MAKE LOVE NOT WAR – SHAGATHON 4 PEACE, PLIZ
DATE: 22nd DECEMBER
VENUE: WHEREVER YOU FANCY, ALTHOUGH CHECK IT OUT FIRST WITH YER LOCAL FUZZ
TIME: FROM MORNING TILL NIGHT
AIM: AS BEST AS POSSIBLE
GOAL: SCORE AS MANY AS POSSIBLE
OBJECTIVE: TO BRING ABOUT WORLD PEACE, PLIZ
TO BE ACHIEVED BY: EVERYONE FORNICATING LIKE SEA OTTERS ON THE AFOREMENTIONED DATE
GLOBALORGASM.ORG MISSION STATEMENT, EXTRACTED:
“The intent is that the participants concentrate any thoughts during and after orgasm on peace. The combination of high-energy orgasmic energy combined with mindful intention may have a much greater effect than previous mass meditations and prayers.
The goal is to add so much concentrated and high-energy positive input into the energy field of the Earth that it will reduce the current dangerous levels of aggression and violence throughout the world.”
SIGN UP HERE: http://www.globalorgasm.org/
BIRD: So, dude, you up for it?
BUFFALO: Uh, yahh-p. Gotta practise beforehand, like. Dat Viagra’s sure gonna come in handy.
BIRD: Dude, just how many times are you planning on splodging 4 peace, pliz, like?
BUFFALO: Hard to say, Birdman. Last time I boffed 4 peace, pliz, I got up to 30.
BIRD: Omigod!
BUFFALO: Well, it is incumbent upon shagmeisters everywhere to do their bit 4 peace, pliz, nichts?
BIRD: Oh, totally. Absolutely. Better get down the doc’s for a prescription.
POTTY DOTTY: Er, can anyone join in?
BIRD: Anyone.
FIFI LAMOUR: C’est tres formidable.
SAGE OF SWEDEN: From one trickle to the ocean.
PUCK: Fookin’ A!
BUFFALO: Are you in, Sparkers?
SPARKY: Depends on Otto.
OTTO FELLATIO: Sparky, my dear lad, you iz ready.
SPARKY: Uh, OK, man. Sign me up.
(Octopussy pokes the bagpipes enthusiastically)
BUFFALO: Bog willing, we’ll bring peace, pliz, unto all earth dwellers.
BIRD: Amen! Oar Gaz Ums at eleven!
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
COUNTDOWN TO SYNCHRONIZED GLOBAL ORGASM:
21 DAYS, 14 HOURS, 35 MINUTES. BE PREPARED.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
MAKE LOVE NOT WAR - SHAGATHON 4 PEACE, PLIZ
MAKE LOVE NOT WAR – SHAGATHON 4 PEACE, PLIZ
DATE: 22nd DECEMBER
VENUE: WHEREVER YOU FANCY, ALTHOUGH CHECK IT OUT FIRST WITH YER LOCAL FUZZ
TIME: FROM MORNING TILL NIGHT
AIM: AS BEST AS POSSIBLE
GOAL: SCORE AS MANY AS POSSIBLE
OBJECTIVE: TO BRING ABOUT WORLD PEACE, PLIZ
TO BE ACHIEVED BY: EVERYONE FORNICATING LIKE SEA OTTERS ON THE AFOREMENTIONED DATE
GLOBALORGASM.ORG MISSION STATEMENT, EXTRACTED:
“The intent is that the participants concentrate any thoughts during and after orgasm on peace. The combination of high-energy orgasmic energy combined with mindful intention may have a much greater effect than previous mass meditations and prayers.
The goal is to add so much concentrated and high-energy positive input into the energy field of the Earth that it will reduce the current dangerous levels of aggression and violence throughout the world.”
SIGN UP HERE: http://www.globalorgasm.org/
BIRD: So, dude, you up for it?
BUFFALO: Uh, yahh-p. Gotta practise beforehand, like. Dat Viagra’s sure gonna come in handy.
BIRD: Dude, just how many times are you planning on splodging 4 peace, pliz, like?
BUFFALO: Hard to say, Birdman. Last time I boffed 4 peace, pliz, I got up to 30.
BIRD: Omigod!
BUFFALO: Well, it is incumbent upon shagmeisters everywhere to do their bit 4 peace, pliz, nichts?
BIRD: Oh, totally. Absolutely. Better get down the doc’s for a prescription.
POTTY DOTTY: Er, can anyone join in?
BIRD: Anyone.
FIFI LAMOUR: C’est tres formidable.
SAGE OF SWEDEN: From one trickle to the ocean.
PUCK: Fookin’ A!
BUFFALO: Are you in, Sparkers?
SPARKY: Depends on Otto.
OTTO FELLATIO: Sparky, my dear lad, you iz ready.
SPARKY: Uh, OK, man. Sign me up.
(Octopussy pokes the bagpipes enthusiastically)
BUFFALO: Bog willing, we’ll bring peace, pliz, unto all earth dwellers.
BIRD: Amen! Oar Gaz Ums at eleven!
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
COUNTDOWN TO SYNCHRONIZED GLOBAL ORGASM:
21 DAYS, 14 HOURS, 35 MINUTES. BE PREPARED.
DATE: 22nd DECEMBER
VENUE: WHEREVER YOU FANCY, ALTHOUGH CHECK IT OUT FIRST WITH YER LOCAL FUZZ
TIME: FROM MORNING TILL NIGHT
AIM: AS BEST AS POSSIBLE
GOAL: SCORE AS MANY AS POSSIBLE
OBJECTIVE: TO BRING ABOUT WORLD PEACE, PLIZ
TO BE ACHIEVED BY: EVERYONE FORNICATING LIKE SEA OTTERS ON THE AFOREMENTIONED DATE
GLOBALORGASM.ORG MISSION STATEMENT, EXTRACTED:
“The intent is that the participants concentrate any thoughts during and after orgasm on peace. The combination of high-energy orgasmic energy combined with mindful intention may have a much greater effect than previous mass meditations and prayers.
The goal is to add so much concentrated and high-energy positive input into the energy field of the Earth that it will reduce the current dangerous levels of aggression and violence throughout the world.”
SIGN UP HERE: http://www.globalorgasm.org/
BIRD: So, dude, you up for it?
BUFFALO: Uh, yahh-p. Gotta practise beforehand, like. Dat Viagra’s sure gonna come in handy.
BIRD: Dude, just how many times are you planning on splodging 4 peace, pliz, like?
BUFFALO: Hard to say, Birdman. Last time I boffed 4 peace, pliz, I got up to 30.
BIRD: Omigod!
BUFFALO: Well, it is incumbent upon shagmeisters everywhere to do their bit 4 peace, pliz, nichts?
BIRD: Oh, totally. Absolutely. Better get down the doc’s for a prescription.
POTTY DOTTY: Er, can anyone join in?
BIRD: Anyone.
FIFI LAMOUR: C’est tres formidable.
SAGE OF SWEDEN: From one trickle to the ocean.
PUCK: Fookin’ A!
BUFFALO: Are you in, Sparkers?
SPARKY: Depends on Otto.
OTTO FELLATIO: Sparky, my dear lad, you iz ready.
SPARKY: Uh, OK, man. Sign me up.
(Octopussy pokes the bagpipes enthusiastically)
BUFFALO: Bog willing, we’ll bring peace, pliz, unto all earth dwellers.
BIRD: Amen! Oar Gaz Ums at eleven!
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
COUNTDOWN TO SYNCHRONIZED GLOBAL ORGASM:
21 DAYS, 14 HOURS, 35 MINUTES. BE PREPARED.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
QUESTIONNAIRE EXTRAORDINAIRE
THE BIRD & BUFFALO WISH TO EXTEND THEIR SINCERE THANKS TO THE MEMOIRS OF A STONER AT http://memoirsofastoner.blogspot.com/
FOR PROVIDING THIS MOST ENRAPTULATING YET ULTIMATELY HUMILIATING AUTOMATED QUESTIONNAIRE.
BIRD: It says here once you press the button, answer the automated questions fairly and squarely in real time. If you try to pause the recording, you will, and I quote, “be erased from the cyberspace automated database FOREVER”.
BUFFALO: Wow.
BIRD: Y’all ready for this?
BUFFALO: Yahh-p.
BIRD: Remember, we gotta be quick, coz we’re both answering at the same time.
BUFFALO: And once we’ve done this, we’ll get 1,000 smackeroos plus a top 100 Technorati listing and unlimited publicity for the remainder of our pitiful yet prodigious creative lives?
BIRD: Indeed.
BUFFALO: OK. Run Podcast!
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Gender?
BUFFALO: 100% alpha male. Honorary member of the World Permanent Woody Society. Macho. Masculine. Hairy.
BIRD: Predominantly male with feminine ways.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Sexual orientation?
BUFFALO: Absolutely, whenever I can find it. Prefer animate objects, but old ladies with failing eyesight can be fun.
BIRD: Women with engaging smiles and impeccable upbringing, like me missus, like.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Race?
BUFFALO: Human with a smattering of Bison.
BIRD: Er, ditto with mammarian improprieties.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Religion?
BUFFALO: Fully fledged worshipper at the Church of Mount Vulva.
BIRD: Omigod! Er, um, Church of England agnostic, Buddhist on Mondays.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Political Affiliation?
BUFFALO: Free Passage To Any Passage For Buffalos With Blutwurst.
BIRD: Free Trade For Rabbits’ Scrotums From Pubistan League. If I get the cheque, like.
BUFFALO: Hey, I like that.
BIRD: Thanks, dude.
BUFFALO: Right back at ya.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Peanut butter?
BUFFALO: Only if it won’t go in, like. Oder Wise, strawberries and cream.
BIRD: You darty dawg. What was the question?
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Milk?
BUFFALO: Straight from da udder.
BIRD: Semi-skimmed, preferably pasteurized.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Cats?
BUFFALO: No, thanks.
BIRD: British short-haired, one previous owner.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Dogs?
BUFFALO: Rufffff, rufffff!
BIRD: Border collie, preferably called Shep.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BIRD: Shhh. We haven’t finished yet…
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: City?
BUFFALO: Motown, dude, and PROUD of it.
BIRD: London town.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Country?
BUFFALO: Yes, pliz. As often as possible.
BIRD: Dude, that’s coun-try. Where you live.
BUFFALO: Oh. Er, da United States of Yanking, natch.
BIRD: The United…
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Thank you for your patience. Your answers will now be processed and placed on the FBI database as evidence in future prosecutions.
(beeping)
BIRD & BUFFALO: What?!
AUTOMATIC QUESTIONER: Film at eleven.
FOR PROVIDING THIS MOST ENRAPTULATING YET ULTIMATELY HUMILIATING AUTOMATED QUESTIONNAIRE.
BIRD: It says here once you press the button, answer the automated questions fairly and squarely in real time. If you try to pause the recording, you will, and I quote, “be erased from the cyberspace automated database FOREVER”.
BUFFALO: Wow.
BIRD: Y’all ready for this?
BUFFALO: Yahh-p.
BIRD: Remember, we gotta be quick, coz we’re both answering at the same time.
BUFFALO: And once we’ve done this, we’ll get 1,000 smackeroos plus a top 100 Technorati listing and unlimited publicity for the remainder of our pitiful yet prodigious creative lives?
BIRD: Indeed.
BUFFALO: OK. Run Podcast!
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Gender?
BUFFALO: 100% alpha male. Honorary member of the World Permanent Woody Society. Macho. Masculine. Hairy.
BIRD: Predominantly male with feminine ways.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Sexual orientation?
BUFFALO: Absolutely, whenever I can find it. Prefer animate objects, but old ladies with failing eyesight can be fun.
BIRD: Women with engaging smiles and impeccable upbringing, like me missus, like.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Race?
BUFFALO: Human with a smattering of Bison.
BIRD: Er, ditto with mammarian improprieties.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Religion?
BUFFALO: Fully fledged worshipper at the Church of Mount Vulva.
BIRD: Omigod! Er, um, Church of England agnostic, Buddhist on Mondays.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Political Affiliation?
BUFFALO: Free Passage To Any Passage For Buffalos With Blutwurst.
BIRD: Free Trade For Rabbits’ Scrotums From Pubistan League. If I get the cheque, like.
BUFFALO: Hey, I like that.
BIRD: Thanks, dude.
BUFFALO: Right back at ya.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Peanut butter?
BUFFALO: Only if it won’t go in, like. Oder Wise, strawberries and cream.
BIRD: You darty dawg. What was the question?
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Milk?
BUFFALO: Straight from da udder.
BIRD: Semi-skimmed, preferably pasteurized.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Cats?
BUFFALO: No, thanks.
BIRD: British short-haired, one previous owner.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Dogs?
BUFFALO: Rufffff, rufffff!
BIRD: Border collie, preferably called Shep.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BIRD: Shhh. We haven’t finished yet…
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: City?
BUFFALO: Motown, dude, and PROUD of it.
BIRD: London town.
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Country?
BUFFALO: Yes, pliz. As often as possible.
BIRD: Dude, that’s coun-try. Where you live.
BUFFALO: Oh. Er, da United States of Yanking, natch.
BIRD: The United…
AUTOMATED QUESTIONER: Thank you for your patience. Your answers will now be processed and placed on the FBI database as evidence in future prosecutions.
