Tails From The Bird & Buffalo

House Fire + New Year's Retributions

2012-01-05T08:33:00.000-08:00

House Fire
by Birdy

House Fire
Burning
Beginning
And Ending
In orange peel
And zest

An unwanted guest
Trod on the nest
And well
You know
The rest
Just guess

Last breath
Leben odour
Tod
Wunderbar
Ha ha!
Now this
human crumb
Really is
Toast

SEVEN NEW YEAR'S RETRIBUTIONS
by Buffters

1 Get laid.

2 Get laid some more.

3 Get laid even more.

4 Get laid till my Freddy falls off.

5 Get Freddy sewn back on and get laid again.

6 Make something of my life.

7 Screw it, just get laid till my head explodes.

Film at eleven.

Arf, arf!

PLUS!!!! DIALOGUE WITHOUT PURPOSE

BUFF: What you said just then, dude, that was disgusting. I could never do that to another human being.

BIRD: But you did, many times, which is what is really disgusting.

BUFF: Nowt so disgusting as folk, Birdy. What's the most disgusting thing you've ever done then, huh?

BIRD: Still doing it. It's called living a lie.

BUFF: That's not even mildly disgusting. Life by definition is a lie. A big fat, blobby one with two massive horns ready to gore you to pisswillydom. I've been gored so many times, there's no flesh on these here bones. The sight of moi in the mirror, now that's disgusting. But things are looking up, dude. 2012 is our year, so get ready, cos it's gonna be one helluva ride. Hollywoody beckons, then London, Amsterdam, Finnishland. Fasten your seatbelts, o feathered one, you and me are off! Woo-hoo!!!!

BIRD: Nothing's happening.

BUFF: Gotta go. They're breathing down my neck and it's not fragrant. Ta-ra, dude.

BIRD: I'm trapped, dude. And it's not even my own mind. Maybe if I hold my breath for a little longer...

There Was A Young Man From Peru...

2011-08-25T11:28:00.000-07:00

There Was A Young Man From Peru
by Marcel DeClercq

There was a young man from Peru
Who had nothing whatever to do
So he flew in the garret
And buggered the parrot
And sent the result to the zoo.

Winner of the Peruvian Golden Potty Award For Outstanding Fripperology, There Was A Young Man From Peru was perceived in desperation and became an instant hit with disaffected yoot worldwide, spawning thousands of copycat verses too lood to mention. All proceeds are donated to the Save The Parrot From Self-Immolation Fund. To donate, all you have to do is download the following book...

Arf, arf!

EXPLOSIVE DREAMS: FROM THE SECRET DIARY OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

2011-08-24T05:32:00.000-07:00

Sherlock writes:
It was a Monday morning, after the night before the night before that. Watson was in good form, as usual, having sat too close to the fire and burned his backside once more. That man gets through more panties than a hoor in Limehouse. Anyhoo, I was plagued by a recurring dream about digging holes. Let them dig holes, Hudders said. But what was the question? I really hadn't the foggiest. And then some street urchin would be given a spade and told to dig, deeper and deeper and deeper until the poor creature exploded, along with the hole and a trillion grains of earth would pelt the nearest robin, which in turn exploded with a tweet, but not before a deafening trill was unleashed over Baker Street. And from the shadows emerged Moriarty in black bra and polo shorts. He told me to dig a hole and so I did, the grimiest, slimiest, squidgiest hole anyone ever did dig, and I too exploded into a trillion zillion atoms which hurtled into a universe no larger than one of Toby's prize winning turds and I thought to myself... wake up, you're on fire! And sure enough, smoke and flames were billowing from my nether regions and the stench of burnt tobacco and matches hung in the air. The alarm was raised. Watson and Hudders threw themselves at my door but budge it would not. Not to put too fine a point on it, I thought I was toast. I looked on in terror as the flames engulfed my pubic hair. "Not my Freddy!" I yelled. "Anything but my Freddy!" And at the very moment when Freddy seemed all but lost, Watson and Hudders burst in with buckets of water which quickly doused the flames and Freddy was saved! Singed but not stirred, he lived to rise another day. I was mightily relieved, Watson was ecstatic, Hudders was pensive. "Good grief, Holmes," said Watson, "that was a close one for Freddy, what, what, what!" "Indeed it was, Watters," said I. "'I think you'll find, Mr Holmes," said Hudders, "that my first aid training is going to come in very handy here." Was it a dream? Was it a fantasy? Was it elementary? I shall never know, but now when Hudders brings me my Horlicks afore slumbers, she winks at me ever so gently and says, "Let them dig holes."

Currently reading...

MORE SHERLOCK, WHAT WHAT WHAT: THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED REAR

2011-08-11T09:55:00.000-07:00

It was a cold, autumnal Sunday morning. Holmes sat exasperated. Boredom was his want. The doorbell rang and Hudders escorted in a most ungainly gentlemen who lilted to one side. Holmes immediately pricked up his ears and gestured to the poor fellow to sit down. The gent politely declined, preferring to stand. When Holmes enquired why, he dropped his trousers, turned round and afforded us a most unsavoury sight of his bottom, twisted beyond all anatomical recognition. The poor chap appeared to have two rectums, what, what, what, and festering spots galore. Holmes reacted in a frightfully unhelpful fashion by demanding the man leave forthwith. Several scones and cups of tea later, Holmes and I entertained the following exchange:

“I say, Holmes,” said I, “that was a damn awful way to treat that wretch, what, what, what.”

“Alimentary, my dear Watson,” said he, “I feared I was about to deposit a truly yummy breakfast on our brand-new Axminster. Hudders would have hit the roof, so I had to take extreme measures.”

“Ah, I see,” said I, “then it wasn’t because of any revulsion you felt for this mangled chap?”

“On the contrary, old boy,” said he, “I have nothing but admiration for the dignified way in which this freak presented himself in such trying circumstances.”

“More importantly,” said I, “are you inclined to help the poor chap out of his predicament?”

There was a long pause as Holmes struggled with his demons, or pondered what to do with Toby, who was once again tugging on his right slipper, a practice Holmes could not abide.

“Watson,” said he, “I fear to solve this case we must descend lower into the murky depths than we’ve ever done before. We must, in the modern vernacular, get our hands dirty. I have no doubt that the fiend Moriarty is behind this, if you get my drift. But no matter, we must get to the bottom of this, for the sake of this bum, don’t you know!”

“Oh, really, Holmes!” said I, “how can you joke at a time like this? This man’s future ablutions depend upon you.”

“Watson,” said he, “I am not a surgeon. I can find the culprit, but I can’t reconfigure his waste disposal facilities. I fear he is twisted for life.”

“Not if I’ve got anything to do with it,” said I. “Hudders! Hudders! The man who just left with his trousers around his ankles…”

“The man with the twisted…” said she.

“The very one. Quick. Time is of the essence.”

But Hudders was too late. The man was found in the early hours of the next morning in a ditch by King’s Cross railway station, in a highly distressed state, the victim of excessive wind. On this occasion, Holmes was proven wrong. It was not the dastardly Moriarty behind the perverted prank but none other than the Serial Twister of Twickenham, who obtained many a jolly from rearranging the anatomical parts of 73 victims before LaStrade cornered him outside a public house in Limehouse as he was about to reverse an unsuspecting wenche’s front and back parts. Holmes never forgave himself for allowing his hatred of Moriarty to cloud his deductive powers which prevented him from cracking the case earlier. No more was said of this and Toby was given his own set of slippers to tug and chew to his heart’s content.

BOOKS SHERLOCK HOLMES LIKES:

Un-furr-toon-ate-lee, some puppies have already copped it. To prevent more canine demise, get da book RIGHT NOW, pliz.

Arf, arf!

WE WANT THE OCTOPIDDLES!!!

2011-08-05T12:36:00.000-07:00

Soaring demand for The Octopiddles has meant that the Peeps are begging, nay, pleading even, with da Buff and Birdy for more Octopiddles. It would appear that the appetite for Doggy Brill is unquenchable, wot wot wot. You want Doggy Brill? You got it. AND don't furr get to tell yer friends bout da book, righty?

Doggy Brill
by Stewart Sumner

Half-munched cakes
and plates of
silence
on the
sidewalk
staring

Glaring
uncomfortably
at
trees and
things
postcards
on the
ledge
staring

Wag
your tale
as well
you must
be
weeping
not
staring

In a
trance
on a
barge
to
Doggy Brill
All
aboard
arf, arf!

NED FOOKS UP

2011-08-03T10:20:00.000-07:00

Pleased with what he's written, finishing his screenplay at 3 AM, having not slept for two days, Ned clicks on PRINT, but nothing happens. He sees the red LED on the printer blinking. He reaches for the RESET button, but instead knocks over a cup of coffee that spreads rapidly under the paper tray.

Ned leaps out of his chair, grabbing a wad of Puffs to soak up the coffee, but in doing so knocks over a water bottle that spills onto a stack of manuscripts lying on the floor, that were destined for the post office. He realizes that now he will miss all the deadlines for the screenplay competitions, as he's almost out of paper and Staples doesn't open for another 7 hours.

Cursing, he starts sopping up the coffee spill, splashing coffee onto the paper in the printer tray. Cursing vehemently now, he flings the coffee-soaked wad of tissues against the wall, ruining a brand-new calendar.

The coffee spill has now spread all the way under the printer. Fearing electrocution, Ned unplugs the printer, which causes his computer to crash. He realizes that he hasn't saved his work in over six hours.

"Sonofamotherfookingpissant!" he roars, kicking the trash can, which falls over, spilling its contents. In the beer-soaked trash, he sees an overdue bill and hones in on the words "A $35 fee will be charged for late payments." Ned realizes he's forgotten to pay his mother's electric bill.

"Shitpissfook****hoor!!" he screams, slamming his fist into the door, awakening his roommate who is recovering from a double hernia operation. Startled, the invalid falls out of bed, dislodging his catheter. He screams in agony, scaring the shit out of Ned, who is busy hopping from the pain of the now bleeding knuckles on his right hand.

Meanwhile, the coffee has flowed over the edge of Ned's worktable, spilling onto a power-strip, short-circuiting it. All the lights go out. Mindful of his roommate's continued screams, Ned rushes to his aid, in the dark, and trips over a bowling ball lying in the hallway.

Ned falls on his face, the bowling ball smacking him in the groin, causing him to go cross-eyed with pain as he gasps for air. At that moment, his telephone rings.

Ned drags himself to his feet, reeling with pain, disoriented in the dark. He stubs his toe on the bowling ball.

"Syphylliticafterbirthofagonarrheariddenhoorcow!!!" he screams. Furious, he kicks the bowling ball, breaking three toes, falling to the floor, with pain so intense he vomits all over himself.

Again dragging himself to his feet, Ned slips in his own vomit and falls on his back, on top of the bowling ball, fracturing three vetebrae. Adrenalin kicks in.

Ned leaps to his feet, grabs the phone, shouts "WHAT DA FOOK DO YOU WANT??" and hears his aged mother on the line, wheezing... "I... I... just wanted to know if your power is out, dear... ours is out here."

Ned rips the telephone from the wall and hurls it out the window. It falls on Mr. Kinderman, his 72 year old neighbor, who is out walking his dog, an asthmatic Cockapoodle named "Farley". Kinderman is knocked unconcious and falls into a cactus bed. Farley rushes to his aid, lapping Kinderman's bleeding scalp, the end result of being smacked in the head by Ned's telephone, and being impaled by a Barrel cactus.

Oblivious to the mayhem he has caused, Ned gropes around in the dark for a flashlight. He finds one, but the batteries are dead.

"Fook me," he murmurs, groping in the dark for a wall, to steady himself.

In the adjoining bedroom, his Indian roommate, Rigveda, is moaning in agony. His bloody cathether has leaked urine all over the carpet. The smell of vomit makes him nauseous. He upchucks on the carpet.

Outside, a burglar has found the unconscious Mr. Kinderman lying in the cactus bed. He ransacks Kinderman's pockets and steals his wallet. Finding Kinderman's cellphone, he calls 911 to summon the paramedics before fleeing the scene. Feeling sorry for poor Farley, he reaches down to pat him. Farley bites him.

Furious, the burglar flings Farley through Ned's open bedroom window. The yelping dog scares the bejesus out of Ned, who imagines that he's being attacked by a rabid wolverine. He freezes like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights.

The lights come back on. Ned sees Farley lapping up a puddle of vomit, which causes him to throw up again. Farley seems to think this is for his benefit and wags his tail in appreciation.

Ned hears something behind him. He turns and sees Rigveda crawling toward him, his face contorted with pain, his torso soaked in blood, reeking of vomit and urine.
Ned suffers a brain embolism and keels over, dead. Farley licks his face in sympathy. The power goes off again.

Film at eleven!

AND DON'T FURRGET TO BUY DA BOOK:

SHORT POETRY IN BRIEF

A Propinquitous Retrospective Vision Of The Octopiddles Expired

short poetry in brief... all hail the Octopiddles!

2011-08-03T09:57:00.000-07:00

Er, buy this book on Kindle or the puppy gets it. REALLY gets it, geddit!

LESS AND MORE AND MORE

2011-05-31T06:26:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO WROTE BUT DA UDDER DAY...

I like myself LESS, I like you LESS, I like this world LESS, I like drinking LESS, I like comments LESS, I like Obama LESS, I like legs LESS, I like wood LESS, I like pies LESS, I like ochre LESS, I like strangers LESS, I like cupcakes LESS, I like thinking LESS, I like Eliot LESS, I like Danton LESS, I like sincerity LESS, I like desire LESS, I like longing LESS, I like belonging LESS, I like compromise LESS, I like letters LESS, I like copies LESS, I like deadlines LESS, I like confessions LESS, I like confusion LESS, I like memories LESS, I like contact LESS, I like the truth LESS, I like the sky LESS, I like onions LESS, I like esteem LESS, I like values LESS, I like deals LESS, I like wisdom LESS, I like opinions LESS, I like moderation LESS, I like success LESS, I like mystery LESS, I like praise LESS, I like cars LESS, I like toys LESS, I like chaos LESS, I like feelings LESS, I like drains LESS, I like endings LESS, I like space LESS, I like sound LESS, I like contemplation LESS, but what I DO like is KISSING MORE and MORE in the MOST UNLIKELY PLACES.

Arf, arf!

Bird wrote "Read Middlemarch, ya jerk-berk! Nuff said!"

SLIGHT SLUT

2011-05-17T05:26:00.000-07:00

SLIGHT SLUT

I'm a slight slut
I wink my way
through life

When times are hard
and the weather's bad
I lift my skirt
and feel so good
it almost hurts
When the bow anchor
rides on through

I'm a slight slut
I go to bed
in my socks

Well... why not?

TALES OF THE ATOMIC AGE

2011-05-05T05:10:00.000-07:00

Tales of the Atomic Age

by Buffters

In July of 1945, near Los Alamos, New Mexico, there existed a secret government research facility where the best minds in Physics had been assembled in order to beat Hitler to the punch, by engineering the first atomic bomb. On the morning of July 16th, the following incident occurred at this facility.

Neils Boorish, a young scientist, had been working all night at his drafting table to finish a design for a device that would be critical for the mass production of Uranium-238 and Plutonium. Just before dawn, he finally completed his drawing and rushed with it to his supervisor, Dr. Ricardo Frumenti, who was having a discussion with other physicists gathered around another drafting table. Dr. Boorish's excitement was palpable, and everyone was practically drooling in anticipation. The drawing was spread out on the table, and eager hands reached out to place heavy paperweights on the corners of the large drawing, to hold it in place.

"Gentlemen," Boorish said. "This is a preliminary design for a nuclear refracting facility that will enable us to increase our production of fissionable materials by, conservatively, a thousand percent." Neils had them at "Gentlemen."

But, Dr. Frumenti was not impressed with Boorish's drawing. He pointed at the drawing with his pipe and said, "Is this some kind of joke, Dr. Boorish?" The room went stony silent, as Frumenti ripped the drawing from the table and held it up to Boorish's face. The other scientists realized that something was terribly wrong.

"This is a drawing of a circle," Dr. Frumenti said. "Nothing more. Please explain yourself, Dr. Boorish."

Boorish, however, was not intimidated. "That is a drawing of a... cyclotron," Boorish said.

"A cyclotron?" Frumenti asked, his bushy eyebrows raised in disbelief, threatening to become airborne. "A cyclotron? Have you gone mad? This is a circle, pure and simple. Either that or a large zero. Yes, that is precisely what it is. . . a zero."

The other scientists, none of whom had ever liked Boorish, began shouting at him. Dr. Robert Kroppenheimer went so far as to tell Boorish that he was "a fooking idiot."

