Bird: That Belle De Jour's a saucy minx.
Buffalo: Yeah, tell me about it! Ooh, just thinking about her makes me go full mast.
Bird: Think she'll like us?
Buffalo: Guess she'll just have to suck it and see.
Bird: They say she's got prominent, articulated nipples.
Buffalo: Oh, my! Tweak, tweak!
Bird: Write the cheque, Momma!
Buffalo: Arf, arf!
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Sparky Goes For Spare Crumpet
Bird: I see Hugh Heffner’s 80, then.
Buffalo: Yo… that’s what a taste of the good stuff can do for ya.
Bird: Even if he does look like an embalmed corpse.
Buffalo: Looks are irrelevant – he’ll still be getting laid even AFTER he dies.
Bird: Nothing wrong with his prostate, then. How’s Sparky’s?
Buffalo: Dude, I’m totally serious, Sparky has a prostate the size of an Idaho potato and the bladder the size of a circus peanut. Takes him fifteen minutes to pee. I’m buying him a catheter for his birthday. He’s not stimulating the old tallywhacker on a regular basis, lad… you know, “use it or lose it.”
Bird: Really? I thought he was doing that bird Judy down at the Atomic Dog Café?
Buffalo: The bowling alley? Judy? Dude, it’s a miracle my dipsomaniac roommate can drag his withered arse out of bed to make it to the bloody bathroom. A tree sloth looks vigorous by comparison.
Bird: Poor Sparky. And how’s your prostate doing?
Buffalo: Never better, praise the Lord, knock on Norwegian wood… according to the minxy Dr. Feelgood. Sigh. Last time she gave me a complete physical she said "So, no erectile dysfunction here, then.”
Bird: Er, just exactly how did she establish that fact, dude?
Buffalo: Off the record, at age 18 I had surgery for an "undescended" testicle…
Bird: Pisswilly, Buffalo! For real?
Buffalo: Yup, but it wasn’t really “undescended”. It was totally Kosher, I swear, but for some bizarre reason it elected to withdraw back into the womb, so to speak. It came on gradually, over a period of several years. I kept it to myself because I figured God was punishing me for excessive stimulatory activity, y’know? Then one day in the Post Office, my first job, my old mentor Dutch Walters swung a steel mail rack in my direction and I caught a corner of it smack dab on the offending ballock. I folded like a cheap accordion, writhing on the floor in agony. A week later I went under the knife.
Bird: Bloodcurdling, mate…
Buffalo: Wait, it gets better. . . after the surgery, they put me in a semi-private room and then this Harry Belafonte-looking gay male nurse comes in with what looked like an Oklahoma credit card, see?
Bird: A what?
Buffalo: A length of red rubber hose, like the kind we used to siphon gas – petrol to you – out of other dudes’ gas tanks, when times were tough, like. He said he was going to stick the hose down my johnson. I laughed myself silly. He laughed too. I thought he was putting me on, right? But no, he was putting it IN, dude. All the way in.
Bird: Jesus Christ…
Buffalo: Must’ve drifted off then. Woke up with old Willy standing at attention, as usual. Well, I didn’t want to waste it, and besides, I was a bit paranoid after being violated and all, and I wanted to be sure the surgery hadn't rendered me impotent. I’ll never forget the surgeon’s name – Dr. Tom Sawyer – God’s truth, dude. Weird, too, because Harry had leaned over me the night before and whispered in my ear while feeding in the old hose, “I’m your Huckleberry, honey.” But I digress. In short, I thought it prudent to take it for a test spin, so to speak.
Bird: Well, of course, perfectly logical.
Buffalo: Things were going swimmingly. I was fantasizing about the exquisitely hot nurse who checked my vitals while Willy was making a pup tent. She was a Jenny Agutter look-alike in a traditional starched white uniform… translucent stockings, you know the kind? Her blouse was unbuttoned a bit, she wore a cream-colored brassiere with Italian lace. Chanel Number Five perfume…
Bird: Holy mother of God…
Buffalo: All of a sudden, just like downtown, Old Faithful spouts like a Humpback whale off Nantucket Sound. A beautifully high parabolic arch. And right at the apogee, the curtains fly open and there stands a snarling bull dyke nurse, or a Methodist, hard to tell, and interrupts me mid-stream, in flagrante delicto!
