BIRD: Awfully quiet in here, Buffers, what's going on in the old melon, like?
BUFF: Thinking about D-D-D-D-D-Death, Birdy.
BIRD: Blimey, bit gruesome, innit?
BUFF: Not at all. We don't think about it enough. It's always out there, y'know, lurking about, waiting.
BIRD: Maybe so, but why dwell on it?
BUFF: Don't you ever feel it? Creeping around you, waiting to tap you on the shoulder?
BIRD: Fook no, you morbid sod. You've not gone off your sweeties again, have you?
BUFF: No. It's just that there's been a lot of shit and death around here lately, as Bukowski would say.
BIRD: Spiders in the tub again? Screaming girlfriends? Overflowing bog? Broken broomsticks and all?
BUFF: Eggs Zacklee. It wears on the nerves, like. Don't like killing spiders, but when they're in your face, what can a bloke do?
BIRD: In your face? Not literally?
BUFF: Well, I woke up the other night with a big fat one dangling right over me honker.
BIRD: Holy shit, Batman, did you soil yourself?
BUFF: Close, but no cigar. I swatted the bugger as hard as I could. Slam-dunked his ass against the TV screen. It knocked him silly, but he still managed to crawl behind some file boxes. So he's still there somewhere... lurking.
BIRD: Like D-D-D-D-D-Death.
BUFF: Precisely. Makes me wonder if Death isn't a big fat spider that hangs around waiting for an opportunity to dangle over your proboscis and crawl up inside and suck your brains out.
BIRD: Sacre bleu, Buff! What a revolting image. Why would you imagine such an horrible thing?
BUFF: Woke up this morning with a nosebleed.
BIRD: And you think the spider was responsible for THAT?
BUFF: Well, why else would my fookin' hooter be bleeding, like?
BIRD: Uh, cos Osbee's whacked up your blood pressure again?
BUFF: Good point. She's been a screeching pain in the ass lately.
BIRD: Time to change your phone number again?
BUFF: Possibly, witch rewinds me. . . the Coyote is seriously pissed off at me.
BIRD: Eh? The Coyote NEVER gets pissed off, innit?
BUFF: True, but I outdid myself this time. An act of incredible stupidity, for which I may have to hire someone to put a boot up me arse in order to kick-start my brain.
BIRD: Hors alors! What the heck did you DO?
BUFF: I was indiscreet, like - and as a result he is being pestered by one of my lunatic friends.
BIRD: You filthy auld Buff, what the hell were you thinking?
BUFF: I wasn't thinking, that's the whole point, innit, you plank.
BIRD: Er, right. . . so how do you intend to make amends?
BUFF: I'm giving serious thought to Seppuku.
BIRD: You're going to disembowel yourself? Do you have the proper tools?
BUFF: No, but my brother-in-law has offered to loan me his chainsaw.
BIRD: Sounds messy, Buff. Sparky will be upset, won't he?
BUFF: I plan to do it out in the woods, about a mile in. With any luck the critters will have picked my bones cleaned and scattered them before anyone knows I'm missing.
BIRD: Surely you're not really planning to discorporate, like?
BUFF: I don't know, Birdy, it alla depends onna da weather, as Father Guido Sarducci says.
BIRD: What's the weather got to do wiffit?
BUFF: If the weather stays nice, as it is now, I may postpone it.
BIRD: You auld lunatic. You've gone flippin' wonkers, Buff. You realize that you probably just need to get laid, innit?
BUFF: Yes, probably, but there's not a bird in sight, lad.
BIRD: But what about the birds at Borders, Buff?
BUFF: Good point, but I can't go there with a bloody nose bleed, can I?
BIRD: Your still dribbling from the facial pecker like?
BUFF: Jawohl, mein herring.
BIRD: Shouldn't you be seeing a doctor, then?
BUFF: Probably, but Osbee will have a shit fit if I make another doc appointment. She's worried about losing her health insurance.
BIRD: Well, fooker, Buff. Can't you go on Medicare or some damn thing?
BUFF: Yeah, but it would mean giving up my beer money, Berky. It ain't fookin' free, y'know.
BIRD: Much as I'd love to hear more of your horrible fookin' life, I have to wax the oven now then say adieu to D-D-D-D-D-Death in the shower, like.
BUFF: Truly creepy. Squelching at eleven.
BIRD: Arf, arf!