At this point, Frumenti placed Boorish's drawing back on the drafting table, spread it out, and rolled it into a cone shape. He then inserted the tip of the cone into a nearby pencil sharpener, and turning to Boorish, said "This is what I think of your stupid drawing, Boorish." Frumenti then began cranking the pencil sharpener, jamming the end of the paper cone into the sharpener with all his might, while his colleagues continued to heap abuse upon Boorish. The razor sharp jaws of the pencil sharpener ground Boorish's drawing into fine shavings.

At that moment, the facility was vaporized by the first nuclear explosion in recorded history. A giant mushroom cloud rose from the desert floor. It was visible in Las Vegas, over a hundred miles away. The explosion produced temperatures that exceeded the core temperature of our own Sun. The resulting heat and shock wave, bristling with radioactivity, spread out at supersonic speed in all directions, obliterating every living thing for a radius of five miles, leaving the desert floor contaminated with radioactivity for weeks to come, before it would be safe to approach the site of the blast.

To this day, that is what always happens whenever a critical mass is formed at a ground zero. Arf, arf!

FINLAND: A CAUSATIONAL TAIL

2011-04-08T09:48:00.000-07:00

(for those thinking of visiting da land of da Finns, a brief intro-vitro)

FINNISHED? NOT YET
The delicious diversity and impenetrable solipsitic yearning of the people make Finland a must-see colony. Getting there is easy. Leaving is a spiritual and conjugational dilemma. Finland was founded around the time of the Second Great Ice Age. Since no records remain of this cataclysmic event, which both shaped and destroyed that which we think of as the Northern Cratersphere, and also gave birth to the Finns' undying devotion to coats of arms and questionable rituals of the nether regions, the founding of Finland is shrouded in mystery and revelatory intrigue. It is a land of sweeping landscapes and inter-bred towns, villages and sticky communities. Each population settlement looks different, feels different, smells different and washes different. Physically, Finland is the land that rhyme forgot, historically, the land of rotting Swedes and rutting Russians, the land that refused to be conquered, except for half a dozen bags of gold and a couple of crates of vodka, with a few plates of chips thrown in.

Finland is harsh but fair. Hoary winters lasting five months, with more snow than you can shake an ice cap at and sub zero temperatures which have frozen many a pair of active balls. The summers are mild but frenetic due to all the catching up on lost rogering time. Travellers intending to visit Finland in the summer are strongly advised to watch the Acclimatise To Finland In Summer video provided free at FinnTube.com in which the most noticeable feature of the landscape are the stray bonking couples in every public and private place you can think of. Please note that during the summer months there is a temporary lifting on the ban on mutual orgasmic activity in a neighbour's shed, tractor or sled. Reindeer are fair game too.

The Finnish people are nothing if not unique, thoughtful, wistful, playful, patriotic and totally insane. The traveller who has not enjoyed a Finn's company obviously has no social skills to speak of, is rightly shunned by his own people and will be spotted immediately at the airport, port, border crossing point and will not be granted entry into the colony, and/or may be arrested and flogged in an ancient ceremony which may involve cruelty to fruit and the shelling of assorted nuts and some nudity and follicle mutilation.

Finland is awash with festivities and dubious practises which either put hair on your chest or take it off, so it is irrelevant what time of year you choose to visit. As long as you enter Finland with an open mind and easily removable clothing, you are guaranteed a warm reception and a mind altering, possibly brain damaging experience. Come on in!

COMING SOON: SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE BLACK COCK OF KESKI (dat's in Finland, d'uh!)

THE CURIOUS CASE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE COSTLY COCA

2011-04-07T10:33:00.000-07:00

BACK ON BAKER STREET, OUR ILLUSTRATIVE DETECTIVE AND WATTERS HAVE BEEN OVERINDULGING THEMSELVES WITH SOME PRIME PERUVIAN COCOA POWDER. CLUMSY OAF THAT HE IS, WATSON HAS SPILLED A COUPLE OF GOOD LINES ON MRS. HUDSON'S PRECIOUS AFGHAN. THEN COMES AN OMINOUS SNIFFING SOUND FROM THE ENTRANCE DOOR, FOLLOWED BY FURTIVE SCRATCHINGS.

HOLMES: I say, Watters, be a good fellow and get the door, will you?

WATSON: Eh? Oh, I see. Precisely. My pleasure, old fellow.

WATSON ATTEMPTS TO RAISE HIMSELF FROM HIS CHAIR, BUT ONLY SUCCEEDS IN FALLING ASS OVER TEAKETTLE, GRABBING THE TABLECLOTH AND PULLING EVERYTHING ONTO THE FLOOR WITH HIM, INCLUDING HALF A TIN OF BOLIVIAN MARCHING POWDER.

HOLMES: (groaning) Watson, you fool! There's twenty pounds worth of the finest Colombian blow splattered all over the flogging carpet!

WATSON IS ON HIS KNEES NOW, CRAWLING TOWARD THE PARLOUR DOOR, TRAILING WHITE POWDER, MUCH TO HOLMES' CONSTERNATION. JUST AS WATSON REACHES THE DOOR, THERE IS A BLOOD-CURDLING HOWL FROM THE OTHER SIDE, AND THE SOUND OF FURIOUS SCRATCHING. WATSON HUNKERS DOWN, NOSE TO THE CARPET, AND SEES A BLOOD-CHILLING SIGHT THROUGH THE GAP AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DOOR.

WATSON: Good lord, Holmes, I've nearly soiled myself! There's an enormous deranged ant-eater trying to rip its way through the door with his gigantic talons!

HOLMES: Balderdash, Watson, don't you recognize Toby's plaintive baying? Get up, man, for God's sake, and let him in before Mrs. Hudson arrives brandishing a gelding knife!

WATSON: For Toby?

HOLMES: No, for US!

WATSON: Oh, right, I see... very well, then.

WATSON PULLS HIMSELF TO HIS KNEES AND USES THE ELEPHANT LEG UMBRELLA STAND TO GET TO HIS FEET. WITH SOME TREPIDATION, HE OPENS THE DOOR A FRACTION OF AN INCH AND IS IMMEDIATELY TRAMPLED BY TOBY THE LOVESICK BLOODHOUND, WHO BOUNDS INTO THE ROOM, DROOLING, KNOCKING HOLMES OUT OF HIS CHAIR. FROM DOWNSTAIRS, COMES THE FRANTIC GONAD-SHRIVELLING SCREECHING OF MRS. HUDSON, WHO HAS JUST DISCOVERED TOBY'S MUDDY PAWPRINTS IN THE VESTIBULE AND ON THE STAIRWAY LEADING TO HOLMES' APARTMENTS.

HUDDERS: Mr. Holmes, this is the absolutely the final straw! I forbid that filthy creature to invade the sanctity of my home one more time! Remove that wretched beast from the premises immediately or I'll call the constable!

HOLMES: Cripes, now we're for it... Watson, get this deranged canine off me, at once!

BUT WATSON IS FLAT ON HIS BACK, SUDDENLY ABSORBED IN THE INTRICATE STAMPINGS OF THE TIN CEILING, LISTENING TO THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES. HE DOES NOT HEAR HOLMES' ANGRY ENTREATY. MEANWHILE, TOBY HAS STARTING SNIFFING THE AFGHAN FOR FLEAS AND DISCOVERS INSTEAD, TO HIS INFINITE DELIGHT, THE TRAIL OF NEARLY PURE COCAINE THAT LITTERS THE FLOOR. BEFORE HOLMES CAN RESTRAIN THE BEAST, TOBY SNIFFS UP SEVERAL TABLESPOONSFUL OF THE COSTLY COCA, AND LOOKS AN ABSOLUTE FRIGHT, HIS MOIST NOSE RESEMBLING A SUGAR PLUM. TOBY WAVERS FOR A MOMENT, AS IF ABOUT TO KEEL OVER BUT THEN THE COCA COURSING THROUGH HIS VEINS CAUSES HIS HEART NEARLY TO BURST AT THE SEAMS. WITH A LEAP AND A BOUND WORTHY OF AN OLYMPIAN, HE POUNCES UPON WATSON'S PRONE FORM AND BEGINS ENERGETICALLY HUMPING HIS LEG.

WATSON: Eh? What is this, then? Toby, you mangy hound! I say, Holmes, this wretched fleabag is dry humping my good leg!

HOLMES: Brilliant deduction, Watson. And well-deserved, if you don't mind me saying so. It's a wonder his heart hasn't exploded. He's just snorkled up five quid worth of prime Brazilian nose whiskey.

WATSON: Good Lord, Holmes! We must evacuate the premises at once. If his liver blows, we're mincemeat! Get off me, you degenerate flea-bag!

MRS. HUDSON NOW STORMS INTO THE ROOM BRANDISHING A COAL SHOVEL AND A BULLWHIP.

HUDDERS: There he is! Your days are numbered, you filthy brute! Hold him, Dr. Watson, while I bash his filthy brains in!

HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson, calm down for God's sake. The situation is well under control, I assure you.

HUDDERS: Under control my bloomin' arse! There's mud and doggy effluent all over my parlour and stairs, that filthy animal is dry-humping poor Dr. Watson, and what in the name of the Queen is all this white muck all over my costly Afghan?!

WATSON: Eh? Oh, that's just a bit of white gold dust, Hudders. Don't worry, we'll sweep it up in a jiffy. Toby! No crotch nibbling!

HUDDERS: White gold dust, is it? Hmph. Looks suspiciously to me like some of that filthy gutter glitter them whoors down in Soho use to powder their noses with. I've told you before, Mr. Holmes, this is a good clean Christian house and I won't tolerate no drug addicted canines in here.

HOLMES: No need to worry about that, Hudders, it belongs to Watson. It's entirely his fault. Toby was just helping him tidy up a bit.

TOBY STOPS DRY-HUMPING WATSON, STARTS SNIFFING THE AIR, AND HONES IN ON HUDDERS.

WATSON: Thank God, I thought I was going to be humped to death. God Lord, Holmes, I'm covered in drool.

TOBY SNIFFS THE EDGE OF HUDDER'S SKIRT, POKES HIS POWDERED NOSE UNDERNEATH, FEELING HIS WAY THROUGH LAYERS OF PETTICOATS. HUDDERS FINALLY TAKES NOTICE.

HUDDERS: Here, what's all this, then?

HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson, I suggest that you stand perfectly still.

HOLMES PULLS HIMSELF TO HIS FEET AND LOADS WATSON'S GREAT WEBLY REVOLVER. WATSON LOOKS ON IN HORROR.

WATSON: Holmes, I say, you're not going to shoot Toby, are you? We'll lose the deposit, you know.

TOBY HAS WORKED HIS WAY THROUGH ALL THE PETTICOATS AND STARTS LICKING HUDDERS' BLOOMERS. SHE STARTS TO SWOON.

HOLMES: Don't move, Hudders. Unless I'm mistaken, Toby is zeroing in on your peach basket. Watson, sneak up on the depraved creature and grab him by the hind legs.

WATSON: Are you mad, Holmes? He'll rip my throat out.

HOLMES: Nonsense, Watson, he's snorted enough Argentinian bouncing powder to render a rhinoceros comatose.

WATSON: True, Holmes. He should be experiencing rigor mortis by now. Most peculiar.

HUDDERS SCREAMS AS TOBY RIPS THE CROTCH OUT OF HER BLOOMERS AND SHOVES HIS COLD, POWDERED NOSE UP HER TREMBLING LOVE MUFFIN.

HUDDERS: Mr. Holmes, help! Toby's slurping at me!

WATSON: Probably thinks he's found an oyster, what what, what!

AT THIS MOMENT A MESSENGER ARRIVES WITH AN URGENT MESSAGE FROM MYCROFT HOLMES.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

BEAUTIFUL SEEDS REVERSE

2011-04-04T04:22:00.000-07:00

BEAUTIFUL SEEDS REVERSE

Beautiful seeds reverse
Beautiful seas converse
Beautiful bees traverse
Skyline so shrewd
Skyline so lewd

Beautiful seeds reverse
Beautiful weeds in verse
Beautiful people obverse
Skyline so true
Skyline so cruel

Beautiful seeds reverse
Oh orchidaceous universe

copyright 2011 Birdy

THE BLOB AND KNOB

2011-03-28T14:25:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: Any buddy home?

BIRD: Well, actually there is.

BUFFALO: Where ya bin?

BIRD: Out and about, like. Anyway, thing is, dude, we've been a bit remiss.

BUFFALO: Sorry bout dat. Blame it on da hooring.

BIRD: The hiring?

BUFFALO: Nicht, meine Pickle Schapper. Hooring. Yesterday. Today. Tomorra. Forever.

BIRD: Insatiable. Incredible. Isn't it ever enuff?

BUFFALO: Nope. Tank's still empty. More, und more und more again, ja? And what about you, dude? Ain't seen ya around since December.

BIRD: I've had issues.

BUFFALO: What kinda issues? Why didn't you Skype, e-mail, phone even?! I've been missin' ya.

BIRD: Missed you too, buddy. But I needed to get away, to find myself again.

BUFFALO: Best not to look for yourself, dude. There's only a shadow there, or a shadow of a shadow, or a little dark blob with a knob, so to speak.

BIRD: Well, I found a lot more than that. I found F sharp 9 for starters.

BUFFALO: What dafukk are you on about now, Birdman?

BIRD: It's a chord. It's great. I've been playing gee-tah again.

BUFFALO: Nice one.

BIRD: I sing whenever the spirit moves me, any time of day or night.

BUFFALO: Rock and roll!

BIRD: When I'm in the song, I'm in another world. It's a different me, ascending, descending, on the puff of a melodic wave, floating in aural delight on the musical ocean deep.

BUFFALO: Cripes! Sounds like an out of body experience. Have you been sniffing the curry powder agin?

BIRD: Dude, it's beautiful. It's just me, the music, the shapes and curves and shimmering surfaces.

BUFFALO: Hmm.

BIRD: I tell you, I saw my true blob last night, with his knob, and his knob was radiant, tall and true.

BUFFALO: You darty auld bird.

BIRD: And I said to him... knob, lay thee down to slumber. And the knob of my true blob lay down and slumbered. And then I said... knob, beware of blobs bearing false knobs.

BUFFALO: Deep, dude, deep.

BIRD: Be true to your blob and he shall be trueth to you, oh true knob. Soon, you and I shall witness rebirth. Soon, the angels shall fall, the kettle shall boil, and we shall sip tea aplenty perched high on the stars. Just one step and we shall be free. Free! No more blobs. No more knobs.

BUFFALO: No more blobs! No more knobs!

BIRD: No more blobs! No more knobs!

BUFFALO: Blobs and knobs, out, out, out!

BIRD: Blobs and knobs, out, out, out!

BUFFALO: Blobs knobbed!

BIRD: Blobs knobbed!

BUFFALO: Out, out, out!

BIRD: Out, out, out!

BUFFALO: You did it, dude. You banished the blob with a knob. Maxi mummy respect O!

BIRD: Thanks, dude.

BUFFALO: Better go sort me own blobby knob out now. Blobby knob, come out, come out, wherever ya are?

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

A FOETAL MISTAKE

2010-11-25T05:14:00.000-08:00

BIRD WRITES:...

I have long suspected that my actuation into being was not of the intelligent design category, if you get my midriff. In the eternal search for meaning and the ever elusive obelisk of strife, I have mused over many a Smoothie and tea with honey about my beginnings. After several phone calls... well, one, actually, in which my mother feigned bad hearing AGAIN, I established that "We really can't remember, dear," in answer to my question "Was I planned?" The version of what really happened has changed so much over the years that I may as well conclude that my parents have never been in control, shall we say, of either their respective destinies or mine. It is with a heavy heart that after all these long years of enquiry I must conclude that, well, basically, my parents were "only in it for the nookie", and considering that by all accounts it was probably their last nookie, I am certainly not going to do any finger pointing. Indeed, I feel guilty that my conception led directly to a loss of interest in what is clearly one of the most pleasurable gifts from the gods.

So... why does it matter? Planned? Unplanned? It doesn't. Intention is overrated. I intend, and have intended, to do many, many things. Intention is an illusory tromtopolomorphous construct if ever there was one. Ha! Try Googling that, my bloggy fiends, and see what you get. At the end of the daze, haze, maze, whatever, I am. And I assert myself, or wound myself as best as I can. As we all do. Or should do. Life... is the opposite of death. None of us should forget that. I am reminded of the words of the great Poe in that old cheesy '70s TV series Kung Fu:
The sage has said "Others are contented, I alone am drifting. Not knowing where I am. I am different. I am nourished by the great mother. In an uncertain hour, the wise man acknowledges uncertainty."

Live well, and all.
Arf, arf!

OTHER FOETAL MISTAKES...
Stephen Fry
Lance Armstrong
Britney Spears
John Cleese
Jonathan Ross
Al Gore
Russell Brand
Alan Carr
Demi Moore
Arnold Schwarzenegger
Snoop Doggy Dogg
Paulo Coelho
Mischa Barton
Yoko Ono
Will Self
Will Smith
Will Conquer
Will Power

THE LATEST TWEET...
Click many, many. But where's the button? Feck, it's cold in here. Time for a mug of tea, methinks.

