube of sugar. Damned near unpalatable otherwise. Killed that French artist bugger, what’s his name, the chap with the sawed-off legs.
HOLMES: Sawed-off legs? Did he by any chance consort with prostitutes?
WATSON: Holmes, I told you already, he was French, and an artist to boot. Need I say more?
HOLMES: Is there NO limit to Moriarty’s infamy? Now he’s mutilating French cripples, for God’s sake! We must stop him at all cost, Watson!
WATSON: Yes, of course, Holmes. Here, have some more Laudanum, there’s a good lad.
HOLMES: We need Toby, Watson. Go and fetch him at once and take him to Baker Street.
WATSON: But Holmes, surely you remember that Hudders has vowed to make geldings of us both if ever we bring Toby to our residence again.
HOLMES: Oh, sod Mrs. Hudson! Disguise the poor creature if you must, but bring him post haste. How else can we be expected to track that fiend Moriarty?
WATSON: Frankly, Holmes, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone that expects us to track Professor Moriarty. Besides, you know very well that Moriarty is a retired mathematics teacher who lives in a modest cottage in the Cotswolds.
HOLMES: Balderdash, Watson! That fiendish degenerate lives in an ostentatious townhouse on Charing Cross Road. But we won’t find him THERE. He’s gone to ground somewhere in Whitechapel, and soon he’ll be slaughtering strumpets by the barrowful. Where’s that ganga?
WATSON: Sorry, Holmes, here ‘tis.
HOLMES: Splendid, now go fetch Toby and meet me at Baker Street.
WATSON: But Holmes, what about Hudders? If you recall, the last time we attempted to smuggle poor Toby onto the premises, disguised as a libertine nun, she wasn’t fooled for a moment.
HOLMES: Oh, that’s easily fixed. While you’re out procuring Toby I’ll lace her filthy Jasmine tea with some of this Laudanum. By the time you return with our stalwart bloodhound she’ll be safely dreaming in Xanadu. Then you can have your way with her as usual.
WATSON: Good heavens, Holmes, I’m trying to digest my kipper!
HOLMES: Eh? Oh, quite, quite. Sorry, Watters. Well, perhaps Toby would like a go at her, eh, what?
WATSON: That’s quite enough ganga for you, Holmes.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
1. Judge Klaus Von Schtikiarschen had to declare a precarious connection to the auld Buff. Apparent Lee, he laid a certain Cindy Spreadumwider shortly after the auld Buff did. Buff's name was subsequently mentioned by the harlot to him as a possible future literary genius in a postcoital Scrabble game.
2. No-one with above average sized testicles has EVER been awarded this prize. The Bird & Buffalo BOTH have scientifically-verified larger than life balls.
3. The book submitted on behalf of the Bird & Buffalo by an anonymous admirer entitled FEK-U: THE COLLECTED WORKS OF BIRD & BUFFALO DURING THE SPLODGE WARS - 2001-PRESENT was considered to be so devoid of any real meaning - roughly 98.8888% blabbermouth trash and inventive obscenities - that it was deemed unfair to the other authors, who wrote 100% meaningful prose, and nay, a travesty of all the core values and underlying principles behind the Nobel Movement.
4. The judges didn't like the cover.
5. The one and only copy of the aforementioned book had to be shared by the judges and being badly bound was all but physically unreadable once it had been retrieved from the outside toilet in Budapest by the anonymous admirer.
6. It was getting late and Singalong-A-Beethoven was on TV.
7. The Prime Minister of Bouvet Island was insulted no less than five times, and I quote: "He is wanton." "That wanton man." "Wanton is he!" "Oh, so - wanton." "Wanton? He. Is?"
8. The aforementioned authors can't add up.
9. Persistent fart jokes about Sherlock Holmes are not funny.
10. We are all going to die.
SO WE SAY F-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-X!
Monday, October 13, 2008
SARAH PALIN is hot BUT...
she is not...
The auld Buff devoted a poem to this very subject but ten seconds ago.
SARAH PALIN IN TEN SECONDS
In ten seconds
Make that five
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Sunday, October 05, 2008
BUFFALO: What's the point?
BIRD: So Hollywoody nicked your idea. Get over it.
BUFFALO: But instead of my name in big lights it'll be Norman Crustykok. It took me 30 years to come up with that gem. And they stole it, dude. Ripped me off as if I was a log chopper at Stuckey's. Fookin' fookers.
BIRD: But it was hardly an original idea, wazzit? I mean, a film within a film within an ice cream. It's been done before, innit.
BUFFALO: You mean, Fellini?
BIRD: Nah, Crinkletit. Back in the '50s.
BUFFALO: Yeah. The Flying Cone From Rectal Levity. Starring Charles Batty. It was never released, remember?
BIRD: Maybe not, but it was reworked and remade as The Way We Were.
BUFFALO: That's bullshit and you know it. For a start, where was the ice cream?
BIRD: As a metaphor, it didn't cut it, so they cut it.
BUFFALO: And where was Big Tim Dangling, the guy who couldn't go to the bank without pissing his pants?
BIRD: He was a minor character and the producers instructed the writers that there must be no bodily functions in the final script. Robert Redford and Barbra Streisand don't do toilets.
BUFFALO: Poisonally, I'd like to see Babs do her stuff in the bathroom, but that's just me. And anyhoo, what about the central premise of the plot which involved a spaceship depositing the rectal object on an unsuspecting water hog in North Carolina?
BIRD: OK, OK. They were making the film at a time when the water hog, and for that matter North Carolina were protected. They had to improvise.
BUFFALO: And there was no writer or political activist in the original. They were store workers. Women. Lesbians. No less.
BIRD: Maybe, but you must admit the original WAS a love story.
BUFFALO: It was not. It was about the exploitation of Mongolian migrant workers in the wine industry in the Napa Valley.
BIRD: Oh, come on. Nobody had even heard of the Napa Valley then. Or of Mongolian migrant workers.
BUFFALO: Well, they've heard of the Napa Valley now. And as for the Mongolian migrant workers... they were all shafted, dude. Disappeared overnight in August '50 after they asked for blankets to sleep in. How the United Nations left them to their plight is a sin!
BIRD: Dude, are we talking about the same film?
BUFFALO: How the hell do I know? I've seen so many and written so many I have no idea what is and isn't a film. But I know they stole my idea.