(beeping)
BIRD & BUFFALO: What?!
AUTOMATIC QUESTIONER: Film at eleven.
Monday, November 27, 2006
DISAMBIGUATION UNCLUTTERED
BIRD: And Sparky's taken the antimatter into his own hands, you say?
BUFFALO: In a manner of speaking, Birdman. I blame Otto Fellatio meself. Which rewinds me… I was thinking of Sparky's salad days, when he was still turning out lithographs and etchings, before his bride decided she preferred Mexican food to Belgian, like.
BIRD: You've lost me past the chemist's, Buffo.
BUFFALO: She discovered that she liked tacos better than blutwurst, Birdy.
BIRD: Ah, I see… well, don't we all?
BUFFALO: Well, certainly those of us whose buttons are sewn on the right sides of our shirts, if you get m’drift.
BIRD: Tragic, that. Enuff to drive anyone to drink, n’est pas? Pray, continue.
BUFFALO: Otto reminded me of one of Sparky's more demonstrative etchings, when he was still on an extended honeymoon, before he lost interest in hot-blooded femme.
BIRD: Bit risque, is it?
BUFFALO: Judge for yourself. It depicts a vivacious young lady in the buffers, reclining in the front seat of an automobile, pleasuring herself with the gear shift knob.
BIRD: Sacre bleu, mare oui! And the title of this provocative opus?
BUFFALO: "Auto Erotica" - snatch... er, natch. A limited edition of ten, if me mammary serves.
BIRD: This is the same Sparky who gave up strong drink, got religion, and now attends AA meetings once a week without fail?
BUFFALO: Yes, he's modeled his life after St. Augustine of Hippo, who gave debauchery a whole new meaning until he saw the light switch and got inverted.
BIRD: The same artist who illustrated the nefarious "Oedipus in Disneyland" by Hercules Molloy?
BUFFALO: Aye. Sparky's interpretation of "down the rabbit hole" has to be seen to be believed.
BIRD: Remember it well. Me mom walked in just as I'd pulled out the centrefold and I had to fetch the smelling salts. It wasn't pretty, Buffo… the scene, I mean, not the illustration. That was well smashing!
BUFFALO: Homeric, hactually. But now the poor man blushes at the mention of harmless boffing.
BIRD: Apart with waxworks, that is. And how goes the enlarged bladder?
BUFFALO: An abject failure, Birdy. The straw got jammed and now he’s got a fookin’ infection, the poor lad. For Christmas I'm getting him a "Motorman's Companion" - one of those trendy strap-on ankle flasks connected to a "comfortable catheter" - the perfect thing for extended drives to church or AA meetings.
BIRD: Ah, that’s nice. I'm curious, Buffo... when you give your annual thanks-for-the-giving-wanna-gobble-me-turkey-now to the great spirit in the sky, like, do you include old Sparkers in your orisons?
BUFFALO: But of course, Birdy. Didn't use to, when he first arrived on the scene with his trousers wrapped around his head and his Freddy dangling between his legs, swilling a fifth and a half of vodka every day, stinking up the joint with perpetual ketosis brought on by combining alcohol, insulin and formaldehyde, the silly git… but after we got him flattened out he became a regular scream.
BIRD: Would you say he's been a good influence on you?
BUFFALO: Yep. Stopped me committing murder with boogery a few times. Well, OK, he would’ve been the victim, like, but ya get m’drift. Well, patter cake patter cake, he’s just about the most bloody exasperating guy I know. That’s why I frequently get my boot stuck up his ass. But all themes being equal, I really can’t help liking the spineless leech.
BIRD: I’m deeply touched, mon amici. Well, let’s have a toast to the old sod, eh?
BUFFALO: Yes, let’s. Here's to Sparky. Long may he wave.
BIRD: Pass the pudding, Buff.
BUFFALO: And the admonitions, Birdy... and may we all stay free.
BIRD: Here's a pint of arf and art for you, Buff.
BUFFALO: Thanks, lad. Nice head on that, too. Now I'm off to take the dawg out for a whizz, a bit of fresh air, and a dog biscuit.
BIRD: Toodles, poodles, whatever.
BUFFALO: Purina dawg ciao! Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: In a manner of speaking, Birdman. I blame Otto Fellatio meself. Which rewinds me… I was thinking of Sparky's salad days, when he was still turning out lithographs and etchings, before his bride decided she preferred Mexican food to Belgian, like.
BIRD: You've lost me past the chemist's, Buffo.
BUFFALO: She discovered that she liked tacos better than blutwurst, Birdy.
BIRD: Ah, I see… well, don't we all?
BUFFALO: Well, certainly those of us whose buttons are sewn on the right sides of our shirts, if you get m’drift.
BIRD: Tragic, that. Enuff to drive anyone to drink, n’est pas? Pray, continue.
BUFFALO: Otto reminded me of one of Sparky's more demonstrative etchings, when he was still on an extended honeymoon, before he lost interest in hot-blooded femme.
BIRD: Bit risque, is it?
BUFFALO: Judge for yourself. It depicts a vivacious young lady in the buffers, reclining in the front seat of an automobile, pleasuring herself with the gear shift knob.
BIRD: Sacre bleu, mare oui! And the title of this provocative opus?
BUFFALO: "Auto Erotica" - snatch... er, natch. A limited edition of ten, if me mammary serves.
BIRD: This is the same Sparky who gave up strong drink, got religion, and now attends AA meetings once a week without fail?
BUFFALO: Yes, he's modeled his life after St. Augustine of Hippo, who gave debauchery a whole new meaning until he saw the light switch and got inverted.
BIRD: The same artist who illustrated the nefarious "Oedipus in Disneyland" by Hercules Molloy?
BUFFALO: Aye. Sparky's interpretation of "down the rabbit hole" has to be seen to be believed.
BIRD: Remember it well. Me mom walked in just as I'd pulled out the centrefold and I had to fetch the smelling salts. It wasn't pretty, Buffo… the scene, I mean, not the illustration. That was well smashing!
BUFFALO: Homeric, hactually. But now the poor man blushes at the mention of harmless boffing.
BIRD: Apart with waxworks, that is. And how goes the enlarged bladder?
BUFFALO: An abject failure, Birdy. The straw got jammed and now he’s got a fookin’ infection, the poor lad. For Christmas I'm getting him a "Motorman's Companion" - one of those trendy strap-on ankle flasks connected to a "comfortable catheter" - the perfect thing for extended drives to church or AA meetings.
BIRD: Ah, that’s nice. I'm curious, Buffo... when you give your annual thanks-for-the-giving-wanna-gobble-me-turkey-now to the great spirit in the sky, like, do you include old Sparkers in your orisons?
BUFFALO: But of course, Birdy. Didn't use to, when he first arrived on the scene with his trousers wrapped around his head and his Freddy dangling between his legs, swilling a fifth and a half of vodka every day, stinking up the joint with perpetual ketosis brought on by combining alcohol, insulin and formaldehyde, the silly git… but after we got him flattened out he became a regular scream.
BIRD: Would you say he's been a good influence on you?
BUFFALO: Yep. Stopped me committing murder with boogery a few times. Well, OK, he would’ve been the victim, like, but ya get m’drift. Well, patter cake patter cake, he’s just about the most bloody exasperating guy I know. That’s why I frequently get my boot stuck up his ass. But all themes being equal, I really can’t help liking the spineless leech.
BIRD: I’m deeply touched, mon amici. Well, let’s have a toast to the old sod, eh?
BUFFALO: Yes, let’s. Here's to Sparky. Long may he wave.
BIRD: Pass the pudding, Buff.
BUFFALO: And the admonitions, Birdy... and may we all stay free.
BIRD: Here's a pint of arf and art for you, Buff.
BUFFALO: Thanks, lad. Nice head on that, too. Now I'm off to take the dawg out for a whizz, a bit of fresh air, and a dog biscuit.
BIRD: Toodles, poodles, whatever.
BUFFALO: Purina dawg ciao! Arf, arf!
Saturday, November 25, 2006
MORIBUND WITH A PADDLE
OTTO FELLATIO: You are a friend of Birdy, yes?
POTTY DOTTY: Yes.
OTTO FELLATIO: You've been feeling moribund lately.
POTTY DOTTY: I beg your pardon?
OTTO FELLATIO: Stagnant, without force or vitality.
POTTY DOTTY: Well, yes.
OTTO FELLATIO: Awkward in the company of strangers.
POTTY DOTTY: Yes.
OTTO FELLATIO: Irritable for no reason.
POTTY DOTTY: Yes!
OTTO FELLATIO: And if I touch you…
POTTY DOTTY: Oh my… wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
OTTO FELLATIO: I thought as much.
POTTY DOTTY: Mmmmmm. Thank you.
OTTO FELLATIO: And I if blow in your ear thus…
POTTY DOTTY: Well, I… wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
OTTO FELLATIO: And you find yourself regularly erupting on public transport if a man brushes your shoulder?
POTTY DOTTY: Well, yes. By the way, thank you again. (moans gently)
OTTO FELLATIO: You’re the third case this week.
POTTY DOTTY: Am I? Of what?
OTTO FELLATIO: TPES.
POTTY DOTTY: TPES?
OTTO FELLATIO: Temporary Persistent Ejaculation Syndrome. The slightest touch from a member of the opposite sex will trigger it off. Here, take these.
POTTY DOTTY: The Hitachi DZBX35EUK DVD Camcorder and a pair of bicycle clips?
OTTO FELLATIO: I think you know what I’m saying.
POTTY DOTTY: YouTube?
OTTO FELLATIO: For Christmas. My work is done, yes?
POTTY DOTTY: Yes.
OTTO FELLATIO: We shall meet again, in this world or the next. Think Fellatio, think Otto.
POTTY DOTTY: Video at eleven.
OTTO FELLATIO: Ahhh-f, ahhh-f!
POTTY DOTTY: Yes.
OTTO FELLATIO: You've been feeling moribund lately.
POTTY DOTTY: I beg your pardon?
OTTO FELLATIO: Stagnant, without force or vitality.
POTTY DOTTY: Well, yes.
OTTO FELLATIO: Awkward in the company of strangers.
POTTY DOTTY: Yes.
OTTO FELLATIO: Irritable for no reason.
POTTY DOTTY: Yes!
OTTO FELLATIO: And if I touch you…
POTTY DOTTY: Oh my… wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
OTTO FELLATIO: I thought as much.
POTTY DOTTY: Mmmmmm. Thank you.
OTTO FELLATIO: And I if blow in your ear thus…
POTTY DOTTY: Well, I… wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
OTTO FELLATIO: And you find yourself regularly erupting on public transport if a man brushes your shoulder?
POTTY DOTTY: Well, yes. By the way, thank you again. (moans gently)
OTTO FELLATIO: You’re the third case this week.
POTTY DOTTY: Am I? Of what?
OTTO FELLATIO: TPES.
POTTY DOTTY: TPES?
OTTO FELLATIO: Temporary Persistent Ejaculation Syndrome. The slightest touch from a member of the opposite sex will trigger it off. Here, take these.
POTTY DOTTY: The Hitachi DZBX35EUK DVD Camcorder and a pair of bicycle clips?
OTTO FELLATIO: I think you know what I’m saying.
POTTY DOTTY: YouTube?
OTTO FELLATIO: For Christmas. My work is done, yes?
POTTY DOTTY: Yes.
OTTO FELLATIO: We shall meet again, in this world or the next. Think Fellatio, think Otto.
POTTY DOTTY: Video at eleven.
OTTO FELLATIO: Ahhh-f, ahhh-f!
Friday, November 24, 2006
THANKSGIVING & TAKING - REDUX BLUES
POLITICAL ADVERSARIAL
EVEN MORE IMPORTANT NOTICE: NO INJUNS WOZ KILLED IN THE RECORDING OF THIS SKETCH. SOME DIED, BUT FRANK LEE, IT AIN'T OUR FAULT IF THEY CAN'T TAKE THEIR TOE JAM
BIRD: Thanksgiving? What's all that about, then?
BUFFALO: It’s something we do on the third Thursday of every November, a national holiday, like. We give thanks for everything that we have.
BIRD: For everything?
BUFFALO: Ja, Mein Hair, for all the good things that we took away from the Indians.
BIRD: You’re still pestering the Indians over there then?
BUFFALO: Well, not me personally, dude, seeing as how I’m one sixteenth Choctaw, and right proud of it, too.
BIRD: So, who’s doing all the pestering, then?
BUFFALO: The Pilgrims, dude. That bunch that sailed here from Plymouth, England, back in 1620 and landed on Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts.
BIRD: Plymouth Rock? Good Lord, what are the chances of that?
BUFFALO: Aye, the Pilgrims immediately saw the divine hand of Providence in that, you betcha.
BIRD: So, were the Indians hostile, like?
BUFFALO: Nope, they greeted the Pilgrims with open arms and offered them food, then helped them get through the first winter, taught them the ways of the land and all that.
BIRD: Well, that was quite white of them. Did the Pilgrims reciprocate?
BUFFALO: Oh, hell, yes, Birdy. After their first harvest, the Pilgrims invited the Indians to come and share their feast of Thanksgiving, where they first served all the traditional foods that we still enjoy today. See, the Indians showed the Pilgrims how to hunt wild turkeys, where to find the cranberry bogs and the yams or sweet potatoes, they gave them seed corn to grow, and so on, and thus every year we feast on turkey, mashed potatoes, yams, corn, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, sweet potato pie, you name it.