INDENTATIONS AND THE DANCE OF THE TICKLE

2010-11-04T06:58:00.000-07:00

INDENTATIONS AND THE DANCE OF THE TICKLE

Push
that
tab
far enough
and it
will
tut tut
tickle
ickle
fickle
tab bab
volumanoid
***

CURRENTLY ON TWITTER:
I have always felt twiddle is an underrated word. What's that bird doing on my window? O yuck.

OF TWITTER AND WIKILEAKS

2010-10-28T02:37:00.000-07:00

NEW! EXCITING! NEW! STEAMING! NEW! JAMMING! NEW! NEW! NEW! NEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FOLLOW US NOW ON TWITTER:

"I watched the bubbles on my coffee fade. H2O doesn't get better than this."

AND...

WIKILEAKS.

You can now find 300,491 PRIVATE documents from Buff''s TOP SECRET collection of e-mails, post-it notes, scribbles on cigarette packets and toilet paper. It is claimed that had some of these documents been released earlier, perhaps... the invasion of Iraq would never have happened, George Bush would never have been elected, the global financial meltdown could have been avoided, peace between India and Pakistan could have been achieved, and the mystery of what really happened to Buff's neighbours' budgerigars would finally be solved. And more.

WIKILEAKS... because there just ain't enough hours in the day to waste on waste.

Arf, arf!

IT TAKES A TWITTER TO KNOW A TWITTER

2010-10-23T08:37:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: Dude, you dere?

BIRD: Halfway between the here and the chow.

BUFFALO: I think I've done it, I think I've found love, Birdy.

BIRD: Great! At last! What's her name?

BUFFALO: It's not a she, it's an it.

BIRD: Oh, you mean a Herman Afro Deity?

BUFFALO: No, dude, you berkoff, a philosophy.

BIRD: Oh, really? Forgive me while I yawn.

BUFFALO: Dude, it's called Wantism, and it really works. All you have to do is want something real bad and hey per-resto, you get it!

BIRD: And what is it exactly you want, dude?

BUFFALO: For fudge rocket's sake, dude, open yer lugholes - LOVE!!! And what's more, I got it. You see, I now realise, having signed up to Wantism Global thru Twitteroo that EVERYTHING is love. Look around you, everywhere you turn, whaddya see? Huh? LOVE, dude. As much as you or me or anyone will ever need. I'm tellin' ya, since this morning I have not touched my todger once.

BIRD: Whoa, a world record. Congrats. I'm really happy for you, but just tell me one thing - how does this LOVE love you back, hmmm? Hmmm?

BUFFALO: Dude, that's the old love, the one about give and take and all that outmoded bull. This is the real thing. LOVE IS... That's all.

BIRD: No subject, no object.

BUFFALO: Dat's right. Just the cosmic continuum, innit.

BIRD: Wow. I'll have to tell me missus about this. No more tantrums, no more heated arguments, no more disharmony, no more wounded egos, no more... us.

BUFFALO: You got it.

BIRD: Hmm... You know what, I don't think she'll go for that, and hactually, dude, when it comes to snuggling up in bedders, if it's a choice between the cosmic ultimatum and me dearly beloved, I'm going for the latter.

BUFFALO: Oh, farkwit! You've done it again, you've blown wide apart the best idea for inner peas EVER by introducing that which only speaks its name in the damnedest of terms - LONELINESS. You fudging fecker, dude! Thanks a lot.

BIRD: Takes a Twitter to know a Twitter, dude.

BUFFALO: Condemned to another night with Doris. Jeez...

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

THE TEMPTATION OF A CLERGYMAN

2010-05-13T02:27:00.000-07:00

THE TEMPTATION OF A CLERGYMAN

The pimple
of her
smile
led him
to
an
entirely
new
altar

THOUGHTS ON A BUS - FEAR

2010-05-12T09:22:00.000-07:00

FEAR

I fear
You fear
We fear
How
BIG?

HERPES, OMIGOD

2010-04-19T11:40:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: U der?

BIRD: Yep. Frazzled.

BUFFALO: Watching a brillo movie on TCM - old Brit flic with Michael Redgrave set in a boys’ prep school. Worn out from the shoot yesterday.

BIRD: Creative worn out is da best. Mine is just stuck at the Bore Fest worn out.

BUFFALO: Well, shit...

BIRD: On a stick. How much footage did you get?

BUFFALO: Me and Ken got blitzed after the shoot, was tripping, like. It was good though.

BIRD: Fookin’ fairies.

BUFFALO: Huh?

BIRD: You being spaced out, off with the fairies, innit.

BUFFALO: Ah. Got hours of footage, four cameras.

BIRD: You’ll have fun putting that together.

BUFFALO: Caught hell from Osbee…

BIRD: Oh?

BUFFALO: Missed her dad’s birthday party.

BIRD: Shite.

BUFFALO: 85, like.

BIRD: Dude, she’s gonna kill ya.

BUFFALO: But she didn’t tell me about the party!

BIRD: Well, that’s different.

BUFFALO: She gets worse by the day. She's trying to kill me, dude. Just like the gal in the movie is out to kill her husband.

BIRD: What’s the latest with Pammy?

BUFFALO: Been avoiding her like the plague. She has a boyfriend.

BIRD: Bummer. Nay fair.

BUFFALO: And I noticed something that kinda spooked me.

BIRD: Oh?

BUFFALO: She had a cold sore on her lip... and I'm thinking HERPES.

BIRD: You didn’t snog her, didya?

BUFFALO: Feck, no! NO…

BIRD: Knobbed her?

BUFFALO: NO.

BIRD: HERPES is my least favourite god.

BUFFALO: Do you know the difference…

BIRD: Nope.

BUFFALO: Between love and HERPES?

BIRD: Nope.

BUFFALO: HERPES is FOREVER.

BIRD: Ah, yes. No cure?

BUFFALO: Nope. This is a great fookin’ movie. It has adultery for one thing, with a seriously hot bitch, tho she really IS a bitch. I have to go drop a load on the toad now, dude. Those beans went right through me.

BIRD: Fair nuff. And I need a slash. And maybe some food.

BUFFALO: A slash?

BIRD: Piss.

BUFFALO: Gotta go.

BIRD: Enjoy.

BUFFALO: Hope I’m not conster-pated. That sucks. Right, got a turtle poking his head out, dude. Which rewinds me, some fookwit was supposed to call me today for an online training session.

BIRD: Oh, yeah?

BUFFALO: Hang on, that’s him now.

(PAUSE)

BUFFALO: He had a family emergency, was at the horse pistol. He’s gonna call back at six. Breaking Bad tonight, dude.... Gonna get high for that, have to smoke up me weed cuz after the 19th I can’t smoke for a year… condition of the oral surgery. So it’s gonna be brownies for me after the 19th. So I’m staying ripped until the weed runs out or I croak. Nap time. Maybe flog der weasel first, like.

BIRD: Later, dude.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

LATE BUT FOREVER

2010-02-09T10:09:00.000-08:00

IN AUTUMN 1990, SOMETHING HAPPENED IN CHERRY PIE WOOD. MRS BARFAWAY REFUSES TO TELL & HER DOG LICKSPITTLE SIMPLY RAN AWAY. TEN YEARS ON, STEWART SUMNER ASSESSES THE INFLATORY IMPACT OF THE MYSTIFYING EVENTS THAT DAY ON POST-MODULATORY, MULTILITERAL, PREAMBULATORY CROSSOVER POETRY PERTAINING TO EXPRESS THE SHIT SANDWICH IN NON-GASTRONOMIC TERMS. THE FOLLOWING POEM HAS BEEN ENTERED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL SELF-FLAGELLATING AUTOMATED GARGOYLE ON A STICK AWARD 2010.

LATE BUT FOREVER
by Stewart Sumner

As the rain splashes
I see the cradle
To the grave
In scintillating shades
Of colour and dialogue
Freeze framed and clipped
To slip in my back pocket
On the way to the doc
Forwards, backwards then stop
A juddering footnote
To the incoming saline
As blue as the midnight
As fake as the PhotoShop
I say, did you hear that plop?
That was me

UP CHUCK AND DI

2010-02-06T08:21:00.000-08:00

Avitan Demotional! Me, Me, Now!

2010-02-05T17:05:00.000-08:00

(to the tune of "Jingle Bells")
words - Marcel DeClercq

Ativan
Ativan
Atta girl, you go
Take a chill pill everyday
Lest you go insane, hey!

Stop yer cryin'
Drink more wine
And beer and whiskey, too
Once you're tranked
Or mildly tanked
Your troubles melt away.

Dashing through the blow
Cocaine all the way
Oh what fun it is to ride
In a souped-up Chevrolet
Bell's High-Octane Ale
Gets you fookin' tight
What fun it is to smoke a joint
And get ripped every night!

Oh, Ativan, Ativan, trankers all the way
Oh what fun it is to chill
'Til your troubles melt away!

DELETED AND PURGED, THE UNHOLY TRILOGY

2010-01-23T09:05:00.000-08:00

DELETED AND PURGED, THE UNHOLY TRILOGY
by Donia Carey, Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner

(From a most unlikely thread about the future. Dedicated, as always, to the genius of the one and only Donia Carey)

Whilst exploring my genome
Inexplicably aroused
I prematurely
Creamed my genes

It stopped
So sudden
I got whiplash
Of the emotions

With this pistol
I thee deface
O future tense
Deleted and purged

Make bunions
On the bum
History
Wear lace

COMING SOON: THE OLD TESTAMENT, DIONYSUS, ITALIAN CULTURE, UNCONSCIOUSNESS, PREMONITIONS OF THE ULTIMATE EROTIC KISS, AND WHAT HAPPENED WHEN DA AULD BUFF DISCOVERED HUSSERLIAN PHENOMENOLOGY ON HIS BEDROOM DOOR

OF GAY DOGS AND COCAINE

2009-11-25T09:04:00.000-08:00

WATSON: I've been thinking, Holmes...

HOLMES: Steady on, old chap, you might blow a blood vessel, and we wouldn't want that.

WATSON: No, really, I've been thinking about Toby.

HOLMES: Oh, dear. I do wish Hudders would fix the inflatable doll so I could distract myself from your daily dollop of mind-numbing claptrap.

WATSON: Seriously, Holmes, do you think Toby's, well, you know, sniffing up the other leg?

HOLMES: What on earth are you raving on about now, Watters? Have you been at the aniseed cake again?

WATSON: I mean, well, to put it bluntly, do you think his canine excitement lies elsewhere?

HOLMES: Oh, for Hudders sake, of course Toby's gay. I can't believe you've only just cottoned on to that fact.

WATSON: You knew? But when? How? With...

HOLMES: It was elementary, my dear quack, from the moment he started rising to the occasion on Primrose Hill whenever he saw Butch the Bulldog stomp by. Why, he even tried to mount Inspector Lestrade outside Scotland Yard last Christmas, if you recall.

WATSON: Oh, come now, he was only being playful. I mean, are you sure he barks for the other side? He seemed so fond of Clarissa, the poodle at number eight.

HOLMES: As sure as I am that that Moriarty partakes of an unsuspecting goat every now and then.

WATSON: No, Holmes! Tell me it isn't so! Why, the fiend. How utterly revolting. Does he, you know, dress her up and whatnot? In stockings and suspenders?

HOLMES: Watson, I have long suspected you of extreme perversity and unhealthy proclivities but this takes the Digestive. I can only say that it is better if you do not pursue this particular avenue of inquiry for your own sake.

WATSON: Yes, of course. All this talk of depravity is making me feel rather faint, old thing. I think I'll just go and have a lie down.

HOLMES: I fear, old chum, that that would not be a sensible course of action at this juncture. You might be tempted to have a flick at the old Freddy, what what what. Here, sniff this. It might quieten him down for a while.

WATSON: Holmes, you know I can't partake of intoxicating substances. It plays havoc with my bladder. And I'd be struck off in a whisker if the Medical Council ever found out.

HOLMES: For Pete's sake, it's only a pinch of coke. Never hurt anyone. Good stuff too, by all accounts. Fresh from the docks.

WATSON: Confound it, Holmes, what on earth would the great British public think if they knew that the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson were discussing gay dogs and goats in stockings and suspenders and cocaine?

HOLMES: Watson, I strongly suspect that if they knew, book sales would go through the roof and we'd become a global brand. Then we'd be able to retire to sunnier climes, with totty and booze and barbiturates beyond our wildest dreams.

WATSON: Oh, abomination, sugar and spice! Are the public so puerile, so base, so corrupted that moral upstanding has no place in society any more?

HOLMES: Never did, Watty Poos. It is but a meaningless, stifling veneer through which we breathe. Now feast your hooter on this. Go on.

(TOBY HOWLS IN DELIGHT IN THE DISTANCE)

WATSON: Oh, Toby! We're going to hell in a basket for this, Holmes, mark my words.

(BUTCH THE BULLDOG GRUNTS LOUDLY IN DELIGHT IN THE DISTANCE)

WATSON: Oh, woe are we. (SNIFFS COKE) Oh... Great shit, Holmes.

HOLMES: Indeed, Watson. Gay dogs on cocaine at eleven.

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

2009-10-21T05:06:00.000-07:00

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

The milk of human kindness
Doth runneth over
And turneth sour
And clot
And stinketh to high heaven.

PUBISTAN WRITERS SUPPORT CAMPAIGN TO REVIVE INSOLENT RUDDER

2009-10-19T03:47:00.000-07:00

COMMUNIQUE FROM COLLECTIVE OF WRITERS OF THE PUBISH TO THE GREAT INQUISITOR ON INNER NET:

My Dear!

Please release great comrade and eternal friend of Pubish revolution, Tim Ljunggren, to continue on the paths - revolutionary, economic, social, five year orientated and promulgated through institutional instruments of rehabilitation - to the glory of the worldwide creative thrust!

Thank you!

We kiss you!

But not your ass!

Verdimita "Steve" Ripyorebollokov

PS Is me, Maxim. Ha! Pull finger out, Tim. Let sun shine in!

You remember this below?

NOTES FROM PUBISTAN PART 3 – by Maxim Ripyorebollokov
Translated by Stewart Sumner

Dear readers, it is me again, Maxim Ripyorebollokov, the future of literature in the unfree world! Greetings to you all! As I squeeze the final drops of fervent dew from the horn of the affair with Larissa, Miss Pube 2007, a vegetarian, I thus seek the ultimate clarity (Trans – the Pubish word for red wine and lucidity are the same – klarkost. It is unclear what Maxim means to convey here). But where to find clarity? To shout loudly from the tree branch? To shudder in front of farmyard animal traffic? To pluck hair from a rabbit till the bladder is on display? “Drink to thine clarity”, the great Pubish poet Dmitri Ripyorebollokov – no relation – proclaimed as night was drawing in over State Rabbit Farm 6.5 one hoary night post-Revolution (Trans – you’re on your own here, the meaning is all but lost on a non-Pube).

O Sweet clarity, come forth to me. Show yourself, if thou’st dare. I was deep in thoughtfulness at the office yesterday when I was approached from behind by the man they call Spider. Officially, he is chief of quality control and a fine sculptor, which is a amplitudinous shame since sculpture was banned in the Second Decree of the Post-Revolution Phase of Our Great Revolution. So Spider – genuine name Richard but Spider since he is full of mischief and malice and crawls rather than walks. Also, he is deceptively quick to pounce. “So,” I said, “Spider, you are here!” “Yes,” Spider said, “I am. I have recipe for rabbit cake. You want?” I suspected a trap. “Yes, all right, Spider. Please.” Ha! He gave me no recipe, just the price to pay for such top secret information. You know, the last time rabbit cake was made in Pubistan was in the cruel, foreboding, winter of ’76. That was when we still had an abundance of cream. For your intrigue, now a bowl of imported cream cost 2 Pubes on blackest market. That is roughly 10 million of your American dollars! So anyway, I watched intently Spider with his hairy legs as he slowly crawled back to his darkened corner by the trap door to the exit used for employees who have displeased the furtherance of the glorious State of Pubistan in some despicable way. Sometimes, it is possible to believe Spider is indeed a spider and that it is my self-deception which maintains him to be a human being, but that way madness lies, and the trap door.

What does Spider want in life? What can he hope for? Will he fall through the trap door before he has realised his dream of assembling the greatest collection of octopedes the world outside Pubistan has never seen? Despite the fact that he is truly creepy and smells like a rabbit’s genitals after a prolonged session of heightened activity, I wish him only happiness and a resolution of his mother’s gender reassignment issues.

But sorry. Really. Where is the literature? You ask. I present you with two paragraphs of my novel, which unfortunately, do not follow sequentially, consequentially or even logically from what has gone before. You like? There is hope.