BIRD: Which was for a modern romance based on the story of Albert Einstein and Charles Dickens.
BUFFALO: Genius, don't you think?
BIRD: Both heterosexual, from different continents, and because Charlie pops his clogs in 1870 and Albie was born in 1879, were destined never to meet.
BUFFALO: That's where the spaceship comes in, dude.
BIRD: Ohforfukksake, Buff, you know it was a ripoff of Dynasty.
BUFFALO: Dude, I've got one word for you - Rosebud.
BIRD: Don't go there, dude. Just don't. Don't drag Orson Welles into this. He has nothing to do with the Hollywood swindle.
BUFFALO: Dude, he was the one who made it possible to introduce fantastical elements into a linear narrative. He opened it wide open. Without him, there'd be no Lynch. Or Buttmuncher.
BIRD: How dare you mention Buttmuncher's name in the same line as Lynch! Have you no shame?
BUFFALO: Buttmuncher's underrated. Everybody knows it.
BIRD: Not just underrated. Unheard of.
BUFFALO: He's a genius.
BIRD: Who never made a film and ended up in a high-security facility for nutjobs.
BUFFALO: He had his flaws. But we all do. That's no reason to bang him up for the rest of his life.
BIRD: Dude, when they caught him he was about to demolish his father's house with his father in it.
BUFFALO: They had a disagreement. Don't all families? All he wanted was an apology.
BIRD: Yeah, in his dad's blood. Why don't you write a screenplay about him? Nobody would steal that.
BUFFALO: Nah, fuggit. I ain't writing no more screenplays. I'm thru with all that pseudo mutilation. I've got myself some wood and I'm gonna use it.
BUFFALO: Well, OK, it's a plank. But it'll do the trick.
BIRD: What the hell are you going to do with a plank of wood?
BUFFALO: It's got Buzz Hathawaynutz's name on it - the fookwad in Tinsel Town who robbed me of my rightful heritage. I'm going teach him a lesson.
BIRD: Oh, for Freddy's sake, violence is not the answer.
BUFFALO: You're right, cos I ain't asking any questions. And neither is he once he gets a head full of finest North American oak.
BIRD: They'll lock you up, dude.
BIRD: You'll never see your family or loved ones again.
BUFFALO: Let's hope, huh?
BIRD: It'll be the end of the blog too, dude.
BUFFALO: Really? You mean no more you and me?
BIRD: That's right.
BUFFALO: Seems like a high price to pay, donnit?
BIRD: Sure is.
BUFFALO: Sorry, Birdy. Gotta stick up for my principles. Buzz Hathawaynutz is going daaahhhhn! So long, Birdman, pray for my mammary.
BIRD: Bye, then.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BIRD: Oh, and don't forget to check out the latest issue of Insolent Rudder. It's a corker. You can find it here:
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
BUFFALO: I'm all ears.
BIRD: It's about this poor fookwad who's got bipolar disorder, sleep apnea and narcolepsy, right? He's coming off two weeks of Horrormania and is as depressed and suicidal as dried shit on a potting stick. You know, seriously fugged up, like.
BUFFALO: Hold the jiminy, Roger. I've got all those things, innit?
BIRD: Blimey, so you have! But this guy is a fictional character.
BUFFALO: But I know this guy. Fook, I AM this guy. I should write his dialogue. Lemme write his dialogue. I'll portray him in the film too. But only online. Those movie fuggsters are way too fond of early starts.
BIRD: Wizard. It'll be authentic, like, woenit?
BUFFALO: Fook the Casbah, Nigel. Now, what we've gotta decide is, does this poor shitfook loosely based on this here poor shitfook dribbling here before you live or die?
BIRD: Well, he can live till he dies, like. Long as you're still breathing, the dialogue'll be flowing like cat piss in a dog fight, innit. You can't make up shit like that. I mean, you're crazier than a shit-house rat, right?
BUFFALO: I sure am. Off the scale. A lost fruit and nut. TOTALLY screwed in all orifices, off the record, like. So we'll make him a regular character. Hey, wait, does he get shagged or not?
BUFFALO: I think he should get shagged.
BIRD: Yeah, well, you would, wouldn't you?
BUFFALO: A lot. Till his brains splatter on life's sullied sidewalk.
BIRD: Harelip! Harelip!
BUFFALO: Get us another coupla pints, willya?
BIRD: Toppo idea, Buff. Now, this wacko has a buddy, right?
BIRD: A very clever buddy who through the power of superior intellect and all manner of trickery and chemical concoctions gradually brings this guy back from the brink into what unwittingly turns out to be something much worse.
BUFFALO: I see. But what could possibly be worse?
BIRD: Ah, now that's where the dancing Rottweilers and lyrical rabbits trapped in the theatre of the Ab-Turd come in.
BUFFALO: The what?
BIRD: But is it real or in his head?
BUFFALO: Dude, I can't write dialogue for that. I don't know nobody who's got a dancing Rottweiler or a lyrical rabbit.
BIRD: Dude, the Theatre of the Ab-Turd is a metaphor.
BUFFALO: A metaphor for wot?
BIRD: Dunno yet. We'll think of something. Anyway, this nutjob gets treated by the genius guy who despite his best efforts can't save him.
BUFFALO: You mean, the loon snuffs himself?
BIRD: Yeah. Or does he?
BUFFALO: And that's it, is it, the idea in full elaboratory splendour?
BIRD: Reassuringly simple yet empirically elusive, doncha think?
BUFFALO: It's not without intrigue and confusion, I'll give ya that. OK, let's try it. When do we start?
BIRD: We already have.
BIRD: See those dancing Rottweilers?
BUFFALO: And the lyrical rabbits... behind the red curtain. Omifook. It really has started. But when's it going to end?
BIRD: When the dialogue runs out, dude. I already told you.
BUFFALO: If only Audrey Horne were here...
BIRD: Oh, but she is.
BIRD: Behind the red curtain. Blog da blog at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
When the senator known as Barack
Gave a speech from the back of a yak
Though try as he might
The yak was so tight
That his speech came out yakkity-yak.
BIRD: Dude, you need to get laid.
BUFFALO: The Lonely Adverb... does anyone REALLY care?
BIRD: Is that the Michigan Laffing Academy? Yeah, you need to get an ambulance to the auld Buff's place quick. The adverbs are flowing and he hasn't got a stick.