Bird: Gott in Himmel!
Buffalo: Well, her eyeballs nearly popped out of her head, the old flag pole fell to half mast, and then she bellowed in the voice of a Marine Corps drill instructor - "I'm here to give you a sponge bath!" I almost soiled myself, lad. Then she proceeded to administer said sponge bath, starting with the very thing that most required sponging. I tell ya, I thought she was going to yank my twanger OFF. Dude, that woman desperately needed a good shagging – by an elephant.
Bird: Impetuous… Homeric!
Buffalo: Aye… well, once in a while the old scar tissue causes me a bit of discomfort. Feels like there’s a ferret gnawing on the damned thing. So I made an appointment for a physical, and Eleanor – sorry, Dr. Feelgood - was checking out the landing gear… it was an e e cummings moment. She was ever so softly fondling my poor, tender Matzo ball, and my eyes went crossed, and Willy snapped to attention. She looked up at me from her stool, affording me a splendid view of her award-winning cleavage. She gave me a wry little grin and complimented me on the healthy condition of my prodigious tool, with not a clue how close she came to getting sploodged in her lovely sea green eye. And on departing, she said “I’ll make sure you have ten minutes of privacy before you get dressed.” She winked at me and slipped out into the corridor. . . and the rest is silence, Horatio.
Bird: Write me the cheque, Momma! Have to take care of some sick cats now. Film at eleven.
Buffalo: Righto, Birdie. Don’t take any wooden Indians, lad. . . arf, arf!
Buffalo: Yo… that’s what a taste of the good stuff can do for ya.
Bird: Even if he does look like an embalmed corpse.
Buffalo: Looks are irrelevant – he’ll still be getting laid even AFTER he dies.
Bird: Nothing wrong with his prostate, then. How’s Sparky’s?
Buffalo: Dude, I’m totally serious, Sparky has a prostate the size of an Idaho potato and the bladder the size of a circus peanut. Takes him fifteen minutes to pee. I’m buying him a catheter for his birthday. He’s not stimulating the old tallywhacker on a regular basis, lad… you know, “use it or lose it.”
Bird: Really? I thought he was doing that bird Judy down at the Atomic Dog Café?
Buffalo: The bowling alley? Judy? Dude, it’s a miracle my dipsomaniac roommate can drag his withered arse out of bed to make it to the bloody bathroom. A tree sloth looks vigorous by comparison.
Bird: Poor Sparky. And how’s your prostate doing?
Buffalo: Never better, praise the Lord, knock on Norwegian wood… according to the minxy Dr. Feelgood. Sigh. Last time she gave me a complete physical she said "So, no erectile dysfunction here, then.”
Bird: Er, just exactly how did she establish that fact, dude?
Buffalo: Off the record, at age 18 I had surgery for an "undescended" testicle…
Bird: Pisswilly, Buffalo! For real?
Buffalo: Yup, but it wasn’t really “undescended”. It was totally Kosher, I swear, but for some bizarre reason it elected to withdraw back into the womb, so to speak. It came on gradually, over a period of several years. I kept it to myself because I figured God was punishing me for excessive stimulatory activity, y’know? Then one day in the Post Office, my first job, my old mentor Dutch Walters swung a steel mail rack in my direction and I caught a corner of it smack dab on the offending ballock. I folded like a cheap accordion, writhing on the floor in agony. A week later I went under the knife.
Bird: Bloodcurdling, mate…
Buffalo: Wait, it gets better. . . after the surgery, they put me in a semi-private room and then this Harry Belafonte-looking gay male nurse comes in with what looked like an Oklahoma credit card, see?
Bird: A what?
Buffalo: A length of red rubber hose, like the kind we used to siphon gas – petrol to you – out of other dudes’ gas tanks, when times were tough, like. He said he was going to stick the hose down my johnson. I laughed myself silly. He laughed too. I thought he was putting me on, right? But no, he was putting it IN, dude. All the way in.