BIRD: So do you still get together with the Indians to celebrate Thanksgiving?
BUFFALO: Blitzkrieg duet, dude. No way. It was just that one time, where they learned that Indians can’t handle their alcohol too well, so they got them all likkered up, boogered the lot of ‘em, robbed their graves, and kicked the poor bah-stoods all the way back to their wigwams. Now we just observe the anniversary of the first Thanksgiving in the breech, like. We put up pictures of the Pilgrims and the Indians breaking bread together, and in church the old revs talk it up big time, and then on the eventful day we pig out until all the men fall asleep and snore on the sofas watching the Detroit Lions getting their asses whipped on TV while the women clean up after everyone and do the dishes, and the kids run around screaming their bloody lungs out.
BIRD: Kind of like little Red Indians, then?
BUFFALO: You got it.
BIRD: A vestige of the past, what what, a bit of the old glory days. And what of the Indians. What happened to them?
BUFFALO: Well, the ones we didn’t exterminate right off, with shot and shell, or the clap, or smallpox, we kept pushing further West until they came to the Pacific Ocean, and then we herded the survivors into hot, dusty reservations in godforsaken hellholes like Utah and Nevada.
BIRD: True horrorshow. Not the children, too?
BUFFALO: Birdy, do you think we’re a bunch of barbarians over here? We send all their malnourished young to first class educational facilities, like the Custer Memorial Indian School and Cobalt Testing Range.
BIRD: Oh, lumme! Tell me it isn’t so.
BUFFALO: Well, as Teddy Roosevelt put it so succinctly, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” But, they’ve found a way to even the score.
BIRD: How so?
BUFFALO: The Indians own half the casinos over here now. And with compulsive gambling on the rise, it’s just a matter of time until they own the whole shebang again and drive the White Man back into the sea from whence he came.
BIRD: Crikey. Will your Indian blood save you, you think?
BUFFALO: Not sure, but I’ve hedged my bets. I’m now a card-carrying member of the Choctaw Nation, but keep it under your hat, Birdy. There's talk about rounding up all the Indians and putting them in a central location. The scuttlebutt is that Indians have a high rate of Attention Deficient Disorder, caused by over-indulgence in Mad Dog 20/20.
BIRD: What in the name of Bog is that?
BUFFALO: A heavily fortified, sickingly sweet, Concord grape wine. Cheap as mule piss and thus very popular among Indians on welfare, which is most of them. Anyway, the gummint thinks that putting all the Indians together in one big camp might improve their concentration.
BIRD: Oh, I see... sort of a concentration camp, then?
BUFFALO: Catchy name, Birdo. You should enter it in the competition, like.
BIRD: Send me the application, Buff.
BUFFALO: Pronto, Tonto! “Oh give me a home, where the buffalo roam…”
BIRD: “Where the deer and the antelope play..."
BUFFALO: “Where seldom is heard…”
BIRD: “A discouraging word…”
BUFFALO: “And the skies are not cloudy all day…”
BIRD: Happy Thanksgiving, Buff.
BUFFALO: Same to you, my avian chum, same to you. Oh, care to hear William S. Burroughs’ Thanksgiving prayer?
BIRD: Lay it on me, Buffo.
BUFFALO: Got it here somewhere… ah, yes, here it is, under my copy of “Mein Kampf”… grab a hanky, Birdy, this is a real tear-jerker.
"For John Dillinger
In hope he is still alive
Thanks for the wild turkey and the Passenger Pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts —
thanks for a Continent to despoil and poison —
thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger —
thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin, leaving the carcass to rot —
thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes —
thanks for the AMERICAN DREAM to vulgarize and falsify until the bare lies shine through —
thanks for the KKK, for nigger-killing lawmen feeling their notches, for decent church-going women with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces —
thanks for "Kill a Queer for Christ" bumper stickers —
thanks for laboratory AIDS —
thanks for Prohibition and the War Against Drugs —
thanks for a country where nobody is allowed to mind his own business —
thanks for a nation of finks — yes,
thanks for all the memories... all right, let's see your arms... you always were a headache and you always were a bore —
thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams."
BIRD: Amen, Buff!
BUFFALO: God Bless America! Arf, arf.
EVEN MORE IMPORTANT NOTICE: NO INJUNS WOZ KILLED IN THE RECORDING OF THIS SKETCH. SOME DIED, BUT FRANK LEE, IT AIN'T OUR FAULT IF THEY CAN'T TAKE THEIR TOE JAM
BIRD: Thanksgiving? What's all that about, then?
BUFFALO: It’s something we do on the third Thursday of every November, a national holiday, like. We give thanks for everything that we have.
BIRD: For everything?
BUFFALO: Ja, Mein Hair, for all the good things that we took away from the Indians.
BIRD: You’re still pestering the Indians over there then?
BUFFALO: Well, not me personally, dude, seeing as how I’m one sixteenth Choctaw, and right proud of it, too.
BIRD: So, who’s doing all the pestering, then?
BUFFALO: The Pilgrims, dude. That bunch that sailed here from Plymouth, England, back in 1620 and landed on Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts.
BIRD: Plymouth Rock? Good Lord, what are the chances of that?
BUFFALO: Aye, the Pilgrims immediately saw the divine hand of Providence in that, you betcha.
BIRD: So, were the Indians hostile, like?
BUFFALO: Nope, they greeted the Pilgrims with open arms and offered them food, then helped them get through the first winter, taught them the ways of the land and all that.
BIRD: Well, that was quite white of them. Did the Pilgrims reciprocate?
BUFFALO: Oh, hell, yes, Birdy. After their first harvest, the Pilgrims invited the Indians to come and share their feast of Thanksgiving, where they first served all the traditional foods that we still enjoy today. See, the Indians showed the Pilgrims how to hunt wild turkeys, where to find the cranberry bogs and the yams or sweet potatoes, they gave them seed corn to grow, and so on, and thus every year we feast on turkey, mashed potatoes, yams, corn, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, sweet potato pie, you name it.
BIRD: So do you still get together with the Indians to celebrate Thanksgiving?
BUFFALO: Blitzkrieg duet, dude. No way. It was just that one time, where they learned that Indians can’t handle their alcohol too well, so they got them all likkered up, boogered the lot of ‘em, robbed their graves, and kicked the poor bah-stoods all the way back to their wigwams. Now we just observe the anniversary of the first Thanksgiving in the breech, like. We put up pictures of the Pilgrims and the Indians breaking bread together, and in church the old revs talk it up big time, and then on the eventful day we pig out until all the men fall asleep and snore on the sofas watching the Detroit Lions getting their asses whipped on TV while the women clean up after everyone and do the dishes, and the kids run around screaming their bloody lungs out.
BIRD: Kind of like little Red Indians, then?
BUFFALO: You got it.
BIRD: A vestige of the past, what what, a bit of the old glory days. And what of the Indians. What happened to them?
BUFFALO: Well, the ones we didn’t exterminate right off, with shot and shell, or the clap, or smallpox, we kept pushing further West until they came to the Pacific Ocean, and then we herded the survivors into hot, dusty reservations in godforsaken hellholes like Utah and Nevada.
BIRD: True horrorshow. Not the children, too?
BUFFALO: Birdy, do you think we’re a bunch of barbarians over here? We send all their malnourished young to first class educational facilities, like the Custer Memorial Indian School and Cobalt Testing Range.
BIRD: Oh, lumme! Tell me it isn’t so.
BUFFALO: Well, as Teddy Roosevelt put it so succinctly, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” But, they’ve found a way to even the score.
BIRD: How so?
BUFFALO: The Indians own half the casinos over here now. And with compulsive gambling on the rise, it’s just a matter of time until they own the whole shebang again and drive the White Man back into the sea from whence he came.
BIRD: Crikey. Will your Indian blood save you, you think?
BUFFALO: Not sure, but I’ve hedged my bets. I’m now a card-carrying member of the Choctaw Nation, but keep it under your hat, Birdy. There's talk about rounding up all the Indians and putting them in a central location. The scuttlebutt is that Indians have a high rate of Attention Deficient Disorder, caused by over-indulgence in Mad Dog 20/20.
BIRD: What in the name of Bog is that?
BUFFALO: A heavily fortified, sickingly sweet, Concord grape wine. Cheap as mule piss and thus very popular among Indians on welfare, which is most of them. Anyway, the gummint thinks that putting all the Indians together in one big camp might improve their concentration.
BIRD: Oh, I see... sort of a concentration camp, then?
BUFFALO: Catchy name, Birdo. You should enter it in the competition, like.
BIRD: Send me the application, Buff.
BUFFALO: Pronto, Tonto! “Oh give me a home, where the buffalo roam…”
BIRD: “Where the deer and the antelope play..."
BUFFALO: “Where seldom is heard…”
BIRD: “A discouraging word…”
BUFFALO: “And the skies are not cloudy all day…”
BIRD: Happy Thanksgiving, Buff.
BUFFALO: Same to you, my avian chum, same to you. Oh, care to hear William S. Burroughs’ Thanksgiving prayer?
BIRD: Lay it on me, Buffo.
BUFFALO: Got it here somewhere… ah, yes, here it is, under my copy of “Mein Kampf”… grab a hanky, Birdy, this is a real tear-jerker.
"For John Dillinger
In hope he is still alive
Thanks for the wild turkey and the Passenger Pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts —
thanks for a Continent to despoil and poison —
thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger —
thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin, leaving the carcass to rot —
thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes —
thanks for the AMERICAN DREAM to vulgarize and falsify until the bare lies shine through —
thanks for the KKK, for nigger-killing lawmen feeling their notches, for decent church-going women with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces —
thanks for "Kill a Queer for Christ" bumper stickers —
thanks for laboratory AIDS —
thanks for Prohibition and the War Against Drugs —
thanks for a country where nobody is allowed to mind his own business —
thanks for a nation of finks — yes,
thanks for all the memories... all right, let's see your arms... you always were a headache and you always were a bore —
thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams."
BIRD: Amen, Buff!
BUFFALO: God Bless America! Arf, arf.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
SECOND LIFE FOR CHRISTMAS
SPARKY: Buff, I’ve been born again in time for Christmas!
BUFFALO: Wassat, dude?
SPARKY: Got a new bladder, man.
BUFFALO: Ya wot?
SPARKY: Least it feels like a new bladder. Only cost five dollars too.
BUFFALO: Are you yanking my chain, Sparkers, old boy?
SPARKY: Got it from a guy called Terry, down at the Zoo, man.
BUFFALO: OK, wait. Start from the top. Got wot from wot Terry?
SPARKY: A bladder enlargement kit. No more interrupted sleep and hours on the john waiting for the trickle to end.
BUFFALO: Gimme that. Dude, it’s a fookin’ straw with Vaseline on it!
SPARKY: Yeah, well, whatever. Point is I feel a new man, man. Been timing meself. Got it down to 30 seconds, door to door.
BUFFALO: You jerk-berk, you’ll be lucky if yer Freddy doesn’t fall off. Hop in the car, we’re takin’ you to the hospital.
SPARKY: Hey, man, stay out of it. If I want my Freddy to fall off, it’s my choice. Just as long as I get to drain the reservoir at one sitting.
BUFFALO: Oh, Jeez. Dude, a guy without a Freddy is like a ship without a rudder, a big zero on life’s highway.
SPARKY: Ah, hell, Buffo, maybe I’d be better off without me Freddy, anyways. Ain’t been much good to me so far.
BUFFALO: Yeah, I guess porking inflatable and wax dolls isn’t really making the best use of it.
SPARKY: Man, I ain’t never done an inflatable doll, and you know that. I’m exclusively into wax dolls, me.
BUFFALO: Yeah, yeah, but dude, don’t you think it’s time to get yerself some human sweetness?
SPARKY: Man, I’m telling ya, once you’ve had a waxwork nothing else comes close.
BUFFALO: Dude, call me old-fashioned but I’d rather stick me Freddy in the food blender than mess around with a dummy in a shop window.
SPARKY: How’d you find out about that?
BUFFALO: Just call me Shylock. You gotta stop, dude, or the cops’ll nail your ass to the mast.
SPARKY: They’re castouts, man. Hurled into the dumpster with maximum callousness and brutal indifference. Unwanted. Unloved. But I care about them, see, give them a roof over their heads, feed them, nurse them back to health.
BUFFALO: Give me strength, Jupiter. Dude, they’re made of wax, they are INANIMATE objects. Kapish?
SPARKY: Man, don’t talk about Cherry, Sherry, Kerry, Berry, Ferry, and Sally like that. You’ll hurt their feelings.
BUFFALO: Dude, inanimate objects don’t have feelings. Now if they’re not all out of this apartment by 08:00 tomorrow morning, you’re going to be looking for new quarters. Enuff is enuff.
SPARKY: Can I at least keep Sally?
BUFFALO: The blonde one with no left arm and half a nose missing?
SPARKY: Yep.
BUFFALO: Absolutely not.
SPARKY: And if I refuse to let them go?
BUFFALO: 1985. Pasadena Times. "Embezzler Walter Sparkington Flees Court House. Massive Manhunt Begins." Say no more.
SPARKY: Omigod! How did you know?
