BIRD: Dude, I've got an idea for a blog within a blog.
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!