Bird: Jesus Christ…
Buffalo: Must’ve drifted off then. Woke up with old Willy standing at attention, as usual. Well, I didn’t want to waste it, and besides, I was a bit paranoid after being violated and all, and I wanted to be sure the surgery hadn't rendered me impotent. I’ll never forget the surgeon’s name – Dr. Tom Sawyer – God’s truth, dude. Weird, too, because Harry had leaned over me the night before and whispered in my ear while feeding in the old hose, “I’m your Huckleberry, honey.” But I digress. In short, I thought it prudent to take it for a test spin, so to speak.
Bird: Well, of course, perfectly logical.
Buffalo: Things were going swimmingly. I was fantasizing about the exquisitely hot nurse who checked my vitals while Willy was making a pup tent. She was a Jenny Agutter look-alike in a traditional starched white uniform… translucent stockings, you know the kind? Her blouse was unbuttoned a bit, she wore a cream-colored brassiere with Italian lace. Chanel Number Five perfume…
Bird: Holy mother of God…
Buffalo: All of a sudden, just like downtown, Old Faithful spouts like a Humpback whale off Nantucket Sound. A beautifully high parabolic arch. And right at the apogee, the curtains fly open and there stands a snarling bull dyke nurse, or a Methodist, hard to tell, and interrupts me mid-stream, in flagrante delicto!
Bird: Gott in Himmel!
Buffalo: Well, her eyeballs nearly popped out of her head, the old flag pole fell to half mast, and then she bellowed in the voice of a Marine Corps drill instructor - "I'm here to give you a sponge bath!" I almost soiled myself, lad. Then she proceeded to administer said sponge bath, starting with the very thing that most required sponging. I tell ya, I thought she was going to yank my twanger OFF. Dude, that woman desperately needed a good shagging – by an elephant.
Bird: Impetuous… Homeric!
Buffalo: Aye… well, once in a while the old scar tissue causes me a bit of discomfort. Feels like there’s a ferret gnawing on the damned thing. So I made an appointment for a physical, and Eleanor – sorry, Dr. Feelgood - was checking out the landing gear… it was an e e cummings moment. She was ever so softly fondling my poor, tender Matzo ball, and my eyes went crossed, and Willy snapped to attention. She looked up at me from her stool, affording me a splendid view of her award-winning cleavage. She gave me a wry little grin and complimented me on the healthy condition of my prodigious tool, with not a clue how close she came to getting sploodged in her lovely sea green eye. And on departing, she said “I’ll make sure you have ten minutes of privacy before you get dressed.” She winked at me and slipped out into the corridor. . . and the rest is silence, Horatio.
Bird: Write me the cheque, Momma! Have to take care of some sick cats now. Film at eleven.
Buffalo: Righto, Birdie. Don’t take any wooden Indians, lad. . . arf, arf!
NEWS JUST IN
China has just banned access to Tails From The Bird & Buffalo! A spokesperson for the funniest writing duo on the Net said: "***k 'em!"
Monday, May 29, 2006
FOREVER ENGLAND
Bird: S’pose I better tell them about giving sperm.
Buffalo: S’pose you better, dude.
Bird: Well, it goes like this. I made my way along a murky corridor and then…
Nurse: Can I help you?
Bird: Er, is this the, er, Institute For Research Into The Multifactorial Propagation Of The Human Race By Advanced Fecundatory Processes?
Nurse: The sperm bank’s the first door on the right.
Bird: So I knocked on the door…
Doctor: Ah, Mr Bird. Peel off a number then wait to be called.
Bird: Do you show hard core Danish films with lots of big-bosomed blondes moaning in hedonistic delight to put me in the mood, like?
Doctor: Good heavens, there’s nothing like that. You’ll have to use your imagination, I’m afraid.