BUFFALO: Elementary, my dear Watney. Now ditch the dummies and pull yourself together, man, there’s work to be done.
SPARKY: Simplicity itself once explained. The game is afoot.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: Wassat, dude?
SPARKY: Got a new bladder, man.
BUFFALO: Ya wot?
SPARKY: Least it feels like a new bladder. Only cost five dollars too.
BUFFALO: Are you yanking my chain, Sparkers, old boy?
SPARKY: Got it from a guy called Terry, down at the Zoo, man.
BUFFALO: OK, wait. Start from the top. Got wot from wot Terry?
SPARKY: A bladder enlargement kit. No more interrupted sleep and hours on the john waiting for the trickle to end.
BUFFALO: Gimme that. Dude, it’s a fookin’ straw with Vaseline on it!
SPARKY: Yeah, well, whatever. Point is I feel a new man, man. Been timing meself. Got it down to 30 seconds, door to door.
BUFFALO: You jerk-berk, you’ll be lucky if yer Freddy doesn’t fall off. Hop in the car, we’re takin’ you to the hospital.
SPARKY: Hey, man, stay out of it. If I want my Freddy to fall off, it’s my choice. Just as long as I get to drain the reservoir at one sitting.
BUFFALO: Oh, Jeez. Dude, a guy without a Freddy is like a ship without a rudder, a big zero on life’s highway.
SPARKY: Ah, hell, Buffo, maybe I’d be better off without me Freddy, anyways. Ain’t been much good to me so far.
BUFFALO: Yeah, I guess porking inflatable and wax dolls isn’t really making the best use of it.
SPARKY: Man, I ain’t never done an inflatable doll, and you know that. I’m exclusively into wax dolls, me.
BUFFALO: Yeah, yeah, but dude, don’t you think it’s time to get yerself some human sweetness?
SPARKY: Man, I’m telling ya, once you’ve had a waxwork nothing else comes close.
BUFFALO: Dude, call me old-fashioned but I’d rather stick me Freddy in the food blender than mess around with a dummy in a shop window.
SPARKY: How’d you find out about that?
BUFFALO: Just call me Shylock. You gotta stop, dude, or the cops’ll nail your ass to the mast.
SPARKY: They’re castouts, man. Hurled into the dumpster with maximum callousness and brutal indifference. Unwanted. Unloved. But I care about them, see, give them a roof over their heads, feed them, nurse them back to health.
BUFFALO: Give me strength, Jupiter. Dude, they’re made of wax, they are INANIMATE objects. Kapish?
SPARKY: Man, don’t talk about Cherry, Sherry, Kerry, Berry, Ferry, and Sally like that. You’ll hurt their feelings.
BUFFALO: Dude, inanimate objects don’t have feelings. Now if they’re not all out of this apartment by 08:00 tomorrow morning, you’re going to be looking for new quarters. Enuff is enuff.
SPARKY: Can I at least keep Sally?
BUFFALO: The blonde one with no left arm and half a nose missing?
SPARKY: Yep.
BUFFALO: Absolutely not.
SPARKY: And if I refuse to let them go?
BUFFALO: 1985. Pasadena Times. "Embezzler Walter Sparkington Flees Court House. Massive Manhunt Begins." Say no more.
SPARKY: Omigod! How did you know?
BUFFALO: Elementary, my dear Watney. Now ditch the dummies and pull yourself together, man, there’s work to be done.
SPARKY: Simplicity itself once explained. The game is afoot.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
YouTube Puff Pastry Pudding
PARENTAL DERISORY
BUFFALO: Oh, Birdy, the puff pastry pudding that tastes of Nectar of the Goddess working its way to the peak of Mount Climax! Divine. If only I hadn't popped me cork at the most inopportune of moments.
BIRD: Happens to the best of us. Still the most popular vid on YouTube, like.
BUFFALO: Whattttt?!
BIRD: Anyhoo, many thanks to Cheddar X for this 7 Me-Me. Ready, Buff?
BUFFALO: You sent that jpeg file to YouTube?!! Dammit, dude, that’s poisonal. Between you, me and the Mons Venus!
BIRD: Later, dude. You’ll thank me for it. Trust me. Now, your starter for ten: where do you see your age?
BUFFALO: Um... uh... on me nips, mostly. They’re not as hard as they used to be, but hey, I ain’t had no complaints so far.
BIRD: Where do you feel your age?
BUFFALO: In the bed, on the sofa, in the car, just about wherever I can lay my hands on it.
BIRD: Where do you hear your age?
BUFFALO: In the ever flowing stream at the bottom of the road. In the birdsong outside my window. In the wind in the trees. In the click in my neck as I strain to please.
BIRD: Where do you smell your age?
BUFFALO: In the john of an evening, although I tend not to linger.
BIRD: What is your most vivid memory of childhood?
BUFFALO: When I was two, I got me Freddy stuck in the cat flap. Thus began my fascination with pussies.
BIRD: What was “old” when you were a little kid?
BUFFALO: 10. When I had my 10th birthday, I cried into my cake and my best friend shoved me head in the trifle then whacked me on the ass with a baseball bat. I knew then that it was all over.
BIRD: Does that seem so old now?
BUFFALO: If I knew then what I know now, I’d have inhaled petrol and thrown myself on the Barbie. Actually, that ain’t such a bad idea.
BIRD: Thanks, dude. You’ve been most Frank.
BUFFALO: Now about that video…
BIRD: Available here: http://www.youtube.com/ Ends rather abruptly, but as The Daily Splasher so aptly put it – “The juiciest romp since Carry On Camping! Bring a towel!”
BUFFALO: Oh, cor, blimey, mister!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
CHEDDAR X MAY BE VISITED AT THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS:
http://cheddarx.blogspot.com/
CHEDDAR CHEESE, ENGLISH CHEESE AT ITS BEST, ALTHOUGH STILTON'S NOT ARF BAD.
BUFFALO: Oh, Birdy, the puff pastry pudding that tastes of Nectar of the Goddess working its way to the peak of Mount Climax! Divine. If only I hadn't popped me cork at the most inopportune of moments.
BIRD: Happens to the best of us. Still the most popular vid on YouTube, like.
BUFFALO: Whattttt?!
BIRD: Anyhoo, many thanks to Cheddar X for this 7 Me-Me. Ready, Buff?
BUFFALO: You sent that jpeg file to YouTube?!! Dammit, dude, that’s poisonal. Between you, me and the Mons Venus!
BIRD: Later, dude. You’ll thank me for it. Trust me. Now, your starter for ten: where do you see your age?
BUFFALO: Um... uh... on me nips, mostly. They’re not as hard as they used to be, but hey, I ain’t had no complaints so far.
BIRD: Where do you feel your age?
BUFFALO: In the bed, on the sofa, in the car, just about wherever I can lay my hands on it.
BIRD: Where do you hear your age?
BUFFALO: In the ever flowing stream at the bottom of the road. In the birdsong outside my window. In the wind in the trees. In the click in my neck as I strain to please.
BIRD: Where do you smell your age?
BUFFALO: In the john of an evening, although I tend not to linger.
BIRD: What is your most vivid memory of childhood?
BUFFALO: When I was two, I got me Freddy stuck in the cat flap. Thus began my fascination with pussies.
BIRD: What was “old” when you were a little kid?
BUFFALO: 10. When I had my 10th birthday, I cried into my cake and my best friend shoved me head in the trifle then whacked me on the ass with a baseball bat. I knew then that it was all over.
BIRD: Does that seem so old now?
BUFFALO: If I knew then what I know now, I’d have inhaled petrol and thrown myself on the Barbie. Actually, that ain’t such a bad idea.
BIRD: Thanks, dude. You’ve been most Frank.
BUFFALO: Now about that video…
BIRD: Available here: http://www.youtube.com/ Ends rather abruptly, but as The Daily Splasher so aptly put it – “The juiciest romp since Carry On Camping! Bring a towel!”
BUFFALO: Oh, cor, blimey, mister!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
CHEDDAR X MAY BE VISITED AT THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS:
http://cheddarx.blogspot.com/
CHEDDAR CHEESE, ENGLISH CHEESE AT ITS BEST, ALTHOUGH STILTON'S NOT ARF BAD.
Monday, November 20, 2006
THALLIUM & CHEESE SANDWICH
BIRD: If you're offered one, dude, don't eat it.
BUFFALO: Huh? Information, pliz, Lucy.
BIRD: Someone's trying to destabilize the Pubes. Yesterday mawnin', the Commissar of Economic Endeavour of Pubistan on a fact-finding mission to the Royal Institute of Research into Enlarged Rabbits' Scrotums in Norfolk was offered a dodgy thallium and cheese sandwich. Luckily, Leonid Hazam Ripyorebollokov hates cheese and gave it to his assistant Dmitry Hazam Ripyorebollokov Jnr (no relation), who being of a sound scientific mind and well versed in dialectical materialism sent it to the Portland Down Atomic Research Institute for analysis.
BUFFALO: Yikes! But why would anyone want to bump off Lenny Hairy Bollocks Missing or whatever his name is?
BIRD: Speculation is rife. It could well be an attempt by the breakaway agitational grouping Bring Back King Bangatittyov XI. Apparent Lee, they've dispatched over 1,000 thallium and cheese sandwiches to Pubistan government figures and their supporters.
BUFFALO: And that includes us?
BIRD: Yahhhh-p. We promoted their country, for a small fee, remember?
BUFFALO: Jeez. Nowadays, a bird and buffalo can't earn an honest crust without being threatened with a slow, agonizing death. Whadda we gonna do, Birdman?
BIRD: Lie low for a while till it blows over, and whatever you do, don't mention the Pubes.
BUFFALO: Gotcha, dude.
BIRD: Or Borat.
BUFFALO: Righty-ho. But wot about the Ode?
BIRD: Another time.
BUFFALO: OK.
BIRD: Oh, btw, went the weekend well in the nectar department?
BUFFALO: Super scrummyathon, my avian chum. (sighs contentedly, wags tail)
BIRD: Go, Buffy! Go, Buffy!
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
IF YOU THINK YOU MIGHT HAVE BEEN A VICTIM OF THALLIUM POISONING, REMEMBER, WE DON'T KNOW YOU, WE'VE NEVER MET YOU, WE WISH YOU ALL THE BEST BUT WE REALLY CAN'T HELP YOU, BUT THANKS FOR SUPPORTING THE FLOG. MUCH APPRECIATED. WELL, BYE NOW.
BUFFALO: Huh? Information, pliz, Lucy.
BIRD: Someone's trying to destabilize the Pubes. Yesterday mawnin', the Commissar of Economic Endeavour of Pubistan on a fact-finding mission to the Royal Institute of Research into Enlarged Rabbits' Scrotums in Norfolk was offered a dodgy thallium and cheese sandwich. Luckily, Leonid Hazam Ripyorebollokov hates cheese and gave it to his assistant Dmitry Hazam Ripyorebollokov Jnr (no relation), who being of a sound scientific mind and well versed in dialectical materialism sent it to the Portland Down Atomic Research Institute for analysis.
BUFFALO: Yikes! But why would anyone want to bump off Lenny Hairy Bollocks Missing or whatever his name is?
BIRD: Speculation is rife. It could well be an attempt by the breakaway agitational grouping Bring Back King Bangatittyov XI. Apparent Lee, they've dispatched over 1,000 thallium and cheese sandwiches to Pubistan government figures and their supporters.
BUFFALO: And that includes us?
BIRD: Yahhhh-p. We promoted their country, for a small fee, remember?
BUFFALO: Jeez. Nowadays, a bird and buffalo can't earn an honest crust without being threatened with a slow, agonizing death. Whadda we gonna do, Birdman?
BIRD: Lie low for a while till it blows over, and whatever you do, don't mention the Pubes.
BUFFALO: Gotcha, dude.
BIRD: Or Borat.
BUFFALO: Righty-ho. But wot about the Ode?
BIRD: Another time.
BUFFALO: OK.
BIRD: Oh, btw, went the weekend well in the nectar department?
BUFFALO: Super scrummyathon, my avian chum. (sighs contentedly, wags tail)
BIRD: Go, Buffy! Go, Buffy!
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
IF YOU THINK YOU MIGHT HAVE BEEN A VICTIM OF THALLIUM POISONING, REMEMBER, WE DON'T KNOW YOU, WE'VE NEVER MET YOU, WE WISH YOU ALL THE BEST BUT WE REALLY CAN'T HELP YOU, BUT THANKS FOR SUPPORTING THE FLOG. MUCH APPRECIATED. WELL, BYE NOW.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
TODAY AND TODAY AND ALL OUR TOMORROWS
FIFI: Did someone say rabbits’ scrotums?
BIRD: Er, yeah.
FIFI: Reminds me of when I was back on the farm. Truly yummy.
BUFFALO: You used to eat them?
FIFI: Yup. With jam and bread.
BIRD: Omigod! I thought they used them in adhesives.
BUFFALO: And I thought they went straight to the Durex factory.
FIFI: They're full of vitamins and nutrients. Used for all sorts of things. It’s all hush-hush now. I mean, kiddies would ditch the Corn Flakes in a flash if they knew rabbits’ scrotums were in the mix, c’est vrai?
BIRD: Jeez. Never mind the kiddies. I’m abstaining from now on.
BUFFALO: Me too.