Night fell. The burrowing began. He stretched his arm out. The hand was not there. Just the newspaper with no news and the walking stick with no handle. They would find him. Soon. The trail of imported peanut butter would lead them to his resting place. His movements were slight. More twitching than calculated. The in-tray of despair mounted ever higher.

Were you gripped? And this paragraph. I think this might be the end. We shall see. Forgive me, for it is short.

The words tumbled. The wind blew. The extremely happy rabbit clucked. A pause. A heartbeat. Silence.

Oh, joy extended beyond, my friends. The literary journey continues. I must extinguish the candle now and think of Marsha, Miss Pube 2008, a carnivore. She could partake of my meat any day.

Long live The Pubish Writers Union!

Hail words together! May they never be parted!

I kiss you!

Maxim

THE CUCUMBER OF LOVE ONCE SCORNED

2009-10-12T05:57:00.000-07:00

WINNER OF THE 2009 PROMOTING THE RESPONSIBLE USE OF CUCUMBERS AND OTHER VEGETABLES IN LOVING RELATIONSHIPS POETRY PRIZE

THE CUCUMBER OF LOVE ONCE SCORNED

I offered her
my great throbbing
cucumber of love
But she didn't carrot all for it.

AND THE WINNER OF THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE 2009...

2009-10-10T04:26:00.000-07:00

BARACK OBAMA REFUSES TO ACCEPT THE PRIZE AND INSTEAD GIVES IT TO THE BIRD & BUFFALO, FOR EXTRAORDINARY EFFORTS TO PROMOTE PEACE AND MUTUAL WARM GOAT SACKS IN FINLAND IN OUR LIFETIME.

IN AN ABORTED ACCEPTANCE SPEECH, DUE TO INTERNECINE FIGHTING, WOLVERINE INDIFFERENCES AND FERAL FESTERINGS, THE AULD BUFF SAID...

FINLAND, LAND OF THE FINN, THEY SAID YOU WERE FINNISHED, THEY SAID FINNS WEREN'T GOING SO GREAT, THEY SAID YOU COULD NO LONGER ENJOY THE FINNER THINGS IN LIFE, THEY SAID THE FINN STOPS HERE... NO, HERE! NO, HERE! OH, HERE THEN! THEY SAID HUCKLEBERRY FINN WAS NO FINN AT ALL. BUT AS THE OLD FINNISH SAYING GOES, TO CRACK A RABBIT YOU MUST FIRST GREASE THE PITCH FORK AND LOWER THE RUMP VERY GENTLY. FINN OF ME WHENEVER YOU'RE LONELY. HELL SINK YE NEVER! BURY YOUR IRREVERENCES AND PREPARE THE BOAT. THE RUDDER IS STIRRING, TOGETHER YOU CAN BE INFATUATED. LIVE O FINNICLE ONES! AND THRIVE IN YOUR FORESTS SO DARK! FLY! FLY! FLY... FINNAIR!!!

THE REAL STEWART SUMNER REPOSED TO PROFANITY FAIR

2009-09-23T03:45:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: Is dat you, dude?

BIRD: WotdaFachenbach! My own mother, selling the family jewels to Profanity Fair. Does family honour mean nothing in a rectal world?

BUFFALO: So you ARE Stewart Sumner!

BIRD: Merely a Doppelganger.

BUFFALO: Dude, that IS you!

BIRD: OK, OK, OK! It's me. Yes, I am THE Stewart Sumner, the writer. Happy now?

BUFFALO: I don't believe you.

BIRD: The camera doesn't lie.

BUFFALO: Dude, I've never met you. You could like the way this guy looks and pretend to be him, because you like the glamour and intrigue that goes with being a writer.

BIRD: Dude, I'm tired of the centrifuge. Maybe if I just fess up, MI5, the CIA, the FBI, Interpol, the Women's Institute and the Jehovah's Witnesses will finally leave me alone, already.

BUFFALO: Un-ber-feck-Inn-B-leave-ab-all. So you really are THE Stewart Sumner! I've read all your stuff. You're a friggin' genius!

BIRD: Thanks, Buff. You're not so bad yourself. I especially liked Moose Turd Pie. A modern classic of scatological entropy.

BUFFALO: Blushing here, dude.

BIRD: Ha! So you are THE Marcel DeClercq, literary powerhouse of Michigan.

BUFFALO: 'Fraid so.

BIRD: Wow. So they were right. I don't get it. Who did we think we were fooling?

BUFFALO: Our lovers, mostly. But that's another inventory.

BIRD: But dude...

BUFFALO: Yes, dude?

BIRD: You're always be da auld Buff to me.

BUFFALO: And you'll always be Birdy to me.

BIRD: Phew. So nothing's changed.

BUFFALO: Apart from the global recognition, ya mean? Nope.

BIRD: And the blog goes on.

BUFFALO: Yarp.

BIRD: Excrement.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

WARNING: The previous conversation does not constitute irreputable proof that the above individuals are who they say they are. And since the advent of PhotoShop, photographic evidence don't mean badgershit. You have been fooled. I mean warned.

COMING SOON: What Stewart Sumner said to his mum when he went home for tea to confront her over selling explicit images to reductable publications. INCLUDES FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY AND EXPLICIT LOW-FLYING SCONES.

THE SHIT SANDWICH GOES ON...

2009-09-21T04:36:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: Dude, I've just been told I have a 5% chance that I'll live.

BIRD: Well, don't blame me that you're on the CIA shit list. I mean, those fooklars have NO sense of humour whatsoever.

BUFFALO: How da fawk was I to know they'd tap our Skype? I mean, you and me, we're just shootin' the breeze, innit. Messin' with the pessin'. Rumping the trumpet.

BIRD: Jealousy, dude. There are some comedians out there that can't take our cult status. They'll ask you a few questions, take a few jugshots, shove a meerkat up yer arse then toss you back where you belong.

BUFFALO: You don't understand, I've been implicated. I'm heading for the state penal tensionary.

BIRD: Dude, you're innocent.

BUFFALO: I know, but they need someone to take a hit.

BIRD: A fall guy?

BUFFALO: You got it.

BIRD: I see. So the shit sandwich goes on...

BUFFALO: Jeez. I need this as much as I need another asshole. Maybe we should come clean about Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner.

BIRD: It won't make any difference.

BUFFALO: But the intercepts...

BIRD: Hearsay. Coded messages at best.

BUFFALO: Dude, if I'm Marcel DeClercq...

BIRD: A-ha.

BUFFALO: And you're Stewart Sumner...

BIRD: Right.

BUFFALO: Then who are the Bird and Buffalo?

BIRD: Oh, yeah. That's a good one. Well... they might just be the guys that Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner aspire to being when the constraints of a tyrannical imaginary delusionary non-participatory gyratory construct are set free.

BUFFALO: Or total impostors who deserve all the fame and recognition that comes their way.

BIRD: Or a satirical monolithic retrospective vision of the future in the past tense.

BUFFALO: Wotdafachenbach! You've got it, dude.

BIRD: Collateral thinking, doncha know.

BUFFALO: Rock on, Marcel and Stewie!

BIRD: Seize the whey!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

CIA INTERCEPT LEAKED TO WORLD MEDIA - CODENAME ARF, ARF TEMPLATE 28871593 DONUT

2009-09-18T07:09:00.000-07:00

REPRODUCED HERE VERBATIM.

"Dude, they're on to us. From now on, to evade capture, or any responsibility for our actions or thoughts or our debt to society bullshit, we MUST, repeat MUST talk in code. Dude, are you there? How's the scooter? Still on holiday? Eh? Eh? Arf, arf! Shit. Shouldn't have said that. Arf, arf! I mean. Come in, autumn! Dude! This is beyond an enclosure, innit. What's the title? Quick. We don't have much time. I'm telling you, that Marcel DeClercq is a frigging genius. Learn more, compose edit, preview. Dude, you're fading. Html! H-T-M-L! Fugget! Whither the REAL Stewart Sumner? Moderation posts. Comment. Monetise. Template. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Dashboard free. Repeat DASHBOARD FREE. Dude? Dude?"
END OF TRANSMISSION

SO YOU'RE TELLING US THAT WE'RE MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND STEWART SUMNER! HA! HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW MUCH PUBLICITY MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND STEWART SUMNER ARE GOING TO GET OUT OF YOUR ILLEGAL WIRE TAPPING? HMM? HMM??? THESE TWO, BY ALL ACCOUNTS, EXTREMELY TALENTED WRITERS AND THOROUGHLY NICE CHAPS ARE GONNA MAKE MILLIONS OUT OF THIS.

EGG ON YOUR FACE, CIA!

EGG ON YOUR FACE.

HEAR THAT GUFFAWING?

'TIS THE GREAT MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND THE FAB STEWART SUMNER LAFFING ALL THE WAY TO THE BANK.

ARF, ARF!

THE BIRD & BUFFALO FINALLY EXPOSED?

2009-09-16T08:20:00.000-07:00

SPECULATION IN THE WORLD MEDIA IS RIFE THAT FINALLY, AFTER YEARS OF INVESTIGATIONS AND TIP OFFS, THE TRUE IDENTITY OF THE BIRD & BUFFALO CAN NOW BE REVEALED...

ACCORDING TO CIA AND MI5 INTERCEPTS, A CERTAIN MARCEL DeCLERCQ & AN ALLEGED STEWART SUMNER HAVE BEEN COMMUNICATING "IN A WAY NOT UNLIKE THE BIRD & BUFFALO". THE EVIDENCE GOES ON... AND ON...

MEANWHILE, EXHIBIT A...

Kite Flyer from Michelle Ouellette on Vimeo.

Illustration & Animation - Michelle Ouellette
Story by - Marcel DeClercq
Edit & Sound - Chad Dogby

IS THIS WORK OF THE AULD BUFF? YOU, CITIZENS OF B&B WORLD MUST DECIDE.

WE, BIRD & BUFFALO, KNOW THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH, BUT OUR LIPS ARE SEALED BY AN INTERNATIONAL GAGGING ORDER 2134564a PENDING.

BUT WE ASK YOU... CAN THIS POETRY...

I am
On the top
Looking down
Wondering
Why
I
See
Only You
And your
Trout

..WRITTEN BY AN 10-YEAR-OLD STEWART SUMNER TO IMPRESS HIS PRIMARY SCHOOLTEACHER, Ms JUMPMEE - WE KID THEE NOT, TRUE NAME! -

CAN THIS POSSIBLY BE COMPARED TO BIRDY'S RECENT BITINGLY SATIRICAL POETIC SPIN ON ANGST IN INNER CITY LONDON?

In the city
Inner
Bitter
Chewy
Bluey
Fooey
Inner
City
Angst

WELL????

EXPOSED? WE SHALL SEE!

ARF, ARF!

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 2 - A CRITIQUE

2009-08-29T04:40:00.000-07:00

Reminiscent of a telephone conversation I had with my agent one hoary night in May, Fate Go Fugg Yerself Part 2 leads us into a labyrinthine world of winners and losers and cosmic sages with ample time but little ambulatory inclincation. When my agent asked me whether I felt it was acceptable to rhyme "thimble" with "titball" I gave an unequivocable "No!" And this, the second poem in a series of ten, or more, seems to say to us, if we are humble and hungry enough to listen - "Yes!" Or is it, "Oh, no!" Not since Shakespeare's Lost Cornets For Hornets cycle has a poem hit the dizzy heights of solemn triumphalist confrontation and celebration with a small C. "To eat the world's jewel on the blackboard of rhyme" - it categorically doesn't get any better than that. If Shakespeare were alive today, he'd be squeezing out melons in sheer delight at the deconstructive interrogatory tone of what is undoubtedly the masterpiece of the as yet anonymous poet's contemplative irrigation. Hit!

Brett Trivia-Bricking-Shitezer IV Jnr.

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 2

2009-08-29T04:29:00.000-07:00

Tender is the world's fresh ornament
O churl most strange
Pity
Pity
Thee
Let me
Let me
Be
Great
Gluttony
To eat
the world's jewel
On the blackboard
Of
Rhyme
Fate
Go
Fugg
Yerself!

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 1 - A CRITIQUE

2009-08-28T07:37:00.000-07:00

Incredibly syllabic in its Haiku-like assertions, Fate Go Fugg Yerself Part 1 neither rhymes nor pertains to belong to that which we believe to be free verse. It dispenses with any pretensions to structure but to fully immerse yourself in the voice and intent of this piece you must seek out and absorb the pauses. What has popularly been known as detonator poetry by the great, very late Wilson Farting-Daily-Rarely-Cleering-Bowels, is nowhere more in evidence in Fate Go Fugg Yerself Part 1. When musing on the voice, one wonders if there is a person at all. The theme, whilst self-evident, is hidden in the mood. The author - and there is much speculation as to his or her true identity - clearly likes to gripe and moan his or her way through life. The meaning is underlying yet obvious and sometimes obverse or reverse, if you persevere. I made a note of the emotions I felt as I separated and determined everything which is consistent and obscure in what at first appears a slight murmur of a work. The symbolism, irony, metaphors and similes are sublime yet earthy to the point of moistened compost. Having put it all together the style and ebb and flow combines to provide a nature which speaks in every syllable of language and ultimately, even more language. Quite simple - staggering.

DR DAVID FEELGOOD-STANZASOVERHIEROFF

THE SHORT POETRY REVIEW

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 1

2009-08-28T07:15:00.000-07:00

Mine eyes
no longer see
that which
is before me
or behind me
but in front of me
I see
Only too clearly
and so wish
that I
did not
Fate
Go
Fugg
Yerself!

QUOTATION OF THE MEEK

2009-08-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

When I offer it (Ed- literary criticism), I feel as though I've smeared shit on the rug.

Donia Carey

AH, DONIA, HOW SADLY MISSED YOU ARE. ONE DAY A BOOK WILL BE FILLED OF YOUR QUOTES AND YOU WILL BE AWARDED POSTHUMOUSLY THE HIGHEST ORDER OF ALL LANDS.

Arf, arf!

THE DREAM OF GALVESTON

2009-07-28T09:15:00.000-07:00

THE DREAM OF GALVESTON by Donia Carey

I gallivanted
with a galoot
in Galveston...
A gaggle
of
gargling
Gargoyles
galumphed
by
ogled
my
globular
glutes
grabbed
my
girdle
grinned
gelatinous
grins--
I
giggled
wriggled
my groin.
My galoot
skedaddled
The
gloating
gargoyles
and
I
glut
- tonously
grunted
and
Googled.

DONIA CAREY - A TRIBUTE

2009-07-24T03:01:00.000-07:00

ON JULY 11TH, DONIA CAREY LOST HER LONG FIGHT WITH CANCER. PEOPLE KNEW HER ON THIS BLOG AS FIFI LAMOUR. SHE WAS AN INSPIRATION TO EVERYONE WHO KNEW HER, DEEPLY LOVED AND RESPECTED BY ALL, AND HAS LEFT BEHIND A MASSIVE GAPING HOLE IN THE LIVES OF EVERYONE WHO HAD THE PRIVILEGE TO KNOW HER. WITHOUT DONIA THERE WOULDN'T BE A BIRD AND BUFFALO. SHE BROUGHT THE BIRD (AKA STEWART SUMNER) AND THE BUFFALO (AKA MARCEL DeCLERCQ) TOGETHER. SHE ALWAYS "GOT" WHAT WE WERE TRYING TO DO ON THIS BLOG AND WAS OUR BIGGEST FAN AND MUSE. LIFE WITHOUT HER WILL BE UNBEARABLE BUT WE INTEND TO CARRY ON AND GO ON TO BIGGER AND BETTER THINGS AS SHE ALWAYS HOPED WE WOULD.

LAST YEAR, THE THREE OF US EMBARKED UPON A PROJECT TO WRITE A BOOK OF SHORT POETRY. WE WROTE MANY A POEM AND IT WAS A LOT OF FUN. HOW WE WISH WE HAD FINISHED THAT PROJECT AND PUBLISHED THE ANTHOLOGY. DONIA WAS SUCH A TALENTED WRITER THAT IT IS A CRIME HER WORK IS NOT AVAILABLE IN BOOKSHOPS. ONE DAY IT WILL BE, OF THAT THERE IS NO DOUBT, AND THEN THE WORLD CAN ENJOY THE WONDERFUL CREATIONS SHE MADE UNDER ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES.