Bird: But what if you haven’t got… I mean, some men need prompting. It’s not always easy to visualise something that works you into such an erotic frenzy that you’re able to deliver the 5-star premium liquid. I want to give all those thousands, millions of childless couples the greatest gift of them all – life. I want my seed to be spread far and wide, to bring forth the next generation of artists, writers, doctors, scientists, world leaders.
Bob: You’ll be lucky if your sperm gets used at all. I’ve been giving sperm for five years and it’s only been used once.
Nurse: Number 74.
Bird: Over here.
Nurse: Here’s your specimen receptacle. Cubicle six.
Bird: You expect me to fill the whole bottle? It’s the size of a jam jar!
Nurse: Don’t be silly. We only need a small amount. I’ll give you ten minutes. If you have any trouble, give me a shout, I’ll bring you a dirty magazine.
Bird: (smirking) I won’t be needing that. I think you’ll find that I’m more than capable of rising to the occasion. So, this is it then. The moment of truth. Someday somewhere hundreds, nay, thousands of women are going to be eternally grateful for my unselfish contribution to their future maternal happiness.
Nurse: Try not to get any on the carpet, love. It’s just been shampooed.
Bird: I can see one of them now rocking the sweet little bundle in her arms, singing it a lullaby, stroking its little…
Doctor: Just get on with it, will you? We’ve got twelve more waiting in the lobby.
Nurse: Bob?
Bob: Yes, Jenny?
Nurse: Your usual, cubicle five.
Bird: Cubicle five? Great! We’ll be next to each other. We can do it in tandem! (goes into cubicle.) Right, here we go.
Bob: Oh, yes. Yes! Yes, Lucinda, yes!
Bird: Hey, Bob, can you keep it down? I can’t concentrate in here.
Bob: Yes! Yes! Yes! Yesssss!
Bird: (sighs) I can’t do this. There must be something that’ll get me horny. I know. Granny Smith, bending over a hot stove, legs wide apart, skirt riding up her thighs, suspender belt dangling... “My little lemon soufflé,” she moans. God, she’s hot! Yes! Yes! Yes! Come on, big boy. Get ready for the whipped cream, granny! Oh, what! Come on, man! Another 30 seconds and it was lights out in London! Now what?
(knocks on partition) Hey, Bob, help me out here, will you? Freddy doesn’t want to play. Got any tips? Maybe I’m not holding him right.
Bob: I thought you were an expert.
Bird: Well, yeah, I am, but I’m not used to these pressure situations. By the way, do you find it goes better in 4/4 time or something faster?
Bob: The slower the better.
Bird: Maybe if I watch you do it, I’ll see where I’m going wrong.
Bob: Are you some kind of pervert?
Bird: Of course not! I just thought… Well, how about if you watch me and if you notice something funny you let me know?
Bob: Good Lord, if you can’t masturbate properly by now you never will.
Bird: Come on, Bob. Be a pal, show me how it’s done.
Bob: No.
Bird: Go on, just a quickie.
Bob: No!
Bird: OK, if that’s the way you want to play it. I’ll just stand here and watch you. When you’re ready.
Bob: (zips up trousers) Jeez. OK. Imagine my penis is in my hand.
Bird: It’s not easy.
Bob: Try. So, it goes like this. You start slowly then rock backwards and forwards, build up the rhythm then think of the most sensual experience you’ve had and leave the rest to nature.
Bird: That simple, eh? Thanks, Bob. I owe you one. Oh, one last question: who’s Lucinda?
Bob: My wife!
Bird: Oh. Mind if I use her name?
Bob: Yes, I bloody well do!
Bird: Got ya. OK, Doris it is… She glides across the field from the left, I glide across from the right. The sun glistens in her hair. We embrace. I slip my hand under her top, flick open the bra strap and fondle her tits.
Bob: God, this is making me horny.
Bird: She unbuckles my trousers, rubs my willywonka up and down slowly then builds up into a rhythm - just like Bob said. Then I ram old Freddy home. ‘Harder!’ she moans. Harder! Oh, yes!’ Yes, yes, yes! Oh, Doris. Yesssss! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yessssssssssssssssss!
Doctor: Everything all right in there?