FIFI: And as for the peanut butter…
BIRD: Stop right there.
BUFFALO: Yeah. We gotta eat, ain’t we? And I sure is hungry, for the old femme nectar, if you get m’drift.
BIRD: Oo er.
FIFI: A hot date in the offing, Buffo?
BUFFALO: You betcha. Got the champers and whirring toys loaded. Liftoff at eleven.
BIRD: You darty dawg.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf! Laters.
FIFI: Incorrigible.
BIRD: Spreading a little happiness, as is his wont. Anyhoo, how are you?
FIFI: I have sunk into spinelessness like an old dishrag. And it would behoove me to pick up that dishrag that languishes in my sink for lack of use, and scrub out a few choice places. And my shower head has broken. Must get it fixed before I begin to fester.
BIRD: Oh, dear.
FIFI: But I have just written a Limerick for my favorite agony aunt Anna Babana. Yours to use as you see fit.
Down in Habana
From her cabana
Anna Babana
doles out advice
to the Love Lorn.
Crying in their beer
They consult this seer,
So that by manana
They're all mens sana
In corpore sano
Although their lives are guano.
BIRD: Rimshot! Great work. My favourite agony aunt was Otto Fellatio, but that’s another story.
FIFI: Ah, dear Otto. I trust he’s well.
BIRD: Still giving out handy advice, so I hear.
FIFI: I thought he would be. Well, give him my love.
BIRD: I will.
FIFI: Must attend to some sick pussies now. Ta-ra-la.
BIRD: Cheerio, sweetie. Film at eleven.
BIRD: Er, yeah.
FIFI: Reminds me of when I was back on the farm. Truly yummy.
BUFFALO: You used to eat them?
FIFI: Yup. With jam and bread.
BIRD: Omigod! I thought they used them in adhesives.
BUFFALO: And I thought they went straight to the Durex factory.
FIFI: They're full of vitamins and nutrients. Used for all sorts of things. It’s all hush-hush now. I mean, kiddies would ditch the Corn Flakes in a flash if they knew rabbits’ scrotums were in the mix, c’est vrai?
BIRD: Jeez. Never mind the kiddies. I’m abstaining from now on.
BUFFALO: Me too.
FIFI: And as for the peanut butter…
BIRD: Stop right there.
BUFFALO: Yeah. We gotta eat, ain’t we? And I sure is hungry, for the old femme nectar, if you get m’drift.
BIRD: Oo er.
FIFI: A hot date in the offing, Buffo?
BUFFALO: You betcha. Got the champers and whirring toys loaded. Liftoff at eleven.
BIRD: You darty dawg.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf! Laters.
FIFI: Incorrigible.
BIRD: Spreading a little happiness, as is his wont. Anyhoo, how are you?
FIFI: I have sunk into spinelessness like an old dishrag. And it would behoove me to pick up that dishrag that languishes in my sink for lack of use, and scrub out a few choice places. And my shower head has broken. Must get it fixed before I begin to fester.
BIRD: Oh, dear.
FIFI: But I have just written a Limerick for my favorite agony aunt Anna Babana. Yours to use as you see fit.
Down in Habana
From her cabana
Anna Babana
doles out advice
to the Love Lorn.
Crying in their beer
They consult this seer,
So that by manana
They're all mens sana
In corpore sano
Although their lives are guano.
BIRD: Rimshot! Great work. My favourite agony aunt was Otto Fellatio, but that’s another story.
FIFI: Ah, dear Otto. I trust he’s well.
BIRD: Still giving out handy advice, so I hear.
FIFI: I thought he would be. Well, give him my love.
BIRD: I will.
FIFI: Must attend to some sick pussies now. Ta-ra-la.
BIRD: Cheerio, sweetie. Film at eleven.
Friday, November 17, 2006
PUBISTAN - THE BARE FACTS
THIS JUST IN FROM THE COMMISSARIAT OF INFORMATION OF THE DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF PUBISTAN
Capital: Pube City
Official language: Pubish
Currency: the Pube
Government: People’s Democracy
President Boris Hazam Ripyorebollokov
Area: 21 234 km squared
Population: 605 (5.5 million prior to Glorious Revolution of 1905)
(density) high (in spite of inspirational, futuristic educational reforms)
GDP: 40 billion Pubes (1 pube = 5 million dollars, if lucky, on black market)
Production: potatoes, rabbits
Manufacture: tanks, machine-guns, fan belts for washing machines
Trade:
Exports - rabbits’ scrotums
Imports – ballistic missiles, submarines, uranium, Earl Grey tea
History: currently being written
Geography: hilly, infested with rabbit warrens reminiscent in appearance of good Gorgonzola
Demographics: ethnic Pubes, very hairy
Economy: command economy, based on five-year plans and donations of serfs from mutually beneficial countries
Customs: fondling and licking widespread and much appreciated
Five most famous Pubes:
President Boris Hazam Ripyorebollokov, great leader
Irina Hazamnella Ripyorebollokov, Director of State Rabbit Farm 1
Gamzalla Hazam Ripyorebollokov, tank turret expert
Doozy Hazam Ripyorebollokov, inventor of revolutionary Pube non-stick fan belt
Fuzilla Hazamnella Ripyorebollokov, Miss Pubistan 2006
For more information about our great republic, email us at thecommissariatofpubicsafety@pubistan.com
Long live the victorious banner of our democratic Pubism! Long live Borat!
Capital: Pube City
Official language: Pubish
Currency: the Pube
Government: People’s Democracy
President Boris Hazam Ripyorebollokov
Area: 21 234 km squared
Population: 605 (5.5 million prior to Glorious Revolution of 1905)
(density) high (in spite of inspirational, futuristic educational reforms)
GDP: 40 billion Pubes (1 pube = 5 million dollars, if lucky, on black market)
Production: potatoes, rabbits
Manufacture: tanks, machine-guns, fan belts for washing machines
Trade:
Exports - rabbits’ scrotums
Imports – ballistic missiles, submarines, uranium, Earl Grey tea
History: currently being written
Geography: hilly, infested with rabbit warrens reminiscent in appearance of good Gorgonzola
Demographics: ethnic Pubes, very hairy
Economy: command economy, based on five-year plans and donations of serfs from mutually beneficial countries
Customs: fondling and licking widespread and much appreciated
Five most famous Pubes:
President Boris Hazam Ripyorebollokov, great leader
Irina Hazamnella Ripyorebollokov, Director of State Rabbit Farm 1
Gamzalla Hazam Ripyorebollokov, tank turret expert
Doozy Hazam Ripyorebollokov, inventor of revolutionary Pube non-stick fan belt
Fuzilla Hazamnella Ripyorebollokov, Miss Pubistan 2006
For more information about our great republic, email us at thecommissariatofpubicsafety@pubistan.com
Long live the victorious banner of our democratic Pubism! Long live Borat!
Thursday, November 16, 2006
BORAT AT ELEVEN
BIRD: You OK there, dude?
BUFFALO: I have just recently regained consciousness, dreams of sugar plums rudely interrupted and was th… k… ng at… my… be…
BIRD: You’re breaking up, Buff.
BUFFALO: Therefore I must whomp up some English Breakfast tea and artificially-flavored low sugar maple oatmeal (oh, yum), flog Igor, steam clean me gulliver, and try to kick-start me brain. Hold on, Birdman, the door.
BIRD: Dum dum de dum…
BUFFALO: That was Desmo from downstairs. It’s about the door knobs.
BIRD: Eh?
BUFFALO: They’ve replaced the door knobs on the door downstairs but now the lock’s gone.
BIRD: Oh, arse!
BUFFALO: Thus the multiple stabbing pile-up downstairs and the cops running amok. Just another typical day at the Carfax Arms.
BIRD: Burnt Scheisseschlanger on a bike! Are you OK?
BUFFALO: Dandy, me old fruit and nut. About the ode…
BIRD: To Borat?
BUFFALO: It’ll have to wait. Got a hot date, ya know. Will tomorrow be OK?
BIRD: Sure.
BUFFALO: I may be having a reaction to the Ritalin… fluttering heart an’ all. Hang on, it’s the fookin’ door again.
BIRD: Dum dum de dum…
BUFFALO: Now the door knobs have gone as well. Beam me up, Vienna. So anyhoo, saw Borat the movie again last night. What a scream, lad! Omigod! I can still see Azamat’s gynormous butt on his face.
BIRD: Yes, I thought you might bring that up.
BUFFALO: Hey, nice job with the asylum caper.
BIRD: It’s the least I could do.
BUFFALO: Puts Pubistan on the map too, tee-hee-ta-ha-ha.
BIRD: Verily. And guess who gets a 10% cut of any package holiday bookings to go see the Pubes.
BUFFALO: Respect, Birdman. Jeez Us, it's the fookin’ door AGAIN again. Sorry bout dis.
BIRD: Dum dum de dum…
BUFFALO: Gotta go. They’ve found Sparky. Doesn’t look good.
BIRD: Oh, crikey! Borat at eleven.
BUFFALO: Yag She Mash arf, arf!
BUFFALO: I have just recently regained consciousness, dreams of sugar plums rudely interrupted and was th… k… ng at… my… be…
BIRD: You’re breaking up, Buff.
BUFFALO: Therefore I must whomp up some English Breakfast tea and artificially-flavored low sugar maple oatmeal (oh, yum), flog Igor, steam clean me gulliver, and try to kick-start me brain. Hold on, Birdman, the door.
BIRD: Dum dum de dum…
BUFFALO: That was Desmo from downstairs. It’s about the door knobs.
BIRD: Eh?
BUFFALO: They’ve replaced the door knobs on the door downstairs but now the lock’s gone.
BIRD: Oh, arse!
BUFFALO: Thus the multiple stabbing pile-up downstairs and the cops running amok. Just another typical day at the Carfax Arms.
BIRD: Burnt Scheisseschlanger on a bike! Are you OK?
BUFFALO: Dandy, me old fruit and nut. About the ode…
BIRD: To Borat?
BUFFALO: It’ll have to wait. Got a hot date, ya know. Will tomorrow be OK?
BIRD: Sure.
BUFFALO: I may be having a reaction to the Ritalin… fluttering heart an’ all. Hang on, it’s the fookin’ door again.
BIRD: Dum dum de dum…
BUFFALO: Now the door knobs have gone as well. Beam me up, Vienna. So anyhoo, saw Borat the movie again last night. What a scream, lad! Omigod! I can still see Azamat’s gynormous butt on his face.
BIRD: Yes, I thought you might bring that up.
BUFFALO: Hey, nice job with the asylum caper.
BIRD: It’s the least I could do.
BUFFALO: Puts Pubistan on the map too, tee-hee-ta-ha-ha.
BIRD: Verily. And guess who gets a 10% cut of any package holiday bookings to go see the Pubes.
BUFFALO: Respect, Birdman. Jeez Us, it's the fookin’ door AGAIN again. Sorry bout dis.
BIRD: Dum dum de dum…
BUFFALO: Gotta go. They’ve found Sparky. Doesn’t look good.
BIRD: Oh, crikey! Borat at eleven.
BUFFALO: Yag She Mash arf, arf!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
BORAT ASYLUM REQUEST GRANTED
FEARFUL FOR BORAT SAGDIYEV'S LIFE, WE DECIDED TO RING AROUND A FEW FRIENDS AND SEE WHAT COULD BE DONE. AFTER AN AMIABLE CHAT OVER TEA & BUNS WITH AN INTERMEDIARY NAMED BUGGERAT AT AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, THE FOLLOWING STATEMENT WAS ISSUED.
A PUBLIC STATEMENT BY THE PRESIDENT OF THE DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF PUBISTAN, BORIS HAZAM RIPYOREBOLLOKOV, UNABRIDGED
"Comrades, engineers, scientists, workers, and serfs!
Long live the glorious democratic revolution of 1905 in our fair country of Pubistan. I have interrupted detailed negotiations with the Pubitburo for the forthcoming five-year plan to make a grave and most important announcement. It has come to the attention of the commissariatat of Foreign Affairs that the mutually unfriendly republic of Kazakhstan has, in spite of numerous reassurances and the signing of internationally verifiable agreements, and also in spite of the resounding success of the greatest political agitational film ever in the turbulent history of the people's cinema, condemned our esteemed comrade-in-arms Borat Sagdiyev - recently made an Honorary Journalist Extraordinaire of the Republic of Pubistan - to be executed should he step foot back in his beloved homeland of Kazakhstan. Therefore, dear comrades, engineers, scientists, workers and serfs! We as a country in love with democracy and pubism and the ingenuity of the social soul, have seen fit in our deepest wisdom, and are of a mind to, all questions of dialectical materialism being equal, to resolve to grant immediate political asylum to Comrade Borat Sagdiyev. In the power that has been invested in me by the glorious democratic revolution of our ancestral agitators for peace, of 1905 no less, I welcome Comrade Borat Sagdiyev and all his extended family - and even his producer Azamat, although he has a quite unbecoming and somewhat repulsive rear end - to join the people of the Democratic Republic of Pubistan in building a glorious future of prosperity and overfulfilled five-year plans for as long as they shall live. So say I, Boris Hazam Ripyorebollokov, President of the Democratic Republic of Pubistan, peace impending!
(TUMULTUOUS APPLAUSE)
We are absolutely certain that our country and party, armed with the historical resolutions of the 21st Congress, will lead the Pubistan people along the democratic path to new successes, to new victories.