SO THANK YOU, DONIA, FOR BEING SUCH A SPECIAL, UNIQUE HUMAN BEING, WITH A HUMANITY AND SENSITIVITY NONE OF US COULD HOPE TO MATCH. WE HOPE YOU LIKE THE TRIBUTE. WE HAVE SELECTED FOUR PIECES WHICH IN OUR HUMBLE OPINION REFLECT THE DIVERSITY OF DONIA'S WORK. THE LAST PIECE, LOVE IS WHERE YOU FIND IT, IS POSSIBLY THE FINEST SHORT STORY DONIA WROTE. IT'S QUITE LONG SO YOU MAY WISH TO PRINT IT OUT. WE HAVE ALSO INCLUDED SOME OF THE TRIBUTES PEOPLE WHO KNEW HER HAVE POSTED ON THE ZOETROPE ONLINE WORKSHOP. BEFORE THAT, THOUGH, A BRIEF BIOGRAPHY PROVIDED BY DONIA HERSELF.

RIP, SWEETIE!

birdandbuffalissimo hugs
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I sang for e.e.cummings. It was a private command performance of settings of his poems, and Mr. Cummings hummed some snatches of the songs as he left to bail a friend out of jail. Most of my life has been spent as a working musician, although I did a five-year stint as editor at a scholarly publication. In high school I was voted Class Poet, but since I was also voted Tallest Girl, though several others topped me by an inch, you might take the honor with a grain of salt. I am an editor at The Madhatters' Review and the Linnet's Wings, and have had stories published in a number of online publications."

Love on a Log by Donia Carey

The love of my life is a frog
Who lives in a slime-covered bog
Our noisy assignations
Cause public demonstrations--
We fancy a hump on a log.

***

Fifi Lamour's Limerick by Donia Carey

Travel East or travel West
Sparky's Toe Jam is the best
Oh, how I love to lick each piggy
When we do the friggy-wiggy
Helping all that jam digest

***

Rooftop in August by Donia Carey

The roof of a 4-stack tenement on an August night. Nighthawks squawking, wheeling like children’s spin toys. Churches on both sides, steeples, bells. Men on the roofs, jumping from one to the next, six feet in between. Showing off before their women, practicing their skills. Women watching, hearts in throats, admiring their prowess. Or envying it. Feet tingling, wanting to jump too. What stops them?

Later, on the roof again, just two people, the man, the woman. Secrets whispered into bosoms where hearts pound to the white heat of banked desires.

Kisses. More kisses, mere kisses, no more, not yet. Promises. Then the one promise, the binding one.

The globe revolves; the spinning gyre the scent of flowers the ratcheting birds humming cicadas the heat from the white streets all rise up and whirl in a cyclone of possibility, and they are at the vortex, this man, this woman. A couple, the sacred unit. The bells sanctify them and the world smiles upon them: it stamps its approval.

Yet the feet insist on tingling, and the soul struggles to fly.

****

Love Is Where You Find It by Donia Carey

The soldier arrived at our house on Thursday afternoon the way they usually did, in the big woven basket shaped like a mummy’s coffin. My brother helped my father carry him in. I heard my parents talking.

“Such a shame. So young,” my mother was saying. “And the war nearly over.”

He was only nineteen, accidentally shot in training camp by one of his buddies. Why did God allow such things to happen? I shivered, and felt a sudden tenderness for this unknown, now dead, soldier. What had he dreamed of doing, and had he been happy? Did he love someone and had he been loved in return...Or had he been lonely, too?

He was almost thirteen then--a dangerous age. A fleeting innocence, the false angel wings of the shoulder blades; petty secret guilts, never quite absolved in confession. I was waiting for my real life to begin.

We were a mother, a father, an uncle, an older brother, and I. We lived in the funeral parlor. It was a crenellated castle, a Victorian monstrosity that seemed to have spent its life awaiting this final, perfect metamorphosis. We had no separate apartment. If we had a death at Christmastime, the angel atop our Christmas tree might poke up over the funeral draperies. The rare times that my father had an extra “case" or two, a “body” (we never said “corpse”), he had to find a place for them upstairs. Arriving home from school one afternoon when I was about eight, I entered my room to find all my things gone and a stranger in a coffin where my dollhouse usually stood. My shock was immediate and overwhelming. Still, I was more outraged because nobody had warned me about it than because of the presence of the dead person. I was trained to do my part; after all, weren't we soldiers in a continuous battle, not for hearts and minds, but for bodies?

Business was slow. The whole house came alive when someone died. A great excitement overtook us; we leapt into our roles like actors.
Our father did the dirty work. He chewed his cigar, resting it between drags on the rim of the embalming table as he wielded his terrible trochar. My brother, being a boy, was allowed to watch, even the worst ones: the crushed, the drowned, the wasted. Out of morbid curiosity and because I wasn’t supposed to, I was drawn to the place as the tongue is to a broken tooth. “Not nice for a lady,” daddy said. I felt jealous of my brother and seethed at the unfairness of being left out. Secretly, though, I was relieved. I was as repulsed by what went on in that small basement room with the painted windows as I was fascinated by the idea of death at its purest, the final paring down and dissolution--what I saw as the liberation of the immortal soul.

“Who does she think she is? Somebody special?” my Uncle John had asked the night before at the supper table. He'd caught my frown and barely suppressed sigh as I took my seat next to the wall. “How’d she get into this family, anyway?”

A familiar wave of nausea swept over me. Our suppertime theater had begun.

They were all--my uncle, my mother and father–grabbing at the front page of “The Evening Clarion.” That’s where the death notices were listed. My father was blowing on his soup, having lost the battle for the paper to his more aggressive wife and brother-in-law. “Anybody new today?” he asked.

“Agnes Nowak, she was a Piwinski from up the River Road...”

“Yeah, I heard she was in the hospital...who got her?”

“Who else but The Vulture!”

“Danny Flaherty? Damn that man! That makes three this week.”

“How does he do it? We’ve buried in that family before. Agnes Nowak should’ve been ours.”

“Oh, there’s some connection there. Wasn’t her sister’s husband a cousin of Flaherty’s wife?”

“Second cousin, now you mention it. Still, I’m surprised. You’d think the Nowak daughter would have had more influence. After all, didn’t Marta sing at her wedding?”

Uncle John threw me a dirty look, as though the loss of business was my fault. It was so unfair. My uncle couldn’t stand me or my singing and let everyone know it, running up to his room on the third floor and slamming the door to shut out the sound when I practiced my scales.

I had a high, breathy voice, the kind people describe as “angelic.” Since I was ten, I’d been an unwilling part of our funeral package, excused from morning classes at St. Michael's School so I could get to the church next door before the funeral cortege arrived.

We had one funeral the next morning: an old man, a veteran of World War I, "the war to end all wars." As I waited in the choir loft for Professor Karski, the organist, my stomach growled and gurgled nervously. I hoped today the Professor would be nice to me. It used to be his daughter who sang the funerals; she wore showy black picture hats and had a loud voice that went flat. Now I, a mere child, supplanted her, and her father resented it.

The Professor coughed his way up the stairs, ignored me, walked straight up to the organ bench and pulled out some music. The sexton came and began to swing on the ropes, the clanging bells so raucous that all the cells of my body vibrated and I had to put my hands over my ears.

I peered through the stained glass to watch the procession. The stone steps were long and steep, the coffin heavy, and the pallbearers spindly. They strained under their burden and the group wobbled forward under the direction of my father. In his funeral outfit: derby hat, striped pants, and the coat with a beetle’s-wing tail--his mouth naked and vulnerable without its cigar--he at once became someone I didn’t know.

Professor Karski revved the organ and it whooshed like a deflating cushion. He cleared his throat, spat into his handkerchief, pulled out the tremolo stop, thrust out his jaw and launched right into a Polish dirge, “In the Dark Tomb You Will Sleep Forever.” He embellished his playing with rolling diminished sevenths and sour notes that enhanced the awfulness of the music. Adam's apple bobbing merrily, he whinnied the lyrics; they depicted a dreadful judgment and left us comfortless: "After a short while you and I won't be around, either."

With the final chord came the altar boy, recklessly swinging a censer as he led the pastor up the aisle to meet the flag-draped catafalque. Incense rose up. Its acrid scent settled in clouds around the organ console. I bent my head and slipped a Smith Brothers cough drop into my mouth; both the incense and the thought of my oncoming Ave Maria were making my throat dry.

Down by the altar, Uncle John fussed with a flower stand. He glanced up at me and scowled, the mole on his cheek in high relief, and my stomach gurgled again. He was right, my uncle. I’d beem born into the wrong family. I was squeamish and sentimental. I was too sensitive. It took all my restraint to keep singing and not burst into tears with the mourners. Maybe I was switched as an infant; how could I fit in so badly otherwise? I held onto this fantasy, even though I knew I'd been born at home rather than in a hospital.

During Communion, I surveyed the people below. It was not a big crowd; the old man had outlived most of his peers. Nobody was crying. The Mass ended. Actions happened in reverse, with even more incense. The pallbearers lurched down the church steps, self-sure veterans now, and soon the sparse cortege shoved off toward the cemetery, a pretty place on a hill outside of town. I wished I could have gone there that morning, but I had to return to class.

When I got home from school that afternoon, my father was in the wake room setting up the soldier’s coffin. Cigar smoke wafted through the closed double doors. After my father completed the finishing touches, he called us in to admire his work.

We were his final critics. “How does she look?” he would ask us. We’d give suggestions, such as “Too much rouge.” My mother was a nurse, and she couldn't stop herself from plumping up the pillows behind their heads, saying, "There! That's more comfortable, isn't it?" She arranged their stiff hands around prayer books or rosary beads in a mimicry of piety. We'd agree that now everything looked natural.

But this time I went into the wake room where the soldier lay ready and couldn’t speak. The breath died in me, and I wanted to back out the door. My father had done too good a job. The soldier really looked as though he was sleeping. Mostly they didn’t. Mostly they looked like something from a waxworks.

He looked more glorious than the statue of St. Michael in our church, except that he had a buzz cut. It had been growing out and you could see his hair had been beautiful, dark and thick. He was so different from the silly pimply boys at school, the ones who chased me and called me skinny-bones, who asked, “What does your old man do with the blood?”

I did not want to stay there in the room with my whole family, desecrating--that was what it was--our love. Finally I had found the person of my dreams: someone I had been expecting all my life, someone who would understand me. I knew the moment I saw him lying in that casket that there was something powerful between us. Just as I knew his eyes were brown.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I crept past my parents’ room and down the stairs. In the wake room a few dim torchieres illuminated the maroon velvet draperies, the coffin open like a big lacy candy box. Someone had placed a small heart of carnations in its open lid, a heart bandaged with a white ribbon on which “Uncle Stephen” was spelled out in letters red as blood.

I knelt at the prie-dieux and looked at Stephen. He smiled at me, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe it was one of those terrible mistakes, some kind of suspended animation, and if I prayed he would wake up. So I began to pray really hard, screwing up my eyes. Through the shimmer of my tears I thought I saw him move a little.” Oh please, God,” I begged. “Let him wake up!” I stared at Stephen, watchful for another movement. None came. I touched his sleeve. Even through the wool of his uniform tunic, I felt the cold stiffness.

I was not an ignorant girl. I had more than an inkling of what happened in that embalming room. Didn’t I filch my father’s morticians’ magazines just to shock myself with “The Case of the Month”--and then smuggle them into school to gain what I realized would be a spurious popularity with my classmates? Yet those physical facts were less real to me than the underlying reality of dreams. So I denied the material world and cast my lot with miracles that transcended physical laws.

It was late. I was cold and the muscles in my whole body had grown stiff from the strain of praying so hard. I murmured goodnight to Stephen and went back to bed. I felt I had made a good start. It was Friday night and the funeral was not until Monday morning, so we still had some time.

The rest of my sleep was full of dreams. I was in a cave flooded with golden light. I tried to find where the light was coming from, but saw no source and no openings in the walls of the cave. I felt hungry and thirsty, and immediately food and drink appeared: great jars of golden liquid and enormous loaves of golden bread. I bit into the bread and spat it out: it had no real substance, just the taste of a cloying perfume. I tipped the jar to my mouth so I could wash it out. The liquid instantly evaporated, leaving the taste of incense and decaying flowers inside my mouth.

Morning arrived. I was exhausted and queasy, but my mother insisted that I eat something. With some trepidation, I bit into a hard roll, and was reassured by its familiar taste. I yearned to look in on Stephen but my mother enlisted me in Saturday chores. By the time I was finished it was 3 p.m., and Stephen’s family had arrived for the initial viewing.

I looked down over the upstairs railing and watched as they came through the door. His parents clung to each other in a way that was both loving and brave. A young woman who must have been his sister walked behind them, leaning on her husband's arm. He held the hand of a small, dark-haired child. Stephen’s nephew, I supposed, and felt a pang in my heart.

A young blonde wearing a black-veiled hat walked importantly behind the family. She was weeping aloud and mascara was oozing down her face. She began to moan Stephen’s name, and his sister put an arm around her. Who was she? She probably thought of herself as Stephen’s girl friend, but she couldn’t have been. She was all wrong for him, her black dress too tight and her lipstick too bright. I knew she couldn’t understand him the way I did.

I was impatient to be with Stephen again, and there was no chance until late that night. It was ironic that I could not be with him now. I told myself that it didn’t matter, he and I transcended time and space.

Again, after my parents went to bed, I made my way downstairs. I felt happy as I entered the wake room. I walked over to the coffin and said a little prayer. A spray of orchids lay next to the little red heart. I thought they were vulgar and had no illusions as to who had sent them. I would have sent violets.

I knelt and buried my face in my hands to pray, and peeped through the tent of my fingers to watch Stephen. He looked so handsome in his uniform. His hair seemed longer. This night he did not move. Was it my imagination, or did he look a little tired? I remained kneeling for a while, but heard a noise. Someone was coming down the stairs, probably my father. “I’ll be back tomorrow, my darling,” I whispered in a voice like a woman in a movie, Bette Davis perhaps. Then I tiptoed out the side door and waited until the coast was clear to go back up to bed. I meant to pray some more in bed, but fell asleep during the first Hail Mary. That night I did not dream.

Sunday in church I tried to pray but it was hard to concentrate, surrounded by coughing, fidgeting people, and the strictures of the Mass with the constant jumping up and down, the guilt-provoking sermon, the collection basket coming round twice–not to mention the background music, if you could call it that, raining down from the choir loft. I felt my prayers were of an inferior variety, certainly not strong enough to provoke miracles.

The rest of Sunday was unbearable for me. People arrived all afternoon, many from out-of-state. Cigarette smoke inundated our kitchen, scrubbed pristine after our noon dinner, and spiraled upstairs, invading our bedrooms. The initial hush of the afternoon had expanded to lively talk and laughter, as the men retreated to the smoking room where, from the sound of it, someone had produced a bottle. I felt outraged. There were still stragglers downstairs until after ten, even though the wake was officially over at nine.

Everything was ready for tonight. I’d put my hair up in rags and spirited my mother’s black lace mantilla from her cedar chest. I didn’t think we’d need a suitcase but had put my birthday and Christmas money into my straw pocketbook, along with the mother-of-pearl rosary beads and lace handkerchief. We had no violets, though earlier that day I’d gone out back and picked some lily-of-the-valley, tied them with a hair-ribbon and wrapped them in some wet tissue paper. I lay in my bed, nerves jumping, whispering frantic prayers.

To calm myself, I imagined exactly how it would happen. Stephen would awaken slowly, stretch and yawn. Then he’d open his eyes. He’d look at me and smile. We wouldn’t need to speak–our eyes would meet and say everything. Then I’d take his hand and help him out of his coffin, like helping him out of a boat. We would run away together, I would be free of this depressing house, these tiresome people, this life.

At last I heard my father lock the front door. I waited for everyone to go to bed, hoping my mother’s nightly game of solitaire would be over by midnight. By the time the lights were dimmed and quiet settled on the house, it was a quarter to one.

When I removed the rags from my hair, it bounced out in corkscrew curls that I tried to smooth out with my hairbrush. I took some bobby pins and created an updo, leaving a Veronica Lake effect over one eye. The only dress I had that was remotely sophisticated was getting too short, but it would have to do. I put a dab of apple-blossom cologne behind my ears and looked at myself in the mirror. I draped the mantilla around my shoulders. I was ready.

Stephen was waiting for me. A flower petal had settled in his hair and I brushed it off. His buzz cut felt spiky and stiff under my hand. “Don’t worry, dearest,” I whispered, “it will soon grow out.”

The orchids were wilting, and I threw them under the coffin, behind the velvet, and replaced them with my sweet-smelling bouquet. I began to pray in earnest, with all my heart and being, eyes closed, opening them occasionally to see if there was any progress. Hours seemed to pass. Still nothing. I was getting sleepy and my head began to droop. Something murmured and revived my hope, until it happened again and I realized it was my own stomach.

“Oh, God,” I prayed, “please, please, wake him up. If you do this one thing, I promise I’ll never ask you for anything ever again...Stephen,” I pleaded,” you must help, too. I don’t think you’re really trying.”