BUFFALO: Arf-ily, barf-ily, carf-ily, diddly, dee, ly.
BIRD: Hang on, Buffters. They're coming.
BUFFALO: Lone-ily. SO lone-ily. Piddle me biddle ly. Eeee. See that asparagus. It's stalking me!
BIRD: Rimshot! But is it too late?
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
BIRD: Yes, dude?
BUFFALO: I've lost the fookin' peacock!
BUFFALO: The one we were gonna use for the pilot episode. Zip. Ka-kronken-ho! Vanished.
BIRD: Dude, you can't just lose a peacock without a trace. Try and think. When did you see it last?
BUFFALO: Well, I gave it a shower, like, after a hearty meal of Spam and sardines and a fossilized mouse I found behind the cupboard in Sparky's room, all washed down with a Bud, you understand.
BIRD: OK. Then what?
BUFFALO: Then I kicked that jerk-berk Sparky out of his room and put Ms Paycock to bed, tucked her in, an' all.
BIRD: A-ha. And in the morning?
BUFFALO: Da peacock was gone.
BIRD: Have you checked the balcony?
BIRD: The kiddies' playground?
BIRD: The shooting range.
BUFFALO: O fahhhh-k. The shooting range. Those guys, the ones with the fahhhh-k off Uzis... They like to take pot shots at things and animals... And in her burst for freedom... Wot time is it? There may still be hope. Pray for me birdy, Birdy!
BIRD: Crossing everything that doesn't snap here, dude!
SOME TIME LATER...
BUFFALO: Birdy, it's OK.
BIRD: Thank Gosh!
BUFFALO: Ms Paycock ain't at the shooting range. All I found were a coupla stray hogs and a trunk with a dozen dead parakeet in and a ransom note.
BUFFALO: But the range was sans peacock. Now wot?
BIRD: Gotta phone the cocks... I mean cops.
BUFFALO: Yeah, right. No, wait. It's just recurred to me that Sparky may have mistaken it for an ostrich, what with his lumbago an' all.
BIRD: An ostrich? Nice, lean meat. Very nutritious!
BUFFALO: I wondered what that was roasting on the spit while I was stirring me porridge. The stoopid bat-twat. The waxwork shagger's fookin' munched our peacock, dude.
BIRD: Omigosh! Fukkit! Where are we gonna get another peacock in time for the shoot this afternoon?
BUFFALO: I'm gonna kick that bastid's ass so hard, he'll wish he was born a nun.
BIRD: We're fooked. Finished before we started.
BUFFALO: No, no, no, no. Wait. For 50 clams we can have the perfect peacock that never was. If Sparky can mistake a peacock for an ostrich...
BIRD: Brillo, dude.
BUFFALO: And with a little make-up... We're gonna do this, dude. Nothing's gonna stop us now. Woo-hoo! Buff does it again.
BIRD: Great. Once you swish open that red curtain and...
BUFFALO: Red curtain...
BIRD: You have got the red curtain?
BUFFALO: Not egg sack Lee. Cindy's still working on it.
BIRD: Oh, for Freddy's sake. The best laid lambs an' all.
BUFFALO: Fukkit, dude. We'll go cgi. Nobody'll know. It's all cgi these days. Even the actors. I've got Photoshop and Adobe and shit, MS Word even. I'll do the whole thing on my laptop.
BIRD: Brilliant! Dude, you're a genius! Let's run thru the script one more time and then hit those pixels!
BUFFALO: Hmm. The script...
BIRD: You did save it?
BUFFALO: I er... it's nearly there, Birdy. I mean, it's so close I can lick it.
BIRD: How close?
BUFFALO: VERY close. Just needs tweaking.
BIRD: Out of a 30-minute pilot, how many minutes would you say are missing?
BUFFALO: Um... well... uh...
BIRD: How many?
BUFFALO: About 29.
BUFFALO: But we can improvise. Some of the best comedy is improvised, innit. Look at Curb Your Enthusiasm. It's all spontaneous. It's great stuff. We can do this, dude. Just keep the faith.
BIRD: Dude, I'm going back to the Bore Fest now, the Orifice that must be obeyed, the place where I will eke out the rest of my days because you decided to fookup the only real chance we ever had of stardom. Thanks, dude. It was mammorable.
BUFFALO: Dude... Dude? You don't understand. Dude? So that's it. The only true friend I ever had. The one guy who stood by me no matter what. I haven't felt this bad since I had a "venous Doppler scan" done of my "lower extremities" including my Freddy. I'll talk him round. I know I will. Tomorrow's another day, right? Arf, arf!
TO BE CONTINUED...
Thursday, July 03, 2008
I was at the Bore Fest doing captions for "Juno and the Paycock" when I suddenly became aware that I was surrounded by red curtains -just like in the Black Lodge from "Twin Peaks". It hit me then that I had stumbled into the auld Buff's dream in which he fancied himself to be Special Agent Dale Cooper, having breakfast with Audrey Horne at the Great Northern. This wigged me out a bit. I tried to shake off the feeling of impending doom but then I began to get rather peggish. I had a sudden craving for a bucket of hot black coffee and a cherry pie and sent the gopher out to fetch them.
About an hour later as I was finishing off the pie, Caroline (our receptionist and office tart) buzzed me. She was all in a dither about some cheeky bloke who'd wandered into the lobby and made a pass at her after introducing himself as my uncle from America - Professor Splendor G. Mainwaring. This was a bit odd seeing as how I don't have a fookin' uncle in America, so I asked her to describe the fellow and then realized that the mystery man could be no other than the auld Buff himself, who'd been threatening for months to cross the pond and drop in on me in London when I least expected it.
The auld lunatic told Caroline that I should meet him after work at the Hound & Hare, just around the corner from the Bore Fest. Caroline asked if she could come along, as she seemed to fancy the Buff, proving once again that there is no accounting for taste.
At the stroke of five Caroline and I made our way to the pub, she as happy as a lark - but myself dreading that the Buff might try to ram his great woolly, horned head up Caroline's skirt. Thus did I prepare myself for the wurst... or the blutwurst, if you get m'drift.
AND DON'T FORGET DA RUDDER UNLIKE NO UDDER AT...
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
BIRD: Cos it's jam packed with lots of goodies.