Long live the victorious banner of our democratic Pubism! Long live Borat!"
(WILD CHEERING, WHISTLING, FOOT STAMPING & PHONE TAPPING)
A PUBLIC STATEMENT BY THE PRESIDENT OF THE DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF PUBISTAN, BORIS HAZAM RIPYOREBOLLOKOV, UNABRIDGED
"Comrades, engineers, scientists, workers, and serfs!
Long live the glorious democratic revolution of 1905 in our fair country of Pubistan. I have interrupted detailed negotiations with the Pubitburo for the forthcoming five-year plan to make a grave and most important announcement. It has come to the attention of the commissariatat of Foreign Affairs that the mutually unfriendly republic of Kazakhstan has, in spite of numerous reassurances and the signing of internationally verifiable agreements, and also in spite of the resounding success of the greatest political agitational film ever in the turbulent history of the people's cinema, condemned our esteemed comrade-in-arms Borat Sagdiyev - recently made an Honorary Journalist Extraordinaire of the Republic of Pubistan - to be executed should he step foot back in his beloved homeland of Kazakhstan. Therefore, dear comrades, engineers, scientists, workers and serfs! We as a country in love with democracy and pubism and the ingenuity of the social soul, have seen fit in our deepest wisdom, and are of a mind to, all questions of dialectical materialism being equal, to resolve to grant immediate political asylum to Comrade Borat Sagdiyev. In the power that has been invested in me by the glorious democratic revolution of our ancestral agitators for peace, of 1905 no less, I welcome Comrade Borat Sagdiyev and all his extended family - and even his producer Azamat, although he has a quite unbecoming and somewhat repulsive rear end - to join the people of the Democratic Republic of Pubistan in building a glorious future of prosperity and overfulfilled five-year plans for as long as they shall live. So say I, Boris Hazam Ripyorebollokov, President of the Democratic Republic of Pubistan, peace impending!
(TUMULTUOUS APPLAUSE)
We are absolutely certain that our country and party, armed with the historical resolutions of the 21st Congress, will lead the Pubistan people along the democratic path to new successes, to new victories.
Long live the victorious banner of our democratic Pubism! Long live Borat!"
(WILD CHEERING, WHISTLING, FOOT STAMPING & PHONE TAPPING)
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
BORAT THE MOVIE - A SURVIVOR'S ACCOUNT
PARENTAL ADVISORY: FOR GROWN-UPS ONLY. EVEN WITH THE BLEEPS, THIS PIECE IS CLASSIFIED BY THE CIA AS RIVETING/COMPULSIVE. NOT, HOWEVER, RECOMMENDED FOR THOSE SUFFERING FROM SHY BLADDER SYNDROME OR BASHFUL BOWEL SYNDROME. FOR THE FULL ACCOUNT OF WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT, LOOK OUT FOR THE JANUARY ISSUE OF PROFANITY FAIR
CONTACT THE TRAUMATIZED BY THE SCENE IN BORAT WITH THE MASSIVE BUTT HELPLINE ON 000 000 000 000 001 NOW. ALL CALLS WILL BE TREATED IN STRICT CONFIDENCE BUT ALL CALLS WILL BE CHARGED.
BORAT LOVES SEX. WE SUPPORT BORAT!
BIRD: Borat the movie was hilarious. Kept going that little bit further than other films would have. Extreme, grotesque, touching, biting satire. A true work of genius. Oh hum. I especially loved the scene in which Borat BLEEP-BLEEPS his own mother in her flabby, flaccid BLEEP with a rubber BLEEP on a stick, then gives the BLEEP-covered BLEEP-stick to his retarded brother and tells him it's a chocolate-covered bunny, then rolls on the ground laughing while his brother licks the BLEEP off the BLEEP, soiling himself in the process. Unfortunately this scene caused several dozen people to BLEEP all over the heads of the persons sitting in front of them, so that by the end of the film the entire floor of the cinema was covered with BLEEP and BLEEP. As soon as the house lights came up, the entire audience began BLEEP BLEEPING, and soon we were up to our ankles in BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEP, and half-melted toffee. Then terrorists rushed in shouting "BLEEP BLEEP!" and tossed buckets of kerosene all over everything and set it all on fire, burning everyone to death amid the stink of hot, smouldering BLEEP, BLEEP, boiling BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEP fluids, and scalded breast milk. The stench was unbelievable, the worst of it being the BLEEP, burnt BLEEP that a herd of inbred halfwits from East Fenwick had smuggled into the cinema concealed inside wedding sacks soaked in wolverine BLEEP. I was the only survivor, and I am sitting here absolutely covered in smoking BLEEP and baked BLEEP, with BLEEP running down my trouser legs into the smouldering ruins of my shoes. There is no doubt in my mind that those BLEEP baiters are responsible for this. In spite of all the BLEEP, I urge you to see this film.
CONTACT THE TRAUMATIZED BY THE SCENE IN BORAT WITH THE MASSIVE BUTT HELPLINE ON 000 000 000 000 001 NOW. ALL CALLS WILL BE TREATED IN STRICT CONFIDENCE BUT ALL CALLS WILL BE CHARGED.
BORAT LOVES SEX. WE SUPPORT BORAT!
BIRD: Borat the movie was hilarious. Kept going that little bit further than other films would have. Extreme, grotesque, touching, biting satire. A true work of genius. Oh hum. I especially loved the scene in which Borat BLEEP-BLEEPS his own mother in her flabby, flaccid BLEEP with a rubber BLEEP on a stick, then gives the BLEEP-covered BLEEP-stick to his retarded brother and tells him it's a chocolate-covered bunny, then rolls on the ground laughing while his brother licks the BLEEP off the BLEEP, soiling himself in the process. Unfortunately this scene caused several dozen people to BLEEP all over the heads of the persons sitting in front of them, so that by the end of the film the entire floor of the cinema was covered with BLEEP and BLEEP. As soon as the house lights came up, the entire audience began BLEEP BLEEPING, and soon we were up to our ankles in BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEP, and half-melted toffee. Then terrorists rushed in shouting "BLEEP BLEEP!" and tossed buckets of kerosene all over everything and set it all on fire, burning everyone to death amid the stink of hot, smouldering BLEEP, BLEEP, boiling BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEP fluids, and scalded breast milk. The stench was unbelievable, the worst of it being the BLEEP, burnt BLEEP that a herd of inbred halfwits from East Fenwick had smuggled into the cinema concealed inside wedding sacks soaked in wolverine BLEEP. I was the only survivor, and I am sitting here absolutely covered in smoking BLEEP and baked BLEEP, with BLEEP running down my trouser legs into the smouldering ruins of my shoes. There is no doubt in my mind that those BLEEP baiters are responsible for this. In spite of all the BLEEP, I urge you to see this film.
Monday, November 13, 2006
BORAT LOVES SEX PLUS THE BUFFALO 5-MIN... 60-SEC INTERVIEW
PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS INTERVIEW WAS INTERRUPTED SEVERAL TIMES DUE TO GERRY ARSHCLICKER FEELING HE COULDN'T GO ON & THE AULD BUFFALO FEELING HE COULDN'T GET IT UP. ALL REFERENCES TO ARTICULATED NIPPLES & DAYLIGHT ROGERING HAVE BEEN REMOVED PENDING A LEGAL JUDGEMENT BUT HOPEFULLY WILL BE RESTORED FOR THE MIDDLE PAGE SPREAD IN THE JANUARY ISSUE OF PROFANITY FAIR
BORAT LOVES SEX. WE SUPPORT BORAT!
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Welcome back, Mr. Buffalo. First question: who are you?
BUFFALO: I’m the original Belgian-American Indian Shaman with a permanent woody. I’m two-thirds alligator, three-quarters bear, and one half Lion of Flanders and Mannike Piss rolled up into a party size spliff that would make Bob Marley spin in his grave. I’m the craziest, orneriest, horniest, and thirstiest sumbitch ever to come down the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and I’ll kick the biscuits and sausage gravy out of any motherin’ mugwump who says I ain’t.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Good grief. All right then, what do you write?
BUFFALO: Whatever god-awful incomprehensible rants and pure-ass pukka that flashes like summer lightning through my fetid brain, peppered with unadulterated high-grade horseshit calculated to turn virtuous women into hot-blooded engines of carnal desire, and make grown men weep in their corn flakes and cry out for their mommas.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Why do you write what you write?
BUFFALO: To get laid. Or is it to feed myself? Can’t quite remember which.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Why should we read what you write?
BUFFALO: To feel good about yerself, to know that no matter how bad things get, they’ll never be THAT fooked up. Now if I could just find a way to extract my cranial appendage from my rectal orifice, I might be able to connect with my readers in a more offensive and mutually intrusive way. All writing is rewriting and melons in the mire.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Is the world a better place because of what you write?
BUFFALO: O hell yes. God knows what unspeakable war crimes I’d have committed by now if I hadn’t taken up writing - honest work like grave-robbing being out of the question. Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop. Anyhoo, I’ll bet the fookster ain’t no worse off. At least I’m not a TV evangelist, a politician, or Paris Hilton’s bitch.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Last question. Shirley or Lucy? And why?
BUFFALO: The only Shirley I can recall is my late aunt Shirley, a right proper bitch of the first water that no sane man would touch with a ten foot Pole. She was butt-ugly, as broad in the beam as a water buffalo (no pun intended), and meaner than a snake. As for Lucy, she was pretty hot in her day during the 40s before she went ditzoid and got her own TV show. . . unless you’re referring to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, who was a total trip. I tangoed with her a time or two and got my money’s worth. So, no contest, Lucy wins hands down, tits up, whatever.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Mr Buffalo, thank you.
GO ON, GO ON, GO ON. BUY BUY BUY. SAVE THE PUPPY'S OWNER. SEE LINK IN RIGHT HAND COLUMN FOR MORE DETAILS
BORAT LOVES SEX. WE SUPPORT BORAT!
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Welcome back, Mr. Buffalo. First question: who are you?
BUFFALO: I’m the original Belgian-American Indian Shaman with a permanent woody. I’m two-thirds alligator, three-quarters bear, and one half Lion of Flanders and Mannike Piss rolled up into a party size spliff that would make Bob Marley spin in his grave. I’m the craziest, orneriest, horniest, and thirstiest sumbitch ever to come down the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and I’ll kick the biscuits and sausage gravy out of any motherin’ mugwump who says I ain’t.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Good grief. All right then, what do you write?
BUFFALO: Whatever god-awful incomprehensible rants and pure-ass pukka that flashes like summer lightning through my fetid brain, peppered with unadulterated high-grade horseshit calculated to turn virtuous women into hot-blooded engines of carnal desire, and make grown men weep in their corn flakes and cry out for their mommas.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Why do you write what you write?
BUFFALO: To get laid. Or is it to feed myself? Can’t quite remember which.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Why should we read what you write?
BUFFALO: To feel good about yerself, to know that no matter how bad things get, they’ll never be THAT fooked up. Now if I could just find a way to extract my cranial appendage from my rectal orifice, I might be able to connect with my readers in a more offensive and mutually intrusive way. All writing is rewriting and melons in the mire.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Is the world a better place because of what you write?
BUFFALO: O hell yes. God knows what unspeakable war crimes I’d have committed by now if I hadn’t taken up writing - honest work like grave-robbing being out of the question. Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop. Anyhoo, I’ll bet the fookster ain’t no worse off. At least I’m not a TV evangelist, a politician, or Paris Hilton’s bitch.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Last question. Shirley or Lucy? And why?
BUFFALO: The only Shirley I can recall is my late aunt Shirley, a right proper bitch of the first water that no sane man would touch with a ten foot Pole. She was butt-ugly, as broad in the beam as a water buffalo (no pun intended), and meaner than a snake. As for Lucy, she was pretty hot in her day during the 40s before she went ditzoid and got her own TV show. . . unless you’re referring to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, who was a total trip. I tangoed with her a time or two and got my money’s worth. So, no contest, Lucy wins hands down, tits up, whatever.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Mr Buffalo, thank you.
GO ON, GO ON, GO ON. BUY BUY BUY. SAVE THE PUPPY'S OWNER. SEE LINK IN RIGHT HAND COLUMN FOR MORE DETAILS
Sunday, November 12, 2006
GROVELLING APOLOGY, MR PITIFUL MOTOWN, JEREMY 5-MINUTE INTERVIEW
DUE TO LEGAL ISSUES, WE REGRET WE CANNOT YET BRING YOU THE BUFFALO'S 5-MINUTE... ER 60-SECOND INTERVIEW. INSTEAD, AT NO EXTRA COST, WE PRESENT TO YOU THE CONCLUDING PART OF JEREMY HOOPLA/HOOFER/HOFTA/WHATEVER YER REAL NAME IS'S ENTHRALLING SHORT STORY THE DIARY OF MR PITIFUL MOTOWN PLUS A 5-MINUTE INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR CONDUCTED AT VERY SHORT NOTICE BY GERRY ARSCHLICKER
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Jeremy, welcome to the show, blog, whatever. Let's now hear the rip-roaring ending of your short story then talk afterwards.