It was getting chilly. I spread the mantilla over Stephen’s chest; maybe it would warm him up. The night was passing slowly and yet too quickly–I could see the sky lightening. I was so tired that I began to drift off mid-prayer. But I mustn’t give in to sleep. If I couldn’t even manage to stay awake at such a crucial time, how could God take me seriously?

I stood up and staggered around the room, bumping into a folding chair and almost knocking over a flower stand, giving me a little adrenalin. All quiet upstairs, no one had heard. Returning to Stephen, I knelt down, but my knees began to hurt so I pulled one of the chairs up to the coffin and thought I’d sit for a while. When the miracle happened, I’d be ready.

Settling into the chair, I closed my eyes just for a moment. Stephen was stirring. He flexed his arms, unclasped his hands and spread his fingers, closing them into fists. I knew Stephen too well, knew this couldn’t be happening. It was a dream, I knew I was dreaming, and I had to stop. I scrabbled to crawl back into reality, and yet the dream progressed. Now Stephen’s eyes popped open, bloodshot brown eyes that looked angry. In one sudden movement he had climbed out of his coffin and was looking menacingly at me. “What are you doing here?” he shouted, waving the lily-of--the-valley bouquet in my face. “What are these? What have you done with my orchids?”

I shook myself out of the nightmare. Why were my prayers rewarded with such ugliness? The sun was up and dust motes were dancing in the window. My dress was wrinkled and there was a scratch on my leg where I had barked my shin on the flower stand. The pins had fallen out of my hair.

Stephen lay as still as before, his face gentle and good. I felt his spirit around me. How could I doubt him, even in dreams? I bent and kissed his forehead. It was cold.

Upstairs an alarm was ringing, and there were sounds of people getting up. With shaking hands I reached down and retrieved the orchids. They were barely crumpled. I brushed them off and put them back inside the coffin.

Stephen was still wrapped in the mantilla. My tears dropped down onto the black lace as I gently pulled it away from his shoulders. Through blurred eyes I saw a shimmer of something white on his breast, almost like a luminous flower. The image lasted a moment and faded, leaving behind the faint scent of lily-of-the-valley.

I left the room without looking back. It was getting late and I had to be on time for the music.

***

THE TRIBUTES...

Donia's daughter, Diana, called me just now. Donia died last Saturday, July 11. She'd been unconscious for about 24 hours when she stopped breathing. Diana is having a memorial for her on August 8th, in Cambridge. If anyone wants to send her something for the service, zmail it to me and I'll forward it to her. Sorry to have sad news to share-but I'm glad Donia went softly in the end. xxoononnie

Nonnie Augustine

She reviewed a flash of mine in February. "Mr. Smith, you've done it again. Answered the question everyone thinks about but dares not ask. Adult content, indeed. Your writing is simple but elegant and to the point. You have an excellent control of the dialect (as far as I can tell), and have a knack for using the right word at the right time..I like the way the fellow conducted his research all over the land of the thistle and kilt (am I right about the thistle or did I mean whistle?). He found his answer from a humble farmer, who was not afraid to divulge age-old secrets to a seeker. Fine tale. Made me laugh, as always." The always gracious Donia.

GC Smith

Donia was gracious, lovely, spirited--in spite of wheelchair bound--including cursing the lazy bastards who failed to shovel snow from sidewalk ramps, or if they did shovel from the sidewalk, piled the snow on the wheelchair ramps. We were ever going around them, into the street, in order to cross. She wanted to get out of her house, so we walked a number of blocks to a Thai restaurant, during which we came to know the woman we loved so much. She is truly missed. You all should know that she told me over and over again how much she looked forward to the sunday 5 to 50's. Here are her latest entries, the first being her last, posted May 24, 2009 (I don't mind telling you, it brought me to tears).

IS IT TRUE WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT CATS?(55W)

O, my pansy-faced love. I found you today motionless on our chianti-stained couch, playground of our fatiguing games. I closed your eyes and held your soft body. Then, as tradition dictated, I dug a deep hole and laid you to rest in a weedy vacant lot. A muffled meow resounded beneath my feet.

THE VOICES

Timorous? Yes, I am timorous. I fear a relapse and have put on my magic apron, but the first voice has already begun its soft taunting and mimics my breathing. More voices join in snickering unison and repeat,"You are a nothing. A cypher.” I pull the apron over my head but its magic fails.

A Silent Tragedy (55 words)

I sat by the river, a ribbon that wound along the edge of the city. In dusk’s lavender glow, a man in drag crouched on the other bank, head in hands. I saw the spark of a match and the man went up in flames. I turned away. He was of no import to me.

(no title)

A red-faced street person stood on a soapbox under a mulberry tree in our town's scenic main square. The man was bombastic and very drunk, and he was offering people "a new leash on life." A young scamp began to bark, soon joined by a pack of stray dogs, adding a stirring musical background. 55w

Beach Varmints

The sun sets on the Côte d’Azure, but I’m reluctant to leave my comforting burrow in the warm sand. The slap of footsteps; the spark of a lighter: Noel d’Entrechat, notorious rogue who fritters his time on the plage, has found me. Lasciviously beaming his lemon eyes at me, he says, “Care for some nookie?”

Compromise (55 words)

Bedraggled Bobolink collapsed near a windmill, a hermit’s home. Chased there by farmers shouting, "Begone, bad bird, eater of wheat and depriver of kiddies’ hot farina!” Gunshots rang, staccato, staccato. Bobolink high-tailed it to the windmill. "Got room for me? We can hermit together.” "Okay," replied the hermit. "But none of your goddamn singing!"

Richard Osgood

Bye bye, Donia - now you can fly. Nevertheless, I'll miss you. Donia and I corresponded so frequently that we laughed about it - about why we didn't move close enough so we could just go knock on each other's door when we wanted to talk. Here's an example - a recent note from Donia about health ... ###

----- Original Message ----- From: Donia Carey To: David Coyote

Dear Scruffy,

Our wonderful bodies that carry on a busy life of their own, taking care of us, begin to have problems, like old cars. I think of old novels where someone breaks a hip, catches a chill, develops pneumonia, and doesn't survive the winter. Strange, isn't it, how quickly things begin to go wrong; why just a little while ago, I was fit as a fiddle.

Frank died of prostate cancer at age sixty, having been diagnosed eight years before and then gone into a sort of remission for over seven years. He was treated at Mass General with radiation, taking the bus to Boston at dawn and returning afterward to work in his lab. He died in his own home, his friends gathered in the next room. "Sounds like a wonderful party" he said. "Wish I could join them."

Like you, he would not be hospitalized in spite of his pain and weakness. He had hospice nurses that he called "the fat ladies who take care of me."

Everyone in my family went in their own beds, without tubes and iv's. I wish that I could die here at my new home, but it may not be possible. Because the state pays for nursing 'homes' and hospitals but not for home care, it's a problem. Crazy, isn't it?

I read a little about PVCs, and it seems the medical community is divided about their possible danger. You probably know more about it. I have a heart murmur that my mother discovered when I was eight, but so do many people. And sometimes I feel my heart do flip-flops, like a little fish in my chest, but I think that's not unusual.

Earlier this evening, I was speaking with my cousin John in Connecticut. He is one month older than I, and we've been friends and grammatical adversaries since high school, trying to one-up each other. He never married and has been very kind to his sister and her children, and to me. Over a year ago he had a stroke. He always goes on about how close to death we are.

"John," I tell him, "you've been saying that for years."

His father, my father's brother, died at fifty-six of a heart attack; my dad died of the same thing at fifty-seven. Of the five siblings, they all succumbed that way; three in their fifties, one in her sixties; and Josephine the meanest and most guilt-free, in her eighties. My dad's two brothers were alcoholics: John, an ill-tempered drunk and Joe, the jolly type. I'd never seen him sober.

I do digress. But cousin John, brought up in his dad's funeral home, ended up with a different attitude from mine. Although both of us, seeing death around us all the time, were affected.

Funny about the belly-button, David. I was on Prednisone for several years but it didn't affect the cute little thing. My grandmother cut the cord herself and made sure it was nice. Since my kidney operation and loss of weight, my bellybutton almost disappeared. I looked down at my belly and saw something unrecognizable--a mosquito bite maybe? Realized it was my missing bb. When I read about your own bb problems, I took a look at mine and saw that with some weight gain, it has gone back to its former self. Oh, waiting for the results of tests is nerve-wracking. I hope you pass with flying colors, as you did with your driver's license.

I had my own visit on Tuesday. The cancer is returning--my white cells went up a bit, and forty percent of them are lymphocytes--not good. But my neutrophils went up, so I can again eat fresh fruit and vegetables. I was told that it's too early to begin treatment again (my god, I just finished the last one in January!), and that I should be able to enjoy the summer. That made me feel happy, because the two summers before I was back in treatment and they were hideous.

My main problem now is still my eyes. I am due for another appointment to check on the macular degeneration. I wonder if that is what's causing my fast-deteriorating vision. And i'm violating doctor's orders and wearing my glasses; otherwise I can't see at all. Ah, well.

Good luck on your exams--sorry about all my dismal talk. Maybe we'll be those people who persist to their nineties, creaking along and shaking up the young 'uns.

love always, Donia

David Coyote

This is sad news, indeed. RIP, Donia. What a wonderful person she was.

Marc Lowe

A sad day.

Mark Hubbard

Shit. At least she is out of pain but... shit.

Steve Kane

Truly, truly a sweet & honorable lady. we love you, donia. we bless you.

Donna D Vitucci

I am so sorry to hear this. Donia always knows how to get to the exact heart, the essence of it. It's a sad day.

Maggie Shearon

PLEASE POST YOUR TRIBUTES TO DONIA IN THE COMMENTS SECTION.

CAMELIAN URGES

2009-07-15T07:21:00.000-07:00

The amorous urge of the camel
Is greater than anyone thinks
After many long months in the desert
He yearns to make love to the Sphinx

But the Sphinx's capacious vagina
Is clogged with the sands of the Nile
Which accounts for the hump on the camel
And the Sphinx's inscrutable smile

Fifi Lamour

THE BLOGETH LIVETH WOTDAFUKK..ITH AND DA FACHENBACHS

2009-07-14T07:08:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: Wotdafukk...ith?

BIRD: Wot are we gonna do?

BUFFALO: You mean about Scrunched, like?

BIRD: Scrunched? Oh, yeah. The next big blockbuster. Howzit going, the adaptation, like?

BUFFALO: Slowly, Birdy. So many rejects, so little time.

BIRD: Feels like the music just died.

BUFFALO: It didn't die, dude, it just got quieter.

BIRD: Deep, dude, deep.

BUFFALO: Deeper than the ocean. By da whey...

BIRD: Yes, dude?

BUFFALO: Where da fukk...ith have you been all this time? The public want to blow!

BIRD: Oh, nowhere, really. Just dealing wid issues.

BUFFALO: OK. Wot? And keep it clean.

BIRD: This, dude. Da surfway. I mean... you spend years "meeting" hundreds, thousands of people online but end up meeting no-one. We've got how many virtual friends? But they never ring. Fachenbach, they don't even know where we live.

BUFFALO: Dude, that's a good thing. There are some VERY WEIRD Fachenbachs out dere, believe me.

BIRD: Then wot's da point? Of all this?

BUFFALO: Dude, if you're looking for a point, stoke up the hot poker and sitonit!

BIRD: Dat's overbelated and you know it. Hundreds of thousands of turds, I mean words splodged into cyberspace for VERY WEIRD Fachenbachs. And in the blink of a cosmic interplanetary eye, we are nothing.

BUFFALO: OmyFachenbachonatwistedstickinMay! Do you have to be so depressing in our first communique for many morons? The fans have been waiting with bated breath for this one.

BIRD: Honesty, dude. Everyone appreciates that. Even people who don't give a rat's arse.

BUFFALO: Dude, here's a little something to cheer ya up. http://vimeo.com/5315696

BIRD: Wow. Dat's good.

BUFFALO: Dude, we gotta get in toonbots. All we gotta do is gin up some good short animation scripts we can animate. SNAP! Animations of the Bird & Buff, or Holmes and Watters or summat outta Scrunched. We could become regular characters in our cartoons. Give it some thought, you lazy winker.

BIRD: Sure will. Maybe animation is da future, like. Or maybe... Just maybe... it is time to reveal our TRUE IDENTITIES...

BUFFALO: Wot, and scare da hoor-Cs?

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

OFOOKIT, WATTERS, NOW WHAT WHAT WHAT?*&!

2009-04-06T04:03:00.000-07:00

D-D-D-D-D-DEATH AND THE SPIDER

2009-03-28T10:09:00.000-07:00

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!

PROFESSOR BUFFTAMELLA AND THE OFFER YOU CAN'T INFUSE!

2009-03-25T06:27:00.000-07:00

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THE PROFESSOR HAS SUCCEEDED WHERE ALL OTHER DRUGS HAVE FAILED AND HAS WITNESSED MANY MIRACLES WHILST IN THE CLOSE PROXIMITY OF UDDERS. AND NOW YOU...

1.1% GUARANTEED SATISFACTION OR YOUR LIFE MADE NO WORSE THAN THE RAT'S ASS FOR A DOG'S DINNER THAN IT IS AT PRESENT. WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO LOSE? TO MAKE YOURSELF DINNER AND OTHER INTERDIMENSIONAL BAGS OF LOWLIFES, E-MAIL NOW!

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Arf, arf!

WHEN ORANGE JUICE JUST AIN'T ENUFF

2009-02-19T05:49:00.000-08:00

I WOKE UP IN A COLD SWEAT. SOMETHING INSIDE ME WAS DYING.

I wrote that in a more lucid moment as I recalled the last bath I had. Baths are no longer in fashion.

I WROTE THAT AS I GAZED AT MY NAVEL WHILST WAITING FOR MY LUNCH TO GET NUKED IN THE MICROWAVE

But orange juice. Be it thick or thin. Or a smoothie even. It's never enough for a growing boy.

THERE'S AN ACHE IN MY HEART. THAT CERTAIN SOMETHING IS STILL DYING.

Now I wrote THAT this afternoon. And then only because the tulips downstairs popped their heads out to say hello.

DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY GERMS ARE OUT THERE MOUNTING ATTACKS ON THIS THING WE CALL A BODY?

Well, that's pretty obvious. I wrote that just now as I scratched another festering boil.

WHERE'S THIS ALL LEADING TO? GIMME SOME GAGS. DON'T FECK ME OFF WITH YOUR INNERMOST REFLECTIONS ON TIME PAST AND EXPERIENCE DISSECTED

OK, well, if you come across a man with a gay dog on cocaine, think yourself lucky.

WHAT THE FECK DOES THAT MEAN? IS IT SOME SORT OF CODE?

Just so, grasshopper. Funny too. If you think about it. If you really think about it. But if you really, really, really think about it you might go blind. Remember, it's not that everything is so far away now, it's that you're too close.

OH, I GET IT. WORDPLAY AGAIN. BUT TELL ME, WHAT IS THE TRUE MEANING OF VENETO?

Don't ask me, just book today, tasting is good. Which brings me to the title of this here muse. Orange juice. A life saver but bland, bland, bland. Boysenberry juice. Now you're talking. A wine moment. And now it's gone. Did you know that claret was the Brits' way of... Oh, never mind. See that? It just slipped through my fingers. Again.

WHAT ABOUT A LIST? PEOPLE LOVE LISTS. THE TOP FIVE THINGS TO DO WITH ORANGE JUICE WHEN YOU'RE NEKKID WITH SOME HOT TOTTY?

It slid down my throat. I don't know where it's gone. But it left behind a bad taste. Like melted polystyrene with horseshit mixed in. Did you know that I know a man who can eat a whole horse? Yep. I mean, not straightaway. You have to sit him down at noon and leave him for the rest of the day. But he won't eat the nostrils. He's funny that way. But honestly, what IS a national treasure?

OFUKKIT. I'M THRU. ENUFF ALREADY!

And I wrote that, well, yesterday actually, as the next door neighbour pleaded for more. One can only give so much of a stale loaf. Which rewinds me...