Bird: (unlocks cubicle and steps outside) Sorry, doc. Got a bit carried away. It was Doris, you see, that little slut always gets me horny. Don’t know if this’ll be any good to you.
Doctor: I’ve never seen anything like it. This is ten times the normal amount.
Bird: I could’ve put some more in, you know, but I didn’t want to boast. How did you get on, Bob? Never mind, better luck next time, eh? You weren’t holding him right. Here, I’ll show you.
Doctor: Stop that at once, this is a respectable company.
Bird: Take good care of my old love juice, doc. The furtherance of the fecunded human race is in there.
Doctor: Don’t worry, it’s safe with us. Now, shall we say same time next week?
Bird: Eh?
Doctor: For the next deposit.
Bird: Well, I don’t know, I mean… Oh, OK. You can’t rely on poor Bob, after all. Um, when shall I phone?
Doctor: Phone?
Bird: To find out who’s had the pleasure of being impregnated with my celestial seed?
Doctor: The donor never finds out who the recipient is. It’s strictly confidential. Your seed could end up in Australia, Japan, America, anywhere, even in the woman next door.
Bird: The woman next door? I doubt that very much. She’s 97, and I know for a fact that her hole is shrivelled up. I’m going to be a father. Surely I have a right to know what happens to my jar of splodge?
Doctor: Your sperm belongs to us now, Mr Bird. The fact that you’ve agreed to donate your sperm for a modest payment is a supreme act of altruism for which you should feel very proud.
Bird: Hmm, s’pose I should. Alas, I shall never know what human form my divine potion is destined to become but I shall take comfort in the knowledge that in some unsuspecting person somewhere there shall always be a part of him, or her, that shall forever be England.
Bob: Oh, Mr Bird?
Bird: Yes, Bob?
Bob: Who’s Doris?
Bird: Ah, wouldn’t you like to know. Wouldn’t you like to know.
****
Buffalo: Laffing me ass off here, buddy. Wish I’d been there to see it.
Bird: I bet! The old johnson’s still sore, btw. Have to go and take care of some sick cats now. Film at eleven.
Buffalo: Arf, arf!
Buffalo: S’pose you better, dude.
Bird: Well, it goes like this. I made my way along a murky corridor and then…
Nurse: Can I help you?
Bird: Er, is this the, er, Institute For Research Into The Multifactorial Propagation Of The Human Race By Advanced Fecundatory Processes?
Nurse: The sperm bank’s the first door on the right.
Bird: So I knocked on the door…
Doctor: Ah, Mr Bird. Peel off a number then wait to be called.
Bird: Do you show hard core Danish films with lots of big-bosomed blondes moaning in hedonistic delight to put me in the mood, like?
Doctor: Good heavens, there’s nothing like that. You’ll have to use your imagination, I’m afraid.
Bird: But what if you haven’t got… I mean, some men need prompting. It’s not always easy to visualise something that works you into such an erotic frenzy that you’re able to deliver the 5-star premium liquid. I want to give all those thousands, millions of childless couples the greatest gift of them all – life. I want my seed to be spread far and wide, to bring forth the next generation of artists, writers, doctors, scientists, world leaders.
Bob: You’ll be lucky if your sperm gets used at all. I’ve been giving sperm for five years and it’s only been used once.
Nurse: Number 74.
Bird: Over here.
Nurse: Here’s your specimen receptacle. Cubicle six.
Bird: You expect me to fill the whole bottle? It’s the size of a jam jar!
Nurse: Don’t be silly. We only need a small amount. I’ll give you ten minutes. If you have any trouble, give me a shout, I’ll bring you a dirty magazine.
Bird: (smirking) I won’t be needing that. I think you’ll find that I’m more than capable of rising to the occasion. So, this is it then. The moment of truth. Someday somewhere hundreds, nay, thousands of women are going to be eternally grateful for my unselfish contribution to their future maternal happiness.
Nurse: Try not to get any on the carpet, love. It’s just been shampooed.
Bird: I can see one of them now rocking the sweet little bundle in her arms, singing it a lullaby, stroking its little…
Doctor: Just get on with it, will you? We’ve got twelve more waiting in the lobby.