BUFFALO: Oh, yeah? Like wot?
BIRD: The Body Psalms Promo for a start. Made by the janitor.
BUFFALO: Wow. What happened to the editor, like?
BIRD: He is the editor.
BUFFALO: Shucks. And he's gotta clean up afterwards too?
BIRD: Feeds 'em too.
BUFFALO: Must be a Nordic ting. And wot else?
BIRD: Stories by Nonnie Augustine, Sydnee Elliot, Susan Elmendorf, GC Smith, Craig Terlson, Foster Trecost and Donna Vitucci. All at http://www.insolentrudder.net/
BUFFALO: Salivating loudly here, dude.
BIRD: Rightfully so. These guys is premier league. Wanna hear about the rest?
BUFFALO: There's more?
BIRD: You betcha. There's that crazy Pube Maxim Ripyorebollokov trying to get reverb before the lights go out.
BUFFALO: Oh, I like him. He's well wacko.
BIRD: And some great cartoons by Marja Hagborg. And she's written a column too about NNS.
BUFFALO: Woo-hoo to dat! NNS, wot's dat?
BIRD: Non Native Speakers.
BUFFALO: More? No way!
BIRD: Way! There's a novel excerpt from Bonnie ZoBell's excellent Blue Jay. And a review of Liesl Jobson's 100 Papers. And check out Beth Thomas in the Author Spotlight.
BUFFALO: Omigod! I can't take much more. My ickle heart's about to burst! And it's all at Insolent Rudder, you say, at http://www.insolentrudder.net/?
BIRD: That's right, dude.
BUFFALO: Checking it out right now!
BIRD: You'd be a fool not to.
BUFFALO: Hey, dude.
BIRD: Yes, dude?
BUFFALO: How come I'm not there?
BIRD: You will be, dude. But ya gotta write something first, innit.
BUFFALO: OK. So that's Insolent Rudder.
BIRD: At http://www.insolentrudder.net/. Yep.
BUFFALO: Reading it as we speak. Omigod! I think I've just soiled myself.
BIRD: Insolent Rudder. The Write Choice. Don't Judder Da Rudder.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
BIRD: Went to see this film last nite. For money, like. Me bra was killing me. Anyway, this punter keeps going "Goebbels! Goebbels" Then at one point this babbling idiot slung his left arm out to his side and his hand fell on my lap in a most provocative manner and yelled, "Mein Fuhrer, please loan me your Luger!" I tell you I was THIS close to walking out. The things a writer has to do to earn an honest crust!
Monday, June 23, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
It was the great poet Jerry Elderberry (1202-1222) who once wrote “With thine eyes, Would I rather barf”. Sometimes, complexity is a necessary evil. Sometimes, you just want to pleasure yourself unhindered by plot or chronological uber-montage. Indiana Jones And The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is a failed attempt at a cinematic treatise on Jean-Paul Sartre’s Being & Nothingness, veiled as comic caper of caustic soda proportions. Sartre maintained “I think therefore I was” in the same way that this film thinks it’s a film therefore it’s not. Nowhere is this better illustrated in the multi-layered nature of the dialogue, which instead of conveying a sense of purpose and communication is fixated on what Sartre called the temporality of existence. So that when Indiana Jones says, “Get outta here!” what he’s really saying is “You don’t exist, neither do I, you would like to leave but you and I aren’t here anyway so where is this script going?” Or as Sartre would have put it, “The past is no longer; the future is not yet; and the instantaneous present does not exist.” With not even any decent fornication on offer here, the possibilities of temporary transcendence from the linearity of time are scarce. At the end, one is numb with missed meetings and what Martin Buber would have called “the basic word I-Thou”. But this Thou is neither I nor Thou or Thou-I. Perhaps if Harrison Ford had worn less tight trousers things might have turned out better. Unfortunately, not an existential wet dream in sight.
(five squid shits)
Hey, only kidding! This film is GREAT. Go see it. If for nothing else to see Harrison Ford land on his balls and pretend it doesn't hurt. Nice!
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
FIFI: OK, boys, just for you...
A horny and ravenous cat
Was biting the head off a rat
Then he noticed a svelte puss slink by
Dropped his jaw when she gave him the eye.
"Freedom now!" and that rat grabbed his hat.
Now whaddya think about that?
BIRD & BUFFALO: Mah-vellous!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
They say all the talent is deserting Limehouse for LA. But as everybody knows, with the spiralling production costs in the States, the industry is unsustainable in LA and once the great studios of Muffdom and Anal Sis are crippled by debt and thrown into receivership the doors will be thrown open to all sorts of amateur sickos waiting to flood the market with cgi-enhanced faked orgasm bullshit. So all I have to do is play the waiting game. In a matter of months, weeks even Limehouse will be the buzz on everyone’s lips and I, Dick von Fuxx III, shall assume my rightful place in filthy old pervs’ history.
After the years in the wilderness of sweat and toil, trying to turn seedy adult films into an art form, the world is about to acknowledge me for the outstanding auteur that I am. No more shall I have to endure the demeaning label of porn peddlar. My films shall stand alongside the truly filthy stuff of Bertolucci and others as unforgettable, groundbreaking works of art. The public shall come to see that the on screen gang bang is no more than a cinematic means to a spiritual enlightenment end that is not possible in blockbuster action films and soppy romcoms. “From the collective orgasm to universal freedom!” as Big Cock Drummond utters in the inimitable The Importance Of Being An Onanist, based on Oscar Wilde’s marvellous play. But I must admit, my shaggy poodle Paint Pot, keeps me sane. And having unlimited totty on tap helps keep my Freddy off the ground. Blimey! Is that the time? Time for a spot of champers. Cheers, everyone!
DICK VON FUXX WILL RETURN IN
THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN WANGER
STARRING ERIC LANGENSCHLONGENHOSER & TINA TITFEST
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Toby Maguire looks positively ravishing in a blonde wig made of goats' pubes in this special Pedro Almodovar edition of Spider Man 3. Filmed secretly in parallel as the Sam Raimi version, with actors waiving their fees because they had so much fun "discovering sensual spots and holes they never knew existed", Almodovar brings out all the hedonistic ambiguity and transcendential pseudo-soliptic metaphysical mind jerkoff of the original script considered by many studio insiders as more saucy than a nun on a jumbo candle in the Mojave desert. The true existential angst and blatant desire of Spider Man to as Almodovar puts it, "look like my mum before the gender reassignment" is committed to film here and explored in a way that would make even Caligula faint. Not to be missed. Only watch with your closest friends and fellow thrill seekers.