Stale loaf
Stale loaf
You're such an oaf
Stale loaf
So hard
Yet dry

PRESIDENT OBAMA'S MESSAGE TO THE B&B

2009-02-06T05:15:00.000-08:00

LAST NITE, THE RIGHT VENERABLE PREZ BARRY OBAMA SENT A POISONAL MESSAGE TO DA BIRD & BUFF & ALL WHO SAIL IN DIS EAR BLOG. HE BROKE OFF FROM A HIGHLY IMPORTANT BREKKIE WID DA TONY BLAIR DUDE TO DELIVER THIS HEARTFELT TRIBUTE TO THE GREATEST COMEDY DOUBLE ACT TO NEVER BREAK WIND AFTER A TIN OF BUFFALO ROAD APPLES:

CITIZENS OF THE WORLD, CAN WE GIVE THE BIRD & BUFFALO THE RECOGNITION THEY TRULY DESERVE FOR EVERYTHING THEY HAVE DONE TO MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE TRULY APPRECIATE THE SACRIFICES THE BIRD & BUFFALO HAVE MADE AND CONTINUE TO MAKE IN THE SERVICES OF GLOBAL HUMOUR AND CONSENSUAL HUMILIATION? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE LOOK THEM BOTH HUMBLY IN THE EYE AND APOLOGISE FOR ALL OUR SHORTCOMINGS WHEN WE FAIL TO UNDERSTAND THE SUBTLE GENIUS OF THEIR GOLDEN UTTERANCES ON THE GREATEST BLOG THAT EVER LIVED? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE, AS NATIONS, REGIONS, CITIES, TOWNS, RURAL AREAS, RAMSHACKLE SHEDS AND INDIVIDUALS WORK TOGETHER WITH THE BIRD & BUFFALO, IN SPITE OF OUR DIFFERENCES, AND INFERIOR INTELLIGENCE, CHARISMA AND SEX APPEAL, TO ALLEVIATE THE SUFFERING OF THOSE WHO WOULD RATHER LAUGH AT OLD BOB HOPE JOKES THAN FACE THE FUTURE WITH EYES WIDE OPEN, LEGS APART AND JAWS WIRED TO METAL POSTS? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE OPEN OUR HEARTS, AND OUR WALLETS, AND DONATE OUR MORE FANCIFUL DAUGHTERS TO THE BIRD & BUFFALO FOR ALL THE GOOD THAT THEY HAVE DONE AND SHALL CONTINUE TO DO UNTIL THEY RUN OUT OF CASH OR ARE CAUGHT FOR PREVIOUS MISDEMEANOURS AND INDISCRETIONS IN FAR OFF LANDS THAT HAVE NO NAME BUT A DEEP THIRST FOR VENGEANCE AND BRUCE WILLIS FILMS WITH LOTS OF BLURWURST? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE GIVE THE BIRD & BUFFALO JUST ABOUT ANYTHING THEY WANT WHEN THEY WANT IT AND HOW THEY WANT IT AND KEEP A STRAIGHT FACE WHILST ALL OTHERS ARE LOSING THEIRS? WELL... YES, WE CAN.

AND WHERE THE BIRD & BUFFALO ARE MET WITH CYNICISM AND DOUBT AND FEAR AND THOSE WHO TELL US THAT WE CAN'T, WE WILL RESPOND WITH THAT TIMELESS CREED THAT SUMS UP THE SPIRIT OF THE BIRD & BUFFALO'S AMAZING COMEDIC GIFT IN THREE SIMPLE WORDS: YES, WE CAN.

ARF, ARF!

WITTER TWITTER & BUFFALO APPLES

2009-02-05T05:27:00.000-08:00

YOU MAY HAVE BEEN WONDERING WHERE WE'VE BEEN ALL THIS TIME. WELL, TO FESS UP, WE'VE BEEN ON DA TWITTER, LIKE. BUT FRANK LEE, WE'VE HAD ALL THE IN-UR-EN-DO A BIRD & BUFF CAN TAKE. "AND I THOUGHT DOGGING WAS TEACHING YER DOG NEW TRICKS!" AND ALL THAT BLA.

WELL, FECKS, WE MEAN FOLKS, WE'RE BACK, BLEANER THAN EVER. AND WE'VE GOT SUMFINK TO GET YER TEETH INTO... AT A PRICE.

BUFFALO APPLES IZ DA BEST, WITH ADDED INGRATIENTS FOR XTRA FIZZ WHILE YA WHIZZ.

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BUFFALO APPLES - WHEN A STROLL AND A ROLL JUST AIN'T ENUFF!

COMING SOON... BUFFALO BING CHERRIES TO ADORN ANY SUMPTUOUS BALCONY!

ARF, ARF!

THE WHITECHAPEL CAPER - PART 1

2008-12-09T02:35:00.000-08:00

DUE TO ARTISTIC INFERENCES AND OTHER ANIMALS, THE AULD BIRD & BUFF HAVE BEEN ON A HIATUS HERNIA BUT NOW WE'RE BACK WITH THE SHERLOCK HOLMES CASE CONAN DOYLE NEVER DARED TO PRINT.

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...

BIRD & BUFFALO WIN NOBEL PRIZE FOR LITERATURE

2008-10-14T06:36:00.000-07:00

IN AN UNPRECEDENTED MOVE BY THE PEOPLE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER WHEN IT COMES TO THE WRITTEN WURST...TURD, SORRY, WORD, THE NOBEL PRIZE FOR LITERATURE HAS ALMOST BEEN AWARDED TO THE BIRD & BUFFALO. HERE ARE THE REASONS WHY THE JUDGES CHANGED THEIR COLLECTIVE SPLIT MIND AT THE LAST MINUTE:

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!

SARAH PALIN IN TEN SECONDS

2008-10-13T05:28:00.000-07:00

Today, we turn our quandaries to Sarah Palin. Yes, mons amiss, it is time to get poetical.

SARAH PALIN is hot BUT...

she is not...

worthy.

The auld Buff devoted a poem to this very subject but ten seconds ago.

It's called

SARAH PALIN IN TEN SECONDS
O
Sarah
In ten seconds
No
Make that five
No
Two
No
One
Be gone
Diaphoretic
Strumpet

OF PROBITY AND UDDER BLUNDERS

2008-10-07T05:37:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: The udder day, my head doc Maxine said, "You know, Buff, I'm not sure who's probing who here any more." So I said... "Shouldn't that be whom." A cheap shot, I know, but hey, it's not every day Maxine probes so deep. Oooh la la.

THE CRUSTYCOK SCANDAL AND OTHER FLAKERIES

2008-10-05T05:35:00.000-07:00

BIRD: Dude, you'll have to say something sooner or later.

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.

BIRD: Eh?

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.

BUFFALO: Whatever.

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:
http://www.insolentrudder.net/fall2008_home.html

A BLOG WITHIN A BLOG, OR IZZIT THE?

2008-09-02T06:52:00.000-07:00

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?

BIRD: Possibly.

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?

BUFFALO: 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.

BUFFALO: Huh?

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.

BUFFALO: Audrey?!

BIRD: Behind the red curtain. Blog da blog at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

IFFY - INLAND EMPIRE REVISITED

2008-08-27T23:32:00.000-07:00

Computer. Monitor. Satellite receiver. Desk. Microphone. TV. Lights. Tape. Handle. Paper. Remote control. Bin. Plastic cup. Speaker. Headphones. Chair. Jacket. Bag. Pen. Clock. Poster. Thermostat. Coat hanger. Mouse. Carpet. Blinds. Grille. Cable. Book. Memory stick. Door. Iffy.

THE END OF THE NITE SHIFT... ISH

2008-08-12T15:44:00.000-07:00

BIRD: Got my sleeping bag and the whisky and the spliffs. I’ll claim back the expenses, natch. I was gonna raid the cookie jar over by booth 21 but all the best biccies have gone. Bloody editorial! Greedy buggers. Bunch of shite buckets. For some reason, they leave the ginger biscuits behind, even though ginger is supposed to stop you having heart attacks. Fookin’ racists. When I look at a ginger biscuit, I see a thing of beauty. When they look at it, all they see is something that's the WRONG colour. Bastids. How soon can I escape? Well, my pal says I can go now… ish. Wonder what’s going on at the Olympics. Team GB’s doing OK but ladies fooked up the archery and the men fooked up too. Felt doozy just now. As if I’d sniffed the dishwasher. Which of course I wouldn’t, cos she’s too nice to be subjected to such inhumanity. But spanking’s not out of bounds. At a price. Stuff this. I’m outta here. Ish.

RAZOR BLADDER

2008-07-30T03:50:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: Muddily bloodily indomitably irrevocably presumably imperceptibly exponentially existentially verily merrily quite contrarily incredibly sparingly artificially incomprehensibly intoxicatingly lonely and...

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?

MICHIGAN LAFFING ACADEMY

2008-07-29T05:24:00.000-07:00

BIRD: Dude, I hear they've closed the Michigan Laffing Academy. We could erect it in here, innit.

BUFFALO: Nein, mein Klockenspilengrossengrupenfuhrer. Der Laffing Academy ist Kaput, capice?

BIRD: Al zo... Ja, ist sehr geshitten zu offen, like.

BUFFALO: In der Toileten, liken ein Vogel scheissen.

BIRD: Mit der grosse fudgepacken gewipen nichts.

BUFFALO: Ja, ja, das is sehr gut, mein kleine schickelgrubber. Der Laffen Academie oder den Michigan Scheissehausen ist sticken up der arschen mit der weinerschnitzel und der roladen, mit der dillpicklen und der mustard, upen in den grossenintestin ver der solarligthen ist nicts zo gershinen.

BIRD: Film bei elf stunde.

BUFFALO: Arfe, arfe!

LONG LOST RELLY

2008-07-28T05:18:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: Dude, I woke up this mawnin' and found this fooker at the bottom of my bed. I'm askin' ya, IS IT A SIGN?

ZAFTIG CARLOTTA

2008-07-24T03:52:00.000-07:00

FIFI: It's called Zaftig Carlotta.

A zaftig young singer, Carlotta
Excelled when she sang a cantata
Once felled by the flu
She knew what to do
And used her vagina dentata.

BIRD & BUFFALO: Mah-vellous!

MEET ME LITTER RARE E AGENT - MR I CHING

2008-07-10T04:54:00.000-07:00

BIRD: Strap yourself in, dude, and listen in to me chewin' da breeze wid mah homey litter rare E agent, like.

BUFFALO: Dude, wot the fook are you talking about?!

BIRD: You, me, the universe and uddery. We got an agent, innit. After all these years of obscurantory.

BUFFALO: Woo-hoo! Nice! What'shisname?

BIRD: Mr I Ching. Dunno wot the I stands for, but dude, we're in! Pour yerself a strong one, lean back and listen to the chat we had but one hour ago.

BUFFALO: Cracking open a bottle of Muscatel as I lower myself into the recliner...

BIRD: Here goes!

Um, er, is that Mr Ching?

I CHING: Ask I Ching.

BIRD: Mr I Ching. Excellent. I've been trying to reach you for some time.

I CHING: Perseverance furthers.

BIRD: Sure does. Da auld Buff and I have been looking for an agent to publish our book, Tails From The Bird And Buffalo: The Walrus Years, like.

I CHING: If someone is not as he should be, He has misfortune, And it does not further him, To undertake anything.

BIRD: Well, yeah, I used to think that but now I've finally got through to you, hopefully, all that is about to change.

I CHING: Under heaven thunder rolls, All things attain the natural state of innocence.

BIRD: My thoughts entirely. So you're happy to represent us?

I CHING: The great departs; the small approaches.

BIRD: Absolutely. I can't tell you how excited we are about this.

I CHING: The superior man falls back upon his inner worth, In order to escape the difficulties.

BIRD: Oh, wow! Hey, could you hang on? I need to grab a pen. Just to jot down the basic elements of the contract, like.

I CHING: He does not permit himself to be honoured with revenue.

BIRD: Yes, well... So you think you can place our book?

I CHING: The superior man keeps the inferior man at a distance, Not angrily but with reserve.

BIRD: A-ha. So how long do we have to wait before we hear something?

I CHING: In the midst of the greatest obstructions, Friends come.

BIRD: So, what are we talking, a few weeks?

I CHING: Joy comes softly, It furthers one to make offerings and libations.

BIRD: Brill! So I'll be waiting for your call. An email even.

I CHING: The light has sunk into the earth, The image of Darkening of the Light, He veils his light, yet still shines.

BIRD: Right O! It's been a pleasure talking to you, Mr Ching. Um, just curious. What does the I stand for?

I CHING: The Clinging, The Arousing.

BIRD: I see. Waiting for your call.

I CHING: Above the arousing, Below the Abysmal.

BIRD: Bye then.

I CHING: Oppression. Success. Perseverance.

BIRD: Right back at ya!

*****

BUFFALO: Wow! This I Ching dude is well cool. Well done, Birdy. You have done well.

BIRD: Tanks, Buff. Onwards and upwards.

BUFFALO: Success on a plate.

BIRD: Gotta run. The Orifice beckons.

BUFFALO: Watch out for low flying.

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

THE MISSING P-COCK

2008-07-09T02:07:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: Dude.

BIRD: Yes, dude?

BUFFALO: I've lost the fookin' peacock!

BIRD: Eh?

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?

BUFFALO: Yep.

BIRD: The kiddies' playground?

BUFFALO: Yah-p.

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.

BIRD: Phew!

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.

BIRD: Ofukkit!

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...

BIRD:

COMING SOON: B&B THE SITCOM

2008-07-03T03:35:00.000-07:00

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...

http://www.insolentrudder.net/

MORE THRUST INSOLENT RUDDER, SCOTTIE!

2008-07-02T03:14:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: So tell me again, dude, why should I read Insolent Rudder at http://www.insolentrudder.net/?

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: Nice!

BIRD: And...

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!

KINKY BOOTS

2008-06-24T04:22:00.000-07:00

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!

HOT PAWN

2008-06-23T05:07:00.000-07:00

Corrr!!!!!

INDIANA JONES AND THE KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL

2008-05-29T14:04:00.000-07:00

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!

FIFI'S BACK - WOO-HOO!

2008-05-21T23:34:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: Woo-hoo!

BIRD: Wibbly-dee!

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!

DICK VON FUXX REVELS ALL

2008-05-20T04:47:00.000-07:00

FROM THE SECRET BLOG OF DICK VON FUXX, THE PREMIUM ADULT ENTERTAINMENT DIRECTOR

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

SPIDER-MAN 3 - THE TRAILER BY PEDRO ALMODOVAR

2008-05-14T05:59:00.000-07:00

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.

OI, NUTTER & THE STAR-SPANGLED BANANA

2008-05-12T04:15:00.000-07:00

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!

GREAT TITS COPE WELL WITH WARMING

2008-05-09T05:10:00.000-07:00

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:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/sci/tech/7390109.stm

EINSTEIN'S LAST THEORY INNIT

2008-04-17T04:18:00.000-07:00

BIRD: Wot's happnin', dude?

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.

BIRD: Rimshot!

FIVE REASONS TO GET OUTTA BED IN DA MAWNIN'

2008-04-16T04:08:00.000-07:00

ER... WOT YER THINK, BUFF? WILL ANY OF THESE GET YA OUTTA BED?

1. You'll get fired if you don't.
BUFFALO: Nope.

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!

FIVE THINGS NOT TO SAY AFORE YE CROAK

2008-04-15T03:33:00.000-07:00

IF YOUSE THINKING 'BOUT KICKING DA BUCKET & WANT TO BE WELL REMEMBERED, LIKE, DON'T SAY NONE O' DESE:

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!"

FIVE FILMS TO SEE BEFORE YOU DIE

2008-04-10T06:40:00.000-07:00

1. BAMBI - The first time interspecies love was taken seriously - "Thumper, I think I love you..."

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!"

MAXIM & UDDERS ON INSOLENT RUDDER

2008-04-06T14:42:00.000-07:00

BIRD: Shameful self-emulation, I know, but have you heard about Maxim Ripyorebollokov's Notes From Pubistan in the excellent mag Insolent Rudder at http://www.insolentrudder.net?

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.

BIRD: Laters.

BUFFALO: Yo!

(telephone rings)

BUFFALO: Captain Nemo, you say? Sure, put him through...

INTERNATIONAL DISTURBED BUDDIES DAY

2008-04-04T03:17:00.000-07:00

THIS BLOG HAS RECEIVED HUNDREDS OF MESSAGES OF SUPPORT FOR THE BIRD AND BUFFALO ON THEIR DAY - INTERNATIONAL DISTURBED BUDDIES DAY. HERE IS A SAMPLE:

SAMMY, BRIGHTON, ENGLAND:

Dudes,

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!

DAVE, FLORIDA:

Dudes,

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.

JANET, ALASKA:

Dudes,

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?

FRED, CALIFORNIA:

Dudes,

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.

JUAN, BARCELONA:

Dudes,

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!

DANA, BOSTON:

Dudes,

You can fondle my whimsies anytime.

x0x0x

TIM, BERLIN:

Dudes,

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?

RACHEL, LONDON:

Dudes,

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.

HERBERT, KIEV:

Dudes,

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

(telephone rings)

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.

THE PROUST OUTSIDE WITHIN

2008-04-03T07:14:00.000-07:00

BIRD MET MARCEL PROUST LAST NIGHT WHILST WALKING THE MIND. HE REMINDED HIM OF A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER AND...

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!

(telephone rings)

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)

TWINSPEAK

2008-03-31T05:06:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO: Hey, buddy! Fancy seeing you here. Get this, dude. I've got a date with Audrey Horne.

