Monday, May 12, 2008


BIRD: Buffers, are you decent?

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.

BIRD: Blimey.

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!

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