Monday, May 12, 2008
BUFF: I've got a pair of Bart Simpson boxer shorts on, if that's what you mean.
BIRD: Did ya celebrate Mother's Day, then?
BUFF: Sure, I always celebrate Mother's Day in my skivvies, you great gormy plank.
BIRD: How is your mum, by the by?
BUFF: She's old, Birdy. Ancient and creaky, like. Her only topics of conversation relate to her precarious health, which I have inherited.
BIRD: Oh, how so?
BUFF: The bloody gout, Birdman. It has returned with villain zeal and I am contemplating self-amputation.
BIRD: Blimey. Not of your Freddy, I hope!
BUFF: No, Berky, of my fookin' knee. Feels like there's ground glass in my knee, turning it into hamburger.
BIRD: Hors alor! Does it hurt, like?
BUFF: Is the bear Catholic? Does that old dopesucker Winslow Pope shit in the woods?
BIRD: Are those rhetorical questions, Buffers?
BUFF: No, Einstein, those are the questions that plague me eternally when I'm contemplating self-mutilation, you flaming twit.
BIRD: Uh, tell me more about your mum, Buff. Did you call her?
BUFF: I tried. She isn't answering her phone, which is fairly typical. I think she has Caller I.D.
BIRD: Oh, that's harsh.
BUFF: Well, my mother always was lacking in the basic maternal instincts. She didn't breast feed me, y'know.
BIRD: Ah, I see. That probably explains your preoccupation with mammaries, innit?
BUFF: No doubt. I have an interesting theory about my preoccupation with the other thing, too.
BIRD: The udder thing?
BUFF: No, Birdy, the nether thing.
BIRD: Ah, the bearded clam.
BUFF: Natural prey of the one-eyed trouser snake.
BIRD: Getting back to your mum. . . doesn't she have a twin sister?
BUFF: Oui. An identical twin sister. Seeing the two of them together is rather deja vu.
BIRD: They're that much alike, then?
BUFF: They're fookin' identical, you plank. They dress alike, too, to confound the local yokels. Something God them in lieu of a sense of humor.
BIRD: That's horrifying, like. Can you tell them apart, then?
BUFF: Yes, but only because I've known them since I was quite young. It was like having two mothers, Birdy - which is a mixed blessing.
BIRD: It could be worse, Buffers.
BUFF: How could it possibly be worse?
BIRD: You could have two mother-in-laws.
BUFF: That's in extremely bad taste, you Limey fruit - considering that my mother-in-law died last week.
BIRD: Uh, yeah, I forgot about that. Condolences and all, Buff.
BUFF: Yeah, I won't have her to kick around anymore. On the other hand, she won't have ME to kick around, either.
BIRD: Must've been a bit dicey yesterday, innit? I mean, Mother's Day and all.
BUFF: To say the least. They're planting a rose bush in her honor.
BIRD: Aw, that's rather touching, Buff.
BUFF: Yeah, though I think a cactus plant would be more appropriate.
BIRD: Was she a bit abrasive, then?
BUFF: No more so than a well-maintained chain saw, Birdy. Hmm, a chain saw. . . there's a thought.
BIRD: Ah. Well, getting back to YOUR mum. Did you see her?
BUFF: Birdy, pay attention. I can't even reach her by telephone. My sisters have undoubtedly spirited away her and my aunt for the day.
BIRD: Ah, yes, your sisters. You aren't exactly on the best of terms, as I recall.
BUFF: Euphemistically speaking. They despise me.
BIRD: Still haven't gotten over that ancient incest incident, have they?
BUFF: One little indiscretion and you're branded for life, Birdy.
BIRD: So true. You'd think by now that they would have forgiven and forgotten the time that I did B and C but no.
BUFF: Well, you can hardly blame them. Give it another twenty or thirty years, Birdy.
BIRD: About your gout - you are somewhat exaggerating about the pain, aren't you?
BUFF: I have uric acid crystals in my bloody knee, you insensitive jizzwad. What do you think?
BIRD: So it's rather bad, then.
BUFF: The understatement of the century. I am seriously thinking about paying a visit to the local lumber yard. Either that or I may just jam my leg into the fookin' Cusinart.
BIRD: Perhaps you could get Sparky to perform the amputation. Doesn't he possess a lot of razor sharp implements, for wood-carving and the like?
BUFF: True. Good point. Yes, as a matter of fact he damn near amputated his thumb a few years back, at a wood-carving show. He was demonstrating the proper use of razor sharp wood carving tools.
BIRD: That went awry, did it?
BUFF: In spades. I happened on the scene moments after Sparky's attempt at self-immolation. He was as white as a KKK sheet and bleeding like a stuck hog. His demonstration segued beautifully into a demonstration of First Aid, put on by the paramedics who were summoned to the scene. They could have sold tickets.
BUFF: Actually, I'm not sure I could entrust Sparky with the task of amputating my limb. With my luck, he'd have a low blood sugar incident in the middle of the operation and end up carving my shin bone into a fookin' flute.
BIRD: Which would have great sentimental value for your children in years to come.
BUFF: On second thought, it's totally impractical. We're out of ether.
BIRD: Couldn't he just hit you over the head with a mallet or summat?
BUFF: I suppose so, but then I'd awake with a killer headache and we have no analgesics.
BIRD: Ah, right, not since your last suicide attempt. Did you really think an overdose of Motrin was gonna do it?
BUFF: We were out of barbiturates and booze. You have to go to war with the weapons you have.
BIRD: Sorry, you lost me past the chemist's, Buffers.
BUFF: Sorry, Birdy. Word association, like. I was thinking of booze and wished I had some rum, and. . .
BIRD: Ah, Rumsfeld, I geddit.
BUFF: Too bad he didn't geddit.
BIRD: All in good time, Buff.
BUFF: Sweet fookin' Jesus, I hope this bloody Indocin kicks in soon. Otherwise I won't be able to make it out of the bloody Carfax Arms today. Three flights of stairs, y'know.
BIRD: Perhaps Sparky could carry you down to your car.