JEREMY: Ja. And I read... "They went in car. Adam groped on the shoulder. Clara kissed on the cheek. "There terminates a straight designated course of rediscovery of your body after some time, you know?" He groped. "I leave more apple and brombeere, with Himbeeresorbet zerbroeckeln." Stan turned the key in the ignition. "Bite once, shy twice, Himmel." "Don't forget the geduenstetes chicken with Korianderroulade," she said, "you did not become." "Ooo, why you do this me?" he replied. "Probably?" she groped. Stan sat on seat belt. "I am over eight. Over. And good night."
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: What incredible writing, Jeremy. So incisive, economical... and plain.
JEREMY: Thanking you.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: So, on to your first question: who are you?
JEREMY: Cyclops knows and he speaks not.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: What do you write?
JEREMY: Of Henry Miller, of Vladimir Mayakovsky, of Montypythonschlange, and of Benny on the Hill.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Why do you write what you write?
JEREMY: To share what is the handful with the arm and much beyond.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Why should we read what you write?
JEREMY: To make laugh. Mark Twain say laughter is greatest weapon of humankind. But where the medicine is?
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Is the world a better place because of what you write?
JEREMY: I agree. Where do I sign?
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Last question.
JEREMY: Is not last question that?
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: No, we still have time. How much further can you go with your experiments into the English language before not a single word you write or say or think makes any sense at all?
JEREMY: I did not do it damage, which I wrote, although I probably did some things, for which I be hung should - however the day is young.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Jerry Helfenflipper, or whatever your name is, it's been a pleasure.
STOP THE CARNAGE:
TWO MORE PUPPY OWNERS WHACKED. IT MAY BE YOU NEXT. ALSO, AN EXCELLENT CHRISTMAS STOCKING FILLER. BUY IT WHILE YOU CAN. CLICK ON THE LINK ON THE RIGHT-HAND COLUMN FOR MORE DETAILS
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Jeremy, welcome to the show, blog, whatever. Let's now hear the rip-roaring ending of your short story then talk afterwards.
JEREMY: Ja. And I read... "They went in car. Adam groped on the shoulder. Clara kissed on the cheek. "There terminates a straight designated course of rediscovery of your body after some time, you know?" He groped. "I leave more apple and brombeere, with Himbeeresorbet zerbroeckeln." Stan turned the key in the ignition. "Bite once, shy twice, Himmel." "Don't forget the geduenstetes chicken with Korianderroulade," she said, "you did not become." "Ooo, why you do this me?" he replied. "Probably?" she groped. Stan sat on seat belt. "I am over eight. Over. And good night."
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: What incredible writing, Jeremy. So incisive, economical... and plain.
JEREMY: Thanking you.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: So, on to your first question: who are you?
JEREMY: Cyclops knows and he speaks not.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: What do you write?
JEREMY: Of Henry Miller, of Vladimir Mayakovsky, of Montypythonschlange, and of Benny on the Hill.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Why do you write what you write?
JEREMY: To share what is the handful with the arm and much beyond.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Why should we read what you write?
JEREMY: To make laugh. Mark Twain say laughter is greatest weapon of humankind. But where the medicine is?
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Is the world a better place because of what you write?
JEREMY: I agree. Where do I sign?
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Last question.
JEREMY: Is not last question that?
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: No, we still have time. How much further can you go with your experiments into the English language before not a single word you write or say or think makes any sense at all?
JEREMY: I did not do it damage, which I wrote, although I probably did some things, for which I be hung should - however the day is young.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Jerry Helfenflipper, or whatever your name is, it's been a pleasure.
STOP THE CARNAGE:
TWO MORE PUPPY OWNERS WHACKED. IT MAY BE YOU NEXT. ALSO, AN EXCELLENT CHRISTMAS STOCKING FILLER. BUY IT WHILE YOU CAN. CLICK ON THE LINK ON THE RIGHT-HAND COLUMN FOR MORE DETAILS
Saturday, November 11, 2006
THE FIVE-MINUTE ER... 60-SECOND INTERVIEW
AFTER MUCH SOUL SEARCHING AND WRANGLING OVER ROYALTIES, THE BIRD & BUFFALO AGREED TO THE FIVE-MINUTE ER… 60-SECOND INTERVIEW FOR THE EAST FENWICK GRAMMAR SCHOOL’S “LEGENDS OF OUR TIME” HISTORY PROJECT. THE FULL INTERVIEWS, WHICH FRANK LEE, WERE DONE IN THE WORST POSSIBLE TASTE, ARE BEING EXAMINED BY PROFANITY FAIR MAGAZINE FOR PUBLICATION EARLY NEXT YEAR
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Bird & Buffalo, welcome. Who are you?
BIRD: Well, I’m Bird.
BUFFALO: And I’m Buffalo.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: One at a time, pleez. OK, let’s start with you, Mr Bird. Mr Buffalo, if you could go and sit in that cubicle with the headphones on and a Bud or two, the nurse will come and fetch you when we’re ready.
BUFFALO: Okey-doke. Good luck, dude.
BIRD: Hey, thanks, dude. Right back at ya.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: So, Birdy, now old Buffters isn’t here, tell us, what’s the most annoying habit he has?
BIRD: He salivates at the sight of erect nipples. Even his own. Most unedifying, like. Er, isn’t that Mr & Mrs, or some such poo-shite?
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Oops. Silly me. Wrong show, um, project. Question 1: who are you?
BIRD: Someone in love with the bullet. An enigma at the end of the sticky cream bun, the flatulence at the end of the rainbow. I’ll be whoever you want me to be, honey, for a price. Gawd, I hope the questions aren’t all this tough to answer, like.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: What do you write?
BIRD: Probing, some say penetrating, some say painfully tight-in-yer-face-here’s-a-hanky-darling-for-later prose.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Why do you write what you write?
BIRD: Because when I was a lad, me dear old dad perched me on his knee and said, “Son, you sure is fookin’ ugly. Like to see ya try to write yer way out of that one! Still tryin', popsie.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: What a terrible rascal your father is. But I disinvest. Why should we read what you write?
BIRD: At last, an easy question. Because the other stuff out there is first class donkey poo. In ten years time, no-one will remember Godfrey H Limpdickshitzinger and the Inspector Prozac Incendiary Mysteries. But they’ll remember us, if nothing else for the whiff we left behind.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Is the world a better place because of what you write?
BIRD: Not better. Just different. Even Limpdickshitzinger acknowledges that. Albeit in an e-mail under a pseudonym, but still. I get text messages urging me to keep writing, even though it’s been 20 years since I lost my virginity. The fans DEMAND it. Loyalty – you can’t buy it. You EARN it. I owe everything to them. Without them, I und die alte Buffinger are nada.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Last question…
BIRD: Hey, that was supposed to be the last question.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: We’ve got time for one more. Shirley or Lucy? And why?
BIRD: Omigod. You’ve done your homework. It was a long time ago. And it was settled out of court, as you well know, and to truly understand the intricacies of the Bouncing Jugs In The Quarry Incident, you need to fully appreciate the cultural and socio-political tendencies of disenfranchised youth growing up in the Shires without a pet or neighbours with teeth.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Thank you, Mr Bird. You’ve been most frank. If we could have Mr Buffalo in the hot seat now, nurse, pleez.
TO BE CONTINUED…
PS STOP THE CARNAGE!
ONE PUPPY'S OWNER HAS ALREADY BEEN WHACKED. BUY THIS BOOK BEFORE ANY MORE HAVE TO SUFFER THE SAME FATE. CLICK ON CHRIS HUDSON'S NORTHERN CROSS IN THE RIGHT-HAND COLUMN FOR MORE DETAILS
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Bird & Buffalo, welcome. Who are you?
BIRD: Well, I’m Bird.
BUFFALO: And I’m Buffalo.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: One at a time, pleez. OK, let’s start with you, Mr Bird. Mr Buffalo, if you could go and sit in that cubicle with the headphones on and a Bud or two, the nurse will come and fetch you when we’re ready.
BUFFALO: Okey-doke. Good luck, dude.
BIRD: Hey, thanks, dude. Right back at ya.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: So, Birdy, now old Buffters isn’t here, tell us, what’s the most annoying habit he has?
BIRD: He salivates at the sight of erect nipples. Even his own. Most unedifying, like. Er, isn’t that Mr & Mrs, or some such poo-shite?
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Oops. Silly me. Wrong show, um, project. Question 1: who are you?
BIRD: Someone in love with the bullet. An enigma at the end of the sticky cream bun, the flatulence at the end of the rainbow. I’ll be whoever you want me to be, honey, for a price. Gawd, I hope the questions aren’t all this tough to answer, like.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: What do you write?
BIRD: Probing, some say penetrating, some say painfully tight-in-yer-face-here’s-a-hanky-darling-for-later prose.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Why do you write what you write?
BIRD: Because when I was a lad, me dear old dad perched me on his knee and said, “Son, you sure is fookin’ ugly. Like to see ya try to write yer way out of that one! Still tryin', popsie.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: What a terrible rascal your father is. But I disinvest. Why should we read what you write?
BIRD: At last, an easy question. Because the other stuff out there is first class donkey poo. In ten years time, no-one will remember Godfrey H Limpdickshitzinger and the Inspector Prozac Incendiary Mysteries. But they’ll remember us, if nothing else for the whiff we left behind.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Is the world a better place because of what you write?
BIRD: Not better. Just different. Even Limpdickshitzinger acknowledges that. Albeit in an e-mail under a pseudonym, but still. I get text messages urging me to keep writing, even though it’s been 20 years since I lost my virginity. The fans DEMAND it. Loyalty – you can’t buy it. You EARN it. I owe everything to them. Without them, I und die alte Buffinger are nada.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Last question…
BIRD: Hey, that was supposed to be the last question.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: We’ve got time for one more. Shirley or Lucy? And why?
BIRD: Omigod. You’ve done your homework. It was a long time ago. And it was settled out of court, as you well know, and to truly understand the intricacies of the Bouncing Jugs In The Quarry Incident, you need to fully appreciate the cultural and socio-political tendencies of disenfranchised youth growing up in the Shires without a pet or neighbours with teeth.
GERRY ARSCHLICKER: Thank you, Mr Bird. You’ve been most frank. If we could have Mr Buffalo in the hot seat now, nurse, pleez.
TO BE CONTINUED…
PS STOP THE CARNAGE!
ONE PUPPY'S OWNER HAS ALREADY BEEN WHACKED. BUY THIS BOOK BEFORE ANY MORE HAVE TO SUFFER THE SAME FATE. CLICK ON CHRIS HUDSON'S NORTHERN CROSS IN THE RIGHT-HAND COLUMN FOR MORE DETAILS
Friday, November 10, 2006
BUY THIS BOOK... OR THE PUPPY'S OWNER GETS IT
BUFFALO: Dude, the Hudster has beat me to the punch!!
BIRD: The geezer in the photo, ya mean?
BUFFALO: Dat’s right, Lucy. Christopher “Rock” Hudson.
BIRD: Looks a bit like Harrison Ford. Bet the gals fall at his feet.
BUFFALO: Put it this way, his woody’s seen plenty of action. But Henny Way…
BIRD: So your long time partner in grime has cornered the grog, eh?
BUFFALO: No, dude, get surreal, the mutt’s nuts has gone and got his first book published, the darty swine!
BIRD: You're having me on, right?
BUFFALO: Scout's honor, Birdy, he's fookin' done it, he's busted his literary cherry! His first novel is out there on the Amazon, dude, big as life, bold as brass, and reasonably priced, too.
BIRD: Uh, huh... and what is the title of this alleged coup?
BUFFALO: Jeez. Don’t you pay no attention to our flog blog? "Northern Cross"!
BIRD: A religious treatise, is it?
BUFFALO: Good lord, get the fook off of the Motown potty, dude, it's an action-packed adventure yarn, with sexy twin-engine airplanes, greasy drug dealers, smokin' hot babes and mind-boggling descriptions of the Michigan and Canadian wilderness. It's Elmore Leonard on high octane, Birdo!
BIRD: So it's good, then?
BUFFALO: Good? It's fookin' BRILLIANT! They'll probably sign Brad Pitt for the movie. We're doing the screenplay now, like.
BIRD: And you swear on the old maternal nips this is not another peyote-induced hallucination or yet another aftermath of sleep-deprivation psychosis?
BUFFALO: Nips ahoy, Birdo! Stack of Braille Bibles! Honest Injun!
BIRD: I presume there's a sausage link to the Amazon, like... if this is on the level?
BUFFALO: Ab-so-fookin-lute-lee, my avian amigo.
BIRD: So, give already, you procrastinating Belgian skirt sniffer.
BUFFALO: http://www.amazon.com/o/ASIN/1905605099/
ref=s9_asin_image_0/002-6993378-8992020
BIRD: Clicking on that... well, I'll be dipped in peanut honey on the muff. You were truthing, like.
BUFFALO: Sigh... why does NO one take me surrealously?
BIRD: Do I get an autographed copy?
BUFFALO: In your Christmas stocking, if not sooner, Birdo.
BIRD: Bloody amazing. So, does this give us some "cache"?
BUFFALO: Guilt by association, you mean? Yeah, I suppose so... couldn't hurt, I guess.
BIRD: Well, Mazeltov, dude! Have you two pirates uncorked some of the bubbly yet?
BUFFALO: Not yet, but a bottle or three of the old Nectar Imperial is definitely on the agenda.