Nurse: Bob?
Bob: Yes, Jenny?
Nurse: Your usual, cubicle five.
Bird: Cubicle five? Great! We’ll be next to each other. We can do it in tandem! (goes into cubicle.) Right, here we go.
Bob: Oh, yes. Yes! Yes, Lucinda, yes!
Bird: Hey, Bob, can you keep it down? I can’t concentrate in here.
Bob: Yes! Yes! Yes! Yesssss!
Bird: (sighs) I can’t do this. There must be something that’ll get me horny. I know. Granny Smith, bending over a hot stove, legs wide apart, skirt riding up her thighs, suspender belt dangling... “My little lemon soufflé,” she moans. God, she’s hot! Yes! Yes! Yes! Come on, big boy. Get ready for the whipped cream, granny! Oh, what! Come on, man! Another 30 seconds and it was lights out in London! Now what?
(knocks on partition) Hey, Bob, help me out here, will you? Freddy doesn’t want to play. Got any tips? Maybe I’m not holding him right.
Bob: I thought you were an expert.
Bird: Well, yeah, I am, but I’m not used to these pressure situations. By the way, do you find it goes better in 4/4 time or something faster?
Bob: The slower the better.
Bird: Maybe if I watch you do it, I’ll see where I’m going wrong.
Bob: Are you some kind of pervert?
Bird: Of course not! I just thought… Well, how about if you watch me and if you notice something funny you let me know?
Bob: Good Lord, if you can’t masturbate properly by now you never will.
Bird: Come on, Bob. Be a pal, show me how it’s done.
Bob: No.
Bird: Go on, just a quickie.
Bob: No!
Bird: OK, if that’s the way you want to play it. I’ll just stand here and watch you. When you’re ready.
Bob: (zips up trousers) Jeez. OK. Imagine my penis is in my hand.
Bird: It’s not easy.
Bob: Try. So, it goes like this. You start slowly then rock backwards and forwards, build up the rhythm then think of the most sensual experience you’ve had and leave the rest to nature.
Bird: That simple, eh? Thanks, Bob. I owe you one. Oh, one last question: who’s Lucinda?
Bob: My wife!
Bird: Oh. Mind if I use her name?
Bob: Yes, I bloody well do!
Bird: Got ya. OK, Doris it is… She glides across the field from the left, I glide across from the right. The sun glistens in her hair. We embrace. I slip my hand under her top, flick open the bra strap and fondle her tits.
Bob: God, this is making me horny.
Bird: She unbuckles my trousers, rubs my willywonka up and down slowly then builds up into a rhythm - just like Bob said. Then I ram old Freddy home. ‘Harder!’ she moans. Harder! Oh, yes!’ Yes, yes, yes! Oh, Doris. Yesssss! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yessssssssssssssssss!
Doctor: Everything all right in there?
Bird: (unlocks cubicle and steps outside) Sorry, doc. Got a bit carried away. It was Doris, you see, that little slut always gets me horny. Don’t know if this’ll be any good to you.
Doctor: I’ve never seen anything like it. This is ten times the normal amount.
Bird: I could’ve put some more in, you know, but I didn’t want to boast. How did you get on, Bob? Never mind, better luck next time, eh? You weren’t holding him right. Here, I’ll show you.
Doctor: Stop that at once, this is a respectable company.
Bird: Take good care of my old love juice, doc. The furtherance of the fecunded human race is in there.
Doctor: Don’t worry, it’s safe with us. Now, shall we say same time next week?
Bird: Eh?
Doctor: For the next deposit.
Bird: Well, I don’t know, I mean… Oh, OK. You can’t rely on poor Bob, after all. Um, when shall I phone?
Doctor: Phone?
Bird: To find out who’s had the pleasure of being impregnated with my celestial seed?
Doctor: The donor never finds out who the recipient is. It’s strictly confidential. Your seed could end up in Australia, Japan, America, anywhere, even in the woman next door.