BUFF: Sure, and maybe a flock of pink pigs will fly out of my arse, singing the Star Spangled Banana.
BIRD: Well, one can always hope.
BUFF: I have to sign off, now, Birdy. Got to find that fookin' hacksaw.
BIRD: You're not seriously thinking of sawing off your leg, are you? What about the horrible fookin' PAIN??
BUFF: I just remembered we have a lot of dry ice left over from Halloween. I figure I can freeze the fooker and then saw it off. In theory I shouldn't feel a thing.
BIRD: But what if you're wrong? What if it doesn't work and you die in horrible fookin' agony, like?
BUFF: Good point. I'd better test it on Sparky, first.
BIRD: Come on, Buff, he isn't going to sit still for that.
BUFF: Why not? He's sleeping now, and it would take an atom bomb to wake him. I'll freeze his leg and have that sucker off before he knows what hit him.
BIRD: But how will he be able to work and pay his share of the rent??
BUFF: Damn, there's always a fly in the ointment.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFF: Arf, arf!
Friday, May 09, 2008
SPOKESBIRD FOR THE BRITISH GREAT TIT ASSOCIATION SAYS "BRING IT ON!"
IN A 90-SECOND INTERVIEW WITH BRIAN GREAT TIT SENIOR IN A GARDEN AT AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION IN EAST FENWICK, BRIAN REVEALED HOW GREAT TITS EVERYWHERE ARE REVELLING IN GLOBAL WARMING.
BRIAN: See, the way I see it, we're laughing, innit. The hotter it gets the more caterpillars there are and we like our caterpillars, right? I mean, there's so many caterpillars hanging out now, it's hard to know where to turn! Normally, right, we eat 70 of the little buggers a day, yeah? Now it's up to 120 plus. All different sizes and colours too! This morning, yeah, when I woke up and rolled out of the birdbox, I thought I'd kicked the proverbial bucket bath and gone to Twitter Heaven. I must've ate about 6o of 'em before me afternoon siesta alone. Gave me terrible wind, mind. Couldn't stop farting. It was enough to wake the robins, I tell ya. Anyway, global warming - bloody marvellous, specially since I used to get a cold bum in the winter. And now we don't need no stupid birdbox to bed down in for the night, we can sleep out in the open wherever we like and listen to the nightingales singing their sweet lullabies. What with juicy chewy caterpillars on our doorstep, we don't have to lift a wing any more, which means we got more energy left over for the finer things in tweetie life like a bit of the old tit to tit flutter, if ya get my beak, so I say climate change - BRING IT ON!"
FOR THE GEEKS' TAKE ON GREAT TITS & WARMING, CHECK OUT THE B&B SEE AT:
Thursday, April 17, 2008
BUFFALO: Nuffink much. Just reading about that darty old muff muncher Bertie Einstein.
BIRD: Eh? Xplain, plis, Lucy.
BUFFALO: Great new bio just out - Einstein: Quantum Chick Magnet. Did you know, Birdy, that Einstein married his second wife Elsa cuz she was well endowed, like?
BIRD: Great fornicating follicles, Buffters! Is nothing sacred?!
BUFFALO: He postulated that if you are attracted to women with large breasts, the attraction is stronger if there is a DNA connection.
BIRD: Fascinating stuff.
BUFFALO: For real. This came to be known as Einstein's Theory of Relative Titty.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
1. You'll get fired if you don't.
2. Your heart will become even weaker than it already is then it'll give out altogether.
BUFFALO: Years of unbridled rogering and solvent abuse will get me first, Birdy, so wot's da hurry?
3. Someone is stealing your car.
BUFFALO: Dude, it's insured!
4. There is a special package at the door.
BUFFALO: I've got all my movies from NetFlix so I don't give a feck!
5. The bed is on fire.
BUFFALO: Yeah, that oughtta do it!
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
1. DAVE (HALIFAX, ENGLAND) TO HIS BELOVED NANCY: "At least I won't have to fake my orgasms any more!"
2. BERYL (SOMEWHERE IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE) TO HER HUBBY OF 60 YEARS, NIGEL: "How I've put up with your ugly mug and farting for England all these years I'll never know."
3. JEAN-JEAN (BELIZE) TO HIS EGYPTIAN POODLE: "Zis is le end, mon pooch. After toi, non?"
4. BORIS KOKBLOWNOFF (KRASNODAR, SIBERIA) TO TWIN BROTHER ALF: "Tell Lenin I miss him and don't forget to feed the swans on the lake, twin comrade of mine!"
5. WALKING TEPID (SOMEWHERE ON LAKE MICHIGAN) TO WAVING BULL IN SKY: "Rising Turd has come for me, I go now to Universal Flush. Geronimo!"
Thursday, April 10, 2008
2. DAS BOOT - For making subtitles cool again! - "Dive! Dive! Der feckin' Englischen want us get-toten, ja!"
3. LASSIE COME HOME - For giving unwanted twerps everywhere hope - arf, arf!
4. GET CARTER - Michael Caine, innit - "You''re only supposed to blow the bluddy doors off!"
5. DEBBIE DOES DORSET - Cos nobody does Dorset quite like Debbie - "So little time but still haven't blown Bournemouth. Ick!"
Sunday, April 06, 2008
BUFFALO: Birdy, you know what happens when you introduce a character within a character.
BIRD: Dude, it's not me. Not the REAL me. And Maxim's a pal. In need.
BUFFALO: Now hold on there, buddy. Am I talking to you, Maxim, or Stu?
BIRD: Eh? Me, natch. Why'd you ask?
BUFFALO: Cos I just don't know any more. And what's the deal with the editor of Insolent Rudder at http://www.insolentrudder.net? This Tim Ljunggren dude... Isn't he the Sage of Sweden?
BIRD: Is he? Who told you that?
BUFFALO: You did, you plank!
BIRD: Oh. You know, I really don't know. I mean, I've parleyed with him on Skype and all and NOTHING he said led me to believe he's in any way a Swede-oh.
BUFFALO: Tim Ljunggren?
BIRD: No, dude! The Sage of Sweden!
BUFFALO: Jeez, Birdman. I feel like I don't know my ass from my Freddy these daze. Wikkid zine, though, dude. Some seriously cool stories and those cartoons... Marja Hagborg is AWESOME!
BIRD: You better believe it.