THE HUDSTER: Audrey Horne? That name sounds familiar. Did we go to school with her?

BUFFALO: Nope.

THE HUDSTER: Well, where's she from, then?

BUFFALO: Twin Peaks, berky.

THE HUDSTER: Waa? Twin Peaks? Like the fookin' TV show?

BUFFALO: Aye.

THE HUDSTER: Audrey Horne, huh?

BUFFALO: Right.

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...

BUFFALO: Jerry.

THE HUDSTER: Right! Ben and Jerry, like the two ice cream moguls.

BUFFALO: Precisely.

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...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PBdH6SjBEX8&feature=related

HOGGING THE HOG

2008-03-09T05:29:00.000-07:00

I'm high on the hog
The hog likes me
And I like he
Over here little hog
Come hog me
Gently

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!

METAFIZZICKLE PREMONITION IN SLUMBERLAND

2008-02-13T03:48:00.000-08:00

BUFFALO: You OK dere, Birdy?

BIRD: Nah. Can't sleep.

BUFFALO: Wassup?

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!

REASONS TO BE TEARFUL PART 1

2008-02-12T04:14:00.000-08:00

BUFFALO: This just in from the head doc: Inappropriate or exaggerated responses to situations; excessive restlessness; drowsiness; worrying excessively; reduced confidence; mood swings; indecisiveness; poor concentration; trembling, sweating; lethargy; social withdrawal; irritability or anger; intoxication; dramatic weight loss or gain; change in personal hygiene or dress; feeling helpless or hopeless; being isolated; threatening or dangerous behaviour; bizarre behaviour or thinking and recurring bouts of emotional diarrhoea. Dude, I'm fooked!

BANGED AGAIN! @@banged.com

2008-02-11T04:53:00.000-08:00

WARNING: PARENTAL ADVISORY, UH DERISORY. THIS EXCERPT CONTAINS THE YO! SEAL OF APPROVAL

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.”

“Nope.”

“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...

THE GREATEST SENTENCE EVER WRITTEN Q BUFFTERS

2008-02-07T04:53:00.000-08:00

AS VOTED FOR BY THE WORLD FORUM FOR PHILOLOGICAL UNIVERSALITY IN THE ORIFICIAL MIND

I might as well stick a Roman candle up me ass and expect to speak fluent Latin.

BUFFALUS INTELLIGENTUS

BANGED! AN INSERT @

2008-01-28T05:37:00.000-08:00

FROM THE SHORTLY TO BE PUBLISHED AND ENDOWED WITH MANY ACCOLADES NOVEL BANGED! ANOTHER IRRESISTIBLE BIRD & BUFFALO ARSE***K LITERARY REVULSION.

Chapter 14a Section 7

Airports. F***ing airports. Can’t escape them. Tedium city. But this was the only way she’d unscramble her head. Once she was safe in the Village, with the Reconfigurator, everything would go back to the way it had been only a few months ago – boring and predictable but somehow far more desirable than this aimless rampage of crime and mind f***s. The Village. Five hours by air, then a short trek in the desert. Flo had often talked about it. Said it would be their little secret. Said if things ever got really f****ed up, she had to make her way there and ask for Viscount Framlingham.

And now there were two hours to kill before the flight that would bring her back to dear old safe sanity in suburbia. How she wished Bo was still around. She fancied a Bo bang. One of those really filthy, disgusting no-holes-barred ones that drained every last juice from her body. She wasn’t so keen on the sheep heads and stuff, but wow, a Bo bang, preferably in a public place, was the one thing that made all the suffering and crazy shit worthwhile.

“Carla, isn’t it?” the guy at the check-in whispered.

She let out a yawn. “Er, yeah. That’s what it says on the passport, right?”

He smiled. “No, no, I mean, well, look it’s Chuck. I used to work with Clifford.”

She looked him up and down. He even looked a little like Clifford. Only slimmer, darker eyes, a better tan, a better odour. “Sorry, uh, Chuck, but I don’t remember you. I never mixed with Clifford’s work stiffs. Oh, and just for your information, Clifford doesn’t live here anymore.”

He shrugged. “Oh, sorry to hear that. Actually, truth be told, he was a bit of a boring jerkoff. So, good for you, sister, striking out on your own. No prizes for settling for second best, huh?”

She knitted her eyebrows. “Hold on, Chuck, let’s just get one thing straight. Clifford wasn’t second best. A jerkoff, yeah, but not second best. And right now, I’ve got a plane to catch so I ain’t got time for no small talk. I’ll see you in the restroom over there in five.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Just cut the bullshit, OK?”

Probably married with two kids. With all the daring of a mouse. Whatever. If he didn’t turn up, she’d manage without him. What a selfish bitch she’d become. Me, me, f***ing me. The sooner she got to the Village, the better.

She splashed some water over her face, dabbed herself with a towel and waited by the first cubicle. She slid a finger down her panties and began to stroke herself lovingly. Her breathing quickened. Slow down, she told herself, this is just the warm-up act. But her finger was joined by another finger and then another and then a really weird thing happened. She felt something emerging from her ****, something fleshy, solid. A gynormous erect Freddy, in fact. She went to the mirror. Facial hair was sprouting up everywhere. A beard and moustache were taking shape, her shoulders were broadening.

“Stop this mind bang right now!” she screamed. “I don’t want to be a man. I’m a woman! I want to stay a woman. Get this Freddy off me! Bo, help!”

OF LIBRARATORIAL PORKING Q REGGIE CHIVERS

2008-01-17T05:17:00.001-08:00

BIRD: You OK, dude?

BUFFALO: Do I sound OK? Of course I'm not OK. I'm fookin' depressed, OK?

BIRD: Not cos they're closing down yer library, like?

BUFFALO: Yes, cuz they're closing down my library. I've spent many a happy hour there. You know what they say about gal librarians with glasses, doncha? Well, it's all true. They go like rockets. Stick a strap on 'em and they could work for NASA.

BIRD: So you're sad that the site of your despicable acts with bespectacled damsel librarians whose names you no longer recall will be reduced to bubble rubble, innit?

BUFFALO: Not just that. I discovered Joyce there. And Henry Miller. And Reggie Chivers for chrissakes.

BIRD: Reggie who?

BUFFALO: Oh, don't give me that shit. Reggie Chivers, author of The Porking Principle.

BIRD: Sorry, dude, you lost me past the greyhound track.

BUFFALO: Oh, come on. It's a seminal work of the taffeta underground.

BIRD: Taffeta wot? Xplain, pliz, Lucy.

BUFFALO: Jeez. The Porking Principle, in a runt shell, is this: when one is porking, one feels a moment of pure joy and well-being, beyond pleasure and pain, longing and queueing. To pork is to know that one is truly in touch with one's personal enmity.

BIRD: I see. So it's a piece of hippy shit, like?

BUFFALO: Yup. Got good illustrations too. Angles you'd never have thought possible.

BIRD: And wot of Chivers now?

BUFFALO: Sadly no longer with us. Porked out at 50.

BIRD: Crikey. So he's the reason for your abject depravity and extreme self-reversion?

BUFFALO: Yup. And boy did I make those angles work, if you get m'drift.

BIRD: But how come his book was in the library? Sounds salacious. Radical even.

BUFFALO: I didn't get his book in the library. I read it in the library then tried out his theories, over in Fiction. And that's when I discovered Joyce and da udders.

BIRD: Right. So Actual Lee, you woz using the library as a porking shop, like?

BUFFALO: Didn't you when you were young and horny?

BIRD: Er, well, just the once. I admit, it gave the intermingling a certain frisson.

BUFFALO: You're right dere, Birdy. Somethin' about being surrounded by all those learned dudes' literary endeavours... gives me the wood just thinkin' 'bout it.

BIRD: Ah, Buffters, you truly are a genuine perv.

BUFFALO: Why, thank you, Birdman. And to that end, I have invited Clare along to the Science Fiction section today for an ickle space-age boffing afore they close the place for good.

BIRD: Nice.

BUFFALO: As da old Chivers used to say...
Pork while you may
Pork night and day
Pork till you drop
Pork underneath or on top
Pork till you stop
Pork, don't flop

BIRD: Porking at eleven?

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

MOVE ALONG, FOLKS, THERE'S NOTHING TO SEE HERE

2008-01-06T09:46:00.000-08:00

AND THE WINNER OF THE PUT BOUVET ISLAND ON THE MAP BEFORE IT GETS NUKED OR COLONISED BY GIANT UDDERS SELF ASSESSING RETURNABLE VERSE GOES TO...

MOVE ALONG, FOLKS, THERE'S NOTHING TO SEE HERE

Where to now?

she said

Mind the hole

he said

I'm already in

ODE TO CELERY Q SAVE OUR VEGGIES

2008-01-03T05:48:00.000-08:00

An Ode to Celery

Oh, thou supreme

stalked

useful

vegetable.

I do

desire

thee

A CHRISTMAS SCENE Q TOBY IN THE PANTRY

2007-12-18T04:15:00.000-08:00

WATSON: I say, Holmes.

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...

(RIPPING SOUND)

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.

HOLMES: Quite.

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.

HOLMES: Indeed.

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!

FIRING BLANKS IN A WINDY CRESCENT AT CHRISTMAS TIME IN THE MORNING

2007-12-17T05:28:00.000-08:00

FIRING BLANKS IN A WINDY CRESCENT

AT CHRISTMAS TIME IN THE MORNING

I was

firing blanks

but she didn't

seem to

mind

WHAT'S FOR TEA, DORIS?

2007-12-10T05:02:00.000-08:00

THE RUNNER-UP IN MARTHA'S MUFFINS SIMMERING GENTLY POETRY OF THE LOST MILLENNIUM SPONSORED BY YouBoob IS...

WHAT'S FOR TEA, DORIS?

Safe in

the

glow

Dung Beetle's

Poo

What's for tea,

Doris?

NetFlix Fix Q Sparky Nooks

2007-12-09T05:31:00.000-08:00

BIRD: Buff, what's Sparky been up to lately?

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.

MAMMARIES WON'T LET YOU DOWN

2007-12-06T03:44:00.000-08:00

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.

BIRD: Mammaries?!

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

HOT GROG SAVE ME Q 911

2007-12-04T04:02:00.000-08:00

BUFFALO: Damn, nose stuffed up, head throbbing, muscles aching, eyes burning... and no lemons or whisky to make hot toddies with. Sonofabitch. No choice but to make a lemon and likker run, I guess. Hmmm. Let's see... there's some gin, but no whisky... blackberry brandy; God no, if I start on that, I'll do the whole pint and then I'm screwed, blue, er, black... black and blue. No, what I need is hot buttered rum - fookin' GROG! Yes, that's the ticket, hot grog with butter and biscuits. I can drink it and bathe in it. Okay, shower, fook the shave, off to Kroger's and the likker store. If that turd calls me "Boss" again I'm decking him. I don't know what's worse, "My friend" or "Boss". On second thoughts, maybe I'll just hang myself from the highest beam. But I can't find the rope I'm looking for, a classic Sacre Bleu Velveeta Rope (in Latin, an SPQR). All the others are much too scratchy (and tacky). When I finally do hang myself, it will be with the utmost style and decorum. Onwards and downwards. Birdy, you dere? Birdy! Dammit! Better phone 911 for a crane!

A BLOGO BY ANY OTHER NAME

2007-12-03T05:18:00.000-08:00

BUFFALO: Wot a logo! Wot a logo! All the girls I've ever known have loved woodpeckers. Or is it woodies and peckers? It's been so long now. Anyhoo...

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!

BOUVET ISLAND BOOGIE

2007-12-01T04:53:00.000-08:00

BIRD: Yup, it's true, Buff. We have officially become the cultural ambassadors for Bouvet Island. And henceforth they have agreed to replace their flag with our logo.

BUFFALO: Wikkid! Now wot about da chicks, like, innit, wasshappin, dude?

BIRD: Been at the sherry trifle again, I fear. It's uninhabited, like. But I'm sure Miss Bouvet Island, 2007, a vegetarian, will oblige with the formalities.

BUFFALO: Nice! Anyone for seconds?

BIRD: Yaaap!

BUFFALO: Three cheers for the logo and Marja, the whizzo with the coloured stick! Hip, hip...

B&B: Hooray!

BUFFALO: Hip, hip...

B&B: Hooray!

BUFFALO: Hip, hip...

B&B: Hoorayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!

BUFFALO: Oh, fudge rocket, I've soiled myself.

BIRD: Nice! Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Unlimited T-shirts, mugs and assorted memorabilly-ya at twelve. Arf, arf!

SEAHORSES ONLY GRIN WHEN THEY'RE READY

2007-11-26T04:53:00.000-08:00

The seahorse leapt
up
from the
toilet bowl
And
nibbled
the
pork sausage
but
what a
grin

Tails From The Bird & Buffalo

House Fire + New Year's Retributions

There Was A Young Man From Peru...

EXPLOSIVE DREAMS: FROM THE SECRET DIARY OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

MORE SHERLOCK, WHAT WHAT WHAT: THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED REAR

WE WANT THE OCTOPIDDLES!!!

NED FOOKS UP

short poetry in brief... all hail the Octopiddles!

LESS AND MORE AND MORE

SLIGHT SLUT

TALES OF THE ATOMIC AGE

FINLAND: A CAUSATIONAL TAIL

THE CURIOUS CASE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE COSTLY COCA

BEAUTIFUL SEEDS REVERSE

THE BLOB AND KNOB

A FOETAL MISTAKE

INDENTATIONS AND THE DANCE OF THE TICKLE

OF TWITTER AND WIKILEAKS

IT TAKES A TWITTER TO KNOW A TWITTER

THE TEMPTATION OF A CLERGYMAN

THOUGHTS ON A BUS - FEAR

HERPES, OMIGOD

LATE BUT FOREVER

UP CHUCK AND DI

Avitan Demotional! Me, Me, Now!

DELETED AND PURGED, THE UNHOLY TRILOGY

OF GAY DOGS AND COCAINE

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

PUBISTAN WRITERS SUPPORT CAMPAIGN TO REVIVE INSOLENT RUDDER

THE CUCUMBER OF LOVE ONCE SCORNED

AND THE WINNER OF THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE 2009...

THE REAL STEWART SUMNER REPOSED TO PROFANITY FAIR

THE SHIT SANDWICH GOES ON...

CIA INTERCEPT LEAKED TO WORLD MEDIA - CODENAME ARF, ARF TEMPLATE 28871593 DONUT

THE BIRD & BUFFALO FINALLY EXPOSED?

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 2 - A CRITIQUE

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 2

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 1 - A CRITIQUE

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 1

QUOTATION OF THE MEEK

THE DREAM OF GALVESTON

DONIA CAREY - A TRIBUTE

CAMELIAN URGES

THE BLOGETH LIVETH WOTDAFUKK..ITH AND DA FACHENBACHS

OFOOKIT, WATTERS, NOW WHAT WHAT WHAT?*&!

D-D-D-D-D-DEATH AND THE SPIDER

PROFESSOR BUFFTAMELLA AND THE OFFER YOU CAN'T INFUSE!

MORE PROBLEMS WITH DA REAR THAN YOU CAN WAVE A STICK AT

WHEN ORANGE JUICE JUST AIN'T ENUFF

PRESIDENT OBAMA'S MESSAGE TO THE B&B

WITTER TWITTER & BUFFALO APPLES

THE WHITECHAPEL CAPER - PART 1

BIRD & BUFFALO WIN NOBEL PRIZE FOR LITERATURE

SARAH PALIN IN TEN SECONDS

OF PROBITY AND UDDER BLUNDERS

THE CRUSTYCOK SCANDAL AND OTHER FLAKERIES

A BLOG WITHIN A BLOG, OR IZZIT THE?

IFFY - INLAND EMPIRE REVISITED

THE END OF THE NITE SHIFT... ISH

RAZOR BLADDER

MICHIGAN LAFFING ACADEMY

LONG LOST RELLY

ZAFTIG CARLOTTA

MEET ME LITTER RARE E AGENT - MR I CHING

THE MISSING P-COCK

COMING SOON: B&B THE SITCOM

MORE THRUST INSOLENT RUDDER, SCOTTIE!

KINKY BOOTS

HOT PAWN

INDIANA JONES AND THE KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL

FIFI'S BACK - WOO-HOO!

DICK VON FUXX REVELS ALL

SPIDER-MAN 3 - THE TRAILER BY PEDRO ALMODOVAR

OI, NUTTER & THE STAR-SPANGLED BANANA

GREAT TITS COPE WELL WITH WARMING

EINSTEIN'S LAST THEORY INNIT

FIVE REASONS TO GET OUTTA BED IN DA MAWNIN'

FIVE THINGS NOT TO SAY AFORE YE CROAK

FIVE FILMS TO SEE BEFORE YOU DIE

MAXIM & UDDERS ON INSOLENT RUDDER