Bird: The woman next door? I doubt that very much. She’s 97, and I know for a fact that her hole is shrivelled up. I’m going to be a father. Surely I have a right to know what happens to my jar of splodge?
Doctor: Your sperm belongs to us now, Mr Bird. The fact that you’ve agreed to donate your sperm for a modest payment is a supreme act of altruism for which you should feel very proud.
Bird: Hmm, s’pose I should. Alas, I shall never know what human form my divine potion is destined to become but I shall take comfort in the knowledge that in some unsuspecting person somewhere there shall always be a part of him, or her, that shall forever be England.
Bob: Oh, Mr Bird?
Bird: Yes, Bob?
Bob: Who’s Doris?
Bird: Ah, wouldn’t you like to know. Wouldn’t you like to know.
****
Buffalo: Laffing me ass off here, buddy. Wish I’d been there to see it.
Bird: I bet! The old johnson’s still sore, btw. Have to go and take care of some sick cats now. Film at eleven.
Buffalo: Arf, arf!
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Hally Loo Ya!
Buffalo: Dude, they totally gave me a new air conditoner... well, one that works, anyway. It's kicking out cool air, I am as happy as a puppy with two peters... makes for better shagging, too, if I do get lucky...
Bird: Well, there's always that oversexed hairy walrus that keeps knocking at your door. Any old port hole in a storm, eh?
Buffalo: No kidding. Guess who's threatening to stop by after work for a bit of tea and crumpet? Right. I'm not holding my breath.
Bird: But I thought she didn't do Belgians?
Buffalo: Or Vikings.
Bird: But she might enjoy it with Britishers or New Zealanders.
Buffalo: Or Belgian Vikings, of which I am one (Garey High Vikings, Class of MCMLXIV).
Bird: Got the picture?
Buffalo: Yes, alas... it's rather painful to view, though. I look rather "presidential" in that portrait. Rather shattering to one's self-esteem.
Bird: Scan it and bung it in an e-mail, dude.
Buffalo: Roger to that. It is strange, however, how many people can be very good at sex but crap at the rest of it, don't ya think?
Bird: Like the ones who immediately go into snore mode after the Big Bang?
Buffalo: Yeah, but what a sweet sleep that is...
Bird: Unless the snorer is lying on top of the snoree and the latter is pinioned and smothered. But too kind and considerate to disturb such a sweet sleep. and the snoree has to pee--desperately!
Buffalo: Ah, for want of a walrus blow job special with all the trimmings.
Bird: Too much talking. Not enough rogering.
Buffalo: I'll drink to that.
Bird: Have to go and take care of some sick cats. Film at eleven.
Buffalo: Arf, arf!
Bird: Well, there's always that oversexed hairy walrus that keeps knocking at your door. Any old port hole in a storm, eh?
Buffalo: No kidding. Guess who's threatening to stop by after work for a bit of tea and crumpet? Right. I'm not holding my breath.
Bird: But I thought she didn't do Belgians?
Buffalo: Or Vikings.
Bird: But she might enjoy it with Britishers or New Zealanders.
Buffalo: Or Belgian Vikings, of which I am one (Garey High Vikings, Class of MCMLXIV).
Bird: Got the picture?
Buffalo: Yes, alas... it's rather painful to view, though. I look rather "presidential" in that portrait. Rather shattering to one's self-esteem.
Bird: Scan it and bung it in an e-mail, dude.
Buffalo: Roger to that. It is strange, however, how many people can be very good at sex but crap at the rest of it, don't ya think?
Bird: Like the ones who immediately go into snore mode after the Big Bang?
Buffalo: Yeah, but what a sweet sleep that is...
Bird: Unless the snorer is lying on top of the snoree and the latter is pinioned and smothered. But too kind and considerate to disturb such a sweet sleep. and the snoree has to pee--desperately!
Buffalo: Ah, for want of a walrus blow job special with all the trimmings.
Bird: Too much talking. Not enough rogering.
Buffalo: I'll drink to that.
Bird: Have to go and take care of some sick cats. Film at eleven.
Buffalo: Arf, arf!
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