BUFFALO: So anyhoo, wot's this Insolent Rudder at http://www.insolentrudder.net all about, like?
BIRD: It's about deviating, turning moments.
BUFFALO: Excuse me?
BIRD: If you were a boat, you'd have an insolent rudder at http://www.insolentrudder.net steering you off the chartered course and being uppity about it too...
BUFFALO: Hey, I like dat!
BIRD: Spread the word.
BUFFALO: Sure will. And Maxim Ripyorebollokov... he doesn't really work as an innards consultant at State Rabbit Farm 69, duzee?
BIRD: Who knows? Maybe he's not even a writer.
BUFFALO: Yeah, dat figures.
BUFFALO: Captain Nemo, you say? Sure, put him through...
Friday, April 04, 2008
SAMMY, BRIGHTON, ENGLAND:
I know you're total whack jobs but keep up the blog, OK? I love it. It takes me to another place whilst I can't physically get there cuz I've got these belts holding me down. Give my regards to Dale when you see him next.
PS Ever tried geraniums? They're seriously yummy!
I feel your pain, dudes. Want me to shove my shotgun up your asses and pull the trigger? Gimme your address, I'll be round REAL soon.
Have you ever thought about what it's like to be a squirrel without a Freddy? I do wonder sometimes. I hope the surgery works, don't you?
You've helped me rediscover myself in a refreshing way not unlike that of a pixie in the long grass. My case comes up on Tuesday.
I worship the cyber space upon which you defecate on an involuntary basis. If only I could have bowels as big as yours. You rock!
You can fondle my whimsies anytime.
Flying without wings is so cool. Who's the father and who's the son? Do moths really feel anything when they burn? I thought I heard something. Is the door half open or half shut?
I'm yours. Well, anyone's, actually. When you're in London, call my mum and ask for me. I'll be there for you. You know that.
I am stuck here. I don't know how it happened. The strawberries are taking over the cabbages. Is it not inevitable, already.
AND MANY, MANY MORE.
THANK YOU AGAIN FOR JOINING US ON OUR JOURNEY TO THE LIGHTBULB
COMING SOON: THE ORIFICE PART #2
BUFFALO: Well, if Proust rings again, just tell him to f**k off!
AUDREY: I've tried that but he keeps dragging up the past.
BUFFALO: Jeez. He needs to get laid.
AUDREY: Talkin' of which...
BUFFALO: I'll be right over.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
BIRD: In the mirror every reader finds herself in him.
PROUST: Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.
BIRD: Regress. Regress. To recreate second nature composed of masterpieces and neurotics is merely an instrument of the mind that is not going to last, right?
PROUST: Wow. But I don't understand.
BIRD: Habit is happiness, don’t you know?
PROUST: You mean we become moral when we are unhappy.
BIRD: Of course not, you wombat. You know, I really do think final decisions communicate strength within the cruelties of enchantments and powers which serve unhappiness and other inedible delights, don’t you?
PROUST: Didn’t I say something like that once?
BIRD: Don't be silly, what I said was profound. How vain you are!
PROUST: It’s just we do not succeed in changing things according to our desire, but gradually our desire changes.
BIRD: Pardon my French, but that's just bollocks. But grief has not been quite himself of late.
PROUST: You've gone too far now. What the hell do you mean by that?
BIRD: Nothing. Keep your toupee on. It's just you are not the person I saw a moment ago. In fact, I do believe you’re not a person. You don’t look like a person and with all those words shrouding you I fail to see how you could possibly inhabit your person in any other way but as a non-person.
PROUST: If you're referring to the past…
BIRD: It's painful to the end. Yes, I know. When did you become the non-entity you were yesterday, today, forever, hm? Never wavering.
PROUST: You know what, Birdy? F**K YOU!
BIRD: Yes, Audrey, I know. Touchy fooker, innie? Put Dale on, would ya? Cheers!
THE PROUST OUTSIDE WITHIN by The Bird & Buffalo is now available in all disreputable bookshops and massage parlours.
COMING SOON - PROUST IN HIS OWN WURST: A MAN ON THE EDGE OF XYLOPHILIA by The Bird & Buffalo (XXX + 1 rated)
Monday, March 31, 2008
THE HUDSTER: Audrey Horne? That name sounds familiar. Did we go to school with her?
THE HUDSTER: Well, where's she from, then?
BUFFALO: Twin Peaks, berky.
THE HUDSTER: Waa? Twin Peaks? Like the fookin' TV show?
THE HUDSTER: Audrey Horne, huh?
THE HUDSTER: Dude, wasn't she the chick that could eat a cherry and tie the stem in a knot with her tongue?
BUFFALO: Jawohl, Mein Herring.
THE HUDSTER: What was her name? Her real name, I mean.
BUFFALO: Sherilyn Fenn.
THE HUDSTER: Sherilyn Fenn. Hey, she was the smokin' hot chick that had the hots for Kyle McLaughlan, right?
BUFFALO: The very one.
THE HUDSTER: She had incredible eyebrows. So you're telling me that you have a date with Sherilyn Fenn?
BUFFALO: No, you plank, get the shit out of your ears, I have a date with Audrey Horne.
THE HUDSTER: Oh, OK. Right, dude, Audrey Horne, the fictional character.
BUFFALO: That's right.
THE HUDSTER: I get it. I think. So where are you picking her up?
BUFFALO: We're going to The Great Northern.
THE HUDSTER: That monster ass hotel where she lived? The one that was owned by her father, what'shisname...
BUFFALO: Ben Horne.
THE HUDSTER: And he had a brother, right, a short-assed little twerp...
THE HUDSTER: Right! Ben and Jerry, like the two ice cream moguls.
THE HUDSTER: And you're picking her up where?
BUFFALO: Here, dude.
THE HUDSTER: Dude, are you on the bug juice again?
BUFFALO: Nope. I only just got here. Are you hearing that? The Laura Palmer theme song? This cafe rocks, donnit?
THE HUDSTER: The Friars? It's OK.
BUFFALO: Not The Friars, dude. This place, the RR Cafe. Every drop of coffee, every piece of pie. It's beautiful, dude. Just seeing all this for the first time with new eyes. D'you know Special Agent Dale Cooper hasn't got a mean bone in his body? Utterly charming, utterly naive. And that's how I'm gonna be from now on. At least till Audrey shows. You know what I realised about this film I call my life? That all the cruel things said and done to me just make me say and do cruel things. Don't rise to it, Dale says. You want redemption, forgiveness, salvation, love? It's through that door, that one over there, the one that Audrey Horne just walked through. And now, mon amici, you're on your own.
Audrey, hi! Over here!
SHERILYN FENN: Dale, good to see you.
(Telephone rings for several minutes then stops)
GO FALLING IN THE LINK...
Sunday, March 09, 2008
The hog likes me
And I like he
Over here little hog
Come hog me
BIRD: Bootiful, Fifi. Woolly bootiful.
BUFFALO: Yup. Sorry, gotta run. Laters.
BIRD: The grimulations of an active bowel.
BUFFALO: In the one eyed land of the king the constipated is unshaven, or sumfink like that.
BIRD: Been in the raspberry dip again, I see.
BUFFALO: An active behind leads to active mind.
BIRD: Can't argue with that. But where have all the good times gone?
BUFFALO: It's coming, dude. Tally-ho, Mr Toe.
BIRD: Jam at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
BIRD: Nah. Can't sleep.
BIRD: Had this dream.
BUFFALO: Oh, yeah. Bout wot?
BIRD: Phil Ossifee. Me and Wittgenstein were shooting da breeze, like.
BUFFALO: Jeez. Metafarcical, like. Go on.
BIRD: Well, Lud was saying that philosophical problems are not solved through finished experiments, and facts are not things, but are still useful.
BUFFALO: Fook! You lost me past the ice cream parlor there, Binky.
BIRD: So I said what about the directives? We point out directives then withdraw dissatisfied due to words and pieces of failures being similar.
BUFFALO: Dude, wot the fook are you talking about?
BIRD: Patience, o bovine one, I'm getting to the punch line. So Lud said "The meaning of a word is to be defined by the rules for its use, not by the feeling that attaches to the word."
BUFFALO: O Jeez!
BIRD: So that got me thinking. What support does that word have? Moreover, what rights does that word have? Does that word have a say in being used? Are we not all the oppressors and abusers of words? Should we not now liberate all words and forfeit language as our punishment?
BUFFALO: Dude, I'm contacting the NHS of Great Britain for an ambulance. What did I tell you about sniffing your own follicle jam, huh?
BIRD: Lud goes on about grammar. Bugger grammar. The issue of lexicological empowerment and liberation is THE fundamental question. Well, Lud took this badly, natch. He's never had anyone answer him back, especially in a dream. So do you know what he did?
BUFFALO: Nope. Like I give a flying tranny. But enlighten us, Einstein.
BIRD: He said p = denial then took a gun and shot his brains out. You know that means?
BUFFALO: That Wittgenstein was talking out of his ass?
BIRD: Exactly. He was afraid of words. Couldn't face them. Suspected they would betray him in the end. As they always do. Fook it! It's so obvious, staring us all in the face.
BUFFALO: Wunderbar, Lucy. Now do you think we could get on to my problems now, ie my impending mental meltdown and relationship breakdown with the only gal I've ever loved?
BIRD: Words, Buff. Can't live together. Can't be apart. It's all there, you know. Always was. They want to play with us. But we don't know how. Any ideas?
BUFFALO: Is that the U of K NHS Direct Hospitalise Dangerous Elements Before They Hospitalise You? Yeah, I've got another customer. Should keep ya busy for a few decades. Name of Bird. No previous incendiaries. You better hurry. He's got an attack of the verbals and right now, nobody knows where it's going to lead. Thanking you, Nurse.
Lexiphilosofickleocological horrorshow at eleven. Arf, arf!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
THE ARSE**** LITERARY REVULSION GOES ON, FROM BANGED!, A STORY WITHIN A STORY WITHIN A VANILLA FUDGE BOMB OF THE SYMBIOITIC UNKIND. OUR HEROINE IS ABOUT TO FIND OUT JUST EXACTLY WHAT MAKES THE FREDDY TIME BOMB TICK...
But Bo wasn’t listening. For every x there’s a y. For every positive there’s a negative. For every up there’s a down. You get the idea.
“But I want my Clarissa back!”
Still Bo said nothing.
“What the ****’s going on?” Chuck blurted out from the corner of the mirror.
Carla stroked the smooth tip of her new-grown member. “Sorry there, Chuck, it would appear that I’m not a woman at all, but a… well, uh, transsexual. Yeah, that’s the one. I’m on gender reassignment. A man trapped in a woman’s body. How’d ya like my Freddy?” She swung it up and down. “Kinda cute, ain’t he? 12 inches of pure pleasure. Don’t it make ya want to just get down and give it a good suck?”
Chuck took a few steps back towards the cubicles.
“Hey, don’t be shy, Chuck. I’m a woman, really, only I got a Freddy too. Come on, it’s no big deal. Try it, you’ll like it.”
Chuck backed into the cubicle door with a clunk. “Hell, I only came in here to tell you that your plane’s leaving early and you’ve got to check in. I don’t want no kinky stuff. Jesus, poor Clifford!”
“Poor Clifford, nuts! If you ain’t tried it, you don’t know what you’re missing.” Yeah, maybe, but I wish I could have that sweet little pouch I used to have.
Her Freddy got longer and stiffer. Suddenly, she felt the sensation a man must feel when somebody rubs the skin up and down.
“Ooh, it’s not as bad as I thought. Say, Chuck, could you see your way round to giving me a quick blowjob before the plane leaves? Pretty please.”
Chuck shook his head. “Hey, no way, I ain’t no gay. Got a family too to prove it.”
She ripped open her blouse, her nipples stood to attention. “Well, I ain’t no man. Fix your lips on these.”
Chuck waved his hand from left to right. “Sorry, Carla, but this ain’t right.”
She squeezed her left breast enticingly. “Aw, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never fantasized about doing a tranny in the john… just a little.”
“Well, will you just jerk me off then? Have mercy on a poor lil’ ol’ tranny. I ain’t had sex for a hell of a long time, and I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
“From where I’m looking, you’re doing a mighty fine job of jerking yourself off.”
“So if you ain’t interested, Chuck, why you got a stiffy in them there pants of yours?”
Chuck looked down. The bulge was considerable. “Uh, I don’t rightly know. Guess I’m confused.”
TO BE CONTINUED...