BIRD: In moderation, Buffo. Remember what happened to Granny and the boy in Wal-Mart.
BUFFALO: Right. *wink, wink, nudge, nudge*
BIRD: God help us. Mugshots at eleven.
BUFFALO: And shots of tequila in mugs! So remember, buy this or the puppy’s owner gets it! Arf, arf!
Thursday, November 09, 2006
WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG...
TO PROMOTE A FRIEND'S NEW NOVEL
Northern Cross - The Novel
A happy marriage, a lovely home and a brilliant future as a commercial pilot – George Ashton seems to have it all... including twenty-five years of guilt from a college caper gone murderously wrong. Then his past catches up with him in the sinister form of Brady Keyes, looking for a pilot to fly a very special and highly illegal mission. When Brady reminds George of what really happened that night on Highway 89, it’s soon clear his return is not just about catching up on old times. Manipulated and exploited, George piles betrayal upon betrayal in order to reclaim his life, only to discover that to win it all, he must be willing to risk everything.
To read a sample chapter and find out more about Northern Cross & Chris Hudson, click here: />Northern Cross
Northern Cross - The Novel
A happy marriage, a lovely home and a brilliant future as a commercial pilot – George Ashton seems to have it all... including twenty-five years of guilt from a college caper gone murderously wrong. Then his past catches up with him in the sinister form of Brady Keyes, looking for a pilot to fly a very special and highly illegal mission. When Brady reminds George of what really happened that night on Highway 89, it’s soon clear his return is not just about catching up on old times. Manipulated and exploited, George piles betrayal upon betrayal in order to reclaim his life, only to discover that to win it all, he must be willing to risk everything.
To read a sample chapter and find out more about Northern Cross & Chris Hudson, click here: />Northern Cross
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
MID-TERM ERECTION BLUES - ROUND ONE
PARENTAL ADVISORY: EXQUISITE LANGUAGE
BUFFALO: Yoo, hoo! Birdy, you der?
BIRD: Bare Lee. Gimme a minute, like.
BUFFALO: It's Erection Day here, dude, and I may have to emigrate if the dirty rotten fooker goes South again.
BIRD: Write somethin' about it for da blog. It'll be a laff.
BUFFALO: Will dew.
BIRD: Any news?
BUFFALO: There’s been a tentative offer to shag me, like.
BIRD: Sparky?
BUFFALO: No, you berk... the outrageous Clare.
BIRD: Your platonic girlfriend, like? The paratrooper?
BUFFALO: Jeez. Paralegal, dude. She’s fookin’ brilliant and built like a brick shithouse. Check yer email, I just sent you a pic of her at 18.
BIRD: Lemme see... ah, here it is. (pregnant pause). Gott in Himmel! Is that really her?
BUFFALO: Aye, though she’s a bit more mature now, mind.
BIRD: But still scrumptious?
BUFFALO: Eat her with a spoon, Birdy, especially the naughty bits. Bigger balcony now, too; she hadn’t topped out at 18.
BIRD: The mind reels. Erection Day, indeed. But is this on the level, then? The tentative offer, I mean?
BUFFALO: Well, let me put this way, dude; Clare is not prone to practical jokes and she doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.
BIRD: Not yet, anyway... tee, hee.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BIRD: I’ve had a really good feeling all day that something amazing is about to happen.
BUFFALO: Of course, it's Erection Day... woke up with one.
BIRD: But that’s merely the norm, isn’t it?
BUFFALO: Aye, but this puppy damn near perforated my quilt, Birdy.
BIRD: Oh, Lord. Clare Quilty!
BUFFALO: Cosmic, Birdy... dig it, her middle name is Dolores.
BIRD: Epic, Buff... hell, Homeric. It fairly takes me breath away.
BUFFALO: Ah, now if only it takes HER breath away.
BIRD: Rimshot!
BUFFALO: More like quimshot, I think.
BIRD: You randy auld dawg!
BUFFALO: Quilty as charged.
BIRD: (Groans) All right, now, so when is this coupling scheduled?
BUFFALO: Fairly soon, I think. If I had my druthers I’d lure her over here on Friday after work for a romantic candlelight dinner, with a jeroboam of Lambrusco on the TV tray and Il Vino Confuso on the stereo, like.
BIRD: What, no tafel music?
BUFFALO: No tafel, dude.
BIRD: What, they still haven’t delivered your new dining room set?
BUFFALO: No room for it. The bloody Carfax Arms is all buggered up with stacks of bloody books and toys.
BIRD: Toys? Yours, or Sparky’s?
BUFFALO: Sparky’s, mostly, except the battery-powered self-gratification machine.
BIRD: Buff, I’m shocked!
BUFFALO: Get off it... it’s only 6 Volts DC, for crissake. Cut me some slack, you want me to go blind?
BIRD: Eh? Oh, I get it... the machine doesn’t count, is that it?
BUFFALO: Of course not, berko, it’s a mechanical schlanger wanger, not a bloody abacus.
BIRD: I see.
BUFFALO: Titties like virgin moons, Birdy, the size of Casaba melons.
BIRD: I’ll have a lookee tomorrow morning afore I go to werk.
BUFFALO: Tell me another one, Birdo. I’ll eat my chapeau if you aren’t eyeballing it right now and polishing your knob in 7-8 time.
BIRD: Comin’ at ya now, Buffo, the Old Filipino Creamy, in quarts and shorts, like!
BUFFALO: Filthy swine.
BIRD: Just pulling yer chain, dude. I'm werking, remember? Write something about the election, why don't you?
BUFFALO: Yes, the erection... might be hard.
BIRD: Ker-ching! Doesn't have to be an essay, either. As long as you like.
BUFFALO: Pretty much tops out at 7.5 inches, dude, out of my hands, so to speak. Watching Wolf Blitzer on CNN; staying up to watch Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, LIVE tonight, from 11 to Midnight. By then the shouting and the tumult should be over – apple-polly-woggies to Walt Kelly. I’m keeping a running log.
BIRD: Yes, I’m picturing it. Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: Filthy old git. By the way, can you fookin' believe they gave Saddam his pink slip on the eve of the bloody erection?
BIRD: A bunch of right bah-stards, for sure.
BUFFALO: Aye, they got their noses so far up Arbusto’s derriere they’re obliged to breathe through their fookin’ ears. Colbert last night: “The appeal process could last a couple of months.” Then he plants his chin on both palms, elbows on the desk, the quintessential Norman Rockwell portrait of the all-American barefoot boy with cheek. “Gee, you think we may be in for a Christmas hangin'?”
BIRD: Bloody macabre, that, Buffters.
BUFFALO: Aye, film at eleven, Alcatraz.
BIRD: Cheep, cheep! Ciao!
BUFFALO: Boners for tunas, dude! Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: Yoo, hoo! Birdy, you der?
BIRD: Bare Lee. Gimme a minute, like.
BUFFALO: It's Erection Day here, dude, and I may have to emigrate if the dirty rotten fooker goes South again.
BIRD: Write somethin' about it for da blog. It'll be a laff.
BUFFALO: Will dew.
BIRD: Any news?
BUFFALO: There’s been a tentative offer to shag me, like.
BIRD: Sparky?
BUFFALO: No, you berk... the outrageous Clare.
BIRD: Your platonic girlfriend, like? The paratrooper?
BUFFALO: Jeez. Paralegal, dude. She’s fookin’ brilliant and built like a brick shithouse. Check yer email, I just sent you a pic of her at 18.
BIRD: Lemme see... ah, here it is. (pregnant pause). Gott in Himmel! Is that really her?
BUFFALO: Aye, though she’s a bit more mature now, mind.
BIRD: But still scrumptious?
BUFFALO: Eat her with a spoon, Birdy, especially the naughty bits. Bigger balcony now, too; she hadn’t topped out at 18.
BIRD: The mind reels. Erection Day, indeed. But is this on the level, then? The tentative offer, I mean?
BUFFALO: Well, let me put this way, dude; Clare is not prone to practical jokes and she doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.
BIRD: Not yet, anyway... tee, hee.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BIRD: I’ve had a really good feeling all day that something amazing is about to happen.
BUFFALO: Of course, it's Erection Day... woke up with one.
BIRD: But that’s merely the norm, isn’t it?
BUFFALO: Aye, but this puppy damn near perforated my quilt, Birdy.
BIRD: Oh, Lord. Clare Quilty!
BUFFALO: Cosmic, Birdy... dig it, her middle name is Dolores.
BIRD: Epic, Buff... hell, Homeric. It fairly takes me breath away.
BUFFALO: Ah, now if only it takes HER breath away.
BIRD: Rimshot!
BUFFALO: More like quimshot, I think.
BIRD: You randy auld dawg!
BUFFALO: Quilty as charged.
BIRD: (Groans) All right, now, so when is this coupling scheduled?
BUFFALO: Fairly soon, I think. If I had my druthers I’d lure her over here on Friday after work for a romantic candlelight dinner, with a jeroboam of Lambrusco on the TV tray and Il Vino Confuso on the stereo, like.
BIRD: What, no tafel music?
BUFFALO: No tafel, dude.
BIRD: What, they still haven’t delivered your new dining room set?
BUFFALO: No room for it. The bloody Carfax Arms is all buggered up with stacks of bloody books and toys.
BIRD: Toys? Yours, or Sparky’s?
BUFFALO: Sparky’s, mostly, except the battery-powered self-gratification machine.
BIRD: Buff, I’m shocked!
BUFFALO: Get off it... it’s only 6 Volts DC, for crissake. Cut me some slack, you want me to go blind?
BIRD: Eh? Oh, I get it... the machine doesn’t count, is that it?
BUFFALO: Of course not, berko, it’s a mechanical schlanger wanger, not a bloody abacus.
BIRD: I see.
BUFFALO: Titties like virgin moons, Birdy, the size of Casaba melons.
BIRD: I’ll have a lookee tomorrow morning afore I go to werk.
BUFFALO: Tell me another one, Birdo. I’ll eat my chapeau if you aren’t eyeballing it right now and polishing your knob in 7-8 time.
BIRD: Comin’ at ya now, Buffo, the Old Filipino Creamy, in quarts and shorts, like!
BUFFALO: Filthy swine.
BIRD: Just pulling yer chain, dude. I'm werking, remember? Write something about the election, why don't you?
BUFFALO: Yes, the erection... might be hard.
BIRD: Ker-ching! Doesn't have to be an essay, either. As long as you like.
BUFFALO: Pretty much tops out at 7.5 inches, dude, out of my hands, so to speak. Watching Wolf Blitzer on CNN; staying up to watch Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, LIVE tonight, from 11 to Midnight. By then the shouting and the tumult should be over – apple-polly-woggies to Walt Kelly. I’m keeping a running log.
BIRD: Yes, I’m picturing it. Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: Filthy old git. By the way, can you fookin' believe they gave Saddam his pink slip on the eve of the bloody erection?
BIRD: A bunch of right bah-stards, for sure.
BUFFALO: Aye, they got their noses so far up Arbusto’s derriere they’re obliged to breathe through their fookin’ ears. Colbert last night: “The appeal process could last a couple of months.” Then he plants his chin on both palms, elbows on the desk, the quintessential Norman Rockwell portrait of the all-American barefoot boy with cheek. “Gee, you think we may be in for a Christmas hangin'?”
BIRD: Bloody macabre, that, Buffters.
BUFFALO: Aye, film at eleven, Alcatraz.
BIRD: Cheep, cheep! Ciao!
BUFFALO: Boners for tunas, dude! Arf, arf!
O The Tangled Web We Weave Part 2
BUFFALO: Episode two coming up, Birdman. Cool, they’re (pardon the expression) milking the last five minutes of the previous episode. Yep, there’s Lois’s little articulated nippers again... lovely.
BIRD: I hope you’re taping this.
BUFFALO: They should have taped Lois’s niblets, dude, they’re so perky. Hard to believe they paid somebody to write this drivel, though.
BIRD: The dialogue’s that lame, eh?
BUFFALO: Dig it, this is rich... the Spider Lady is making an anonymous phone call to the police department. She’s telling them she’s going to pull a heist at the Metropolis Museum in one hour and there’s not a damn thing they can do about it. A bemused henchman asks, “Gee, boss, do you think it was a good idea tipping off the cops like that?”
BIRD: Does seem a bit precipitous, like.
BUFFALO: Aye... hard to say who’s dumber, the Spider Lady or the cops, who have planted two fat dumb flatfeet outside the front door of the museum, which looks more like the entrance to a Victorian funeral home. Ah, here’s Lois.
BIRD: Eh? I thought she was tied up and fried up, like?
BUFFALO: Yeah, she must have escaped. The plot is more full of holes than a round of Swiss cheese, Birdo. The coppers are hassling her, but she tells them she has an appointment with Professor Morgan, and they believe her. Metropolis’s Finest, indeed. God help us. She’s going through the front door, swinging her hips, and they’re ogling her legs and smirking, the dirty swine. Cut to Morgan’s office. Lois enters. Morgan rises, in more ways than one, the lecherous old bugger; he’s practically salivating, and slurring his words: “I think you’ll be more comfortable in my study, Lois.” (drool, drool)
BIRD: She’s not falling for it, is she?
BUFFALO: Like a big-arse safe out of a ten story window, Birdy. Cut to close-up of the wall clock... a power surge; the hour hand did a 360 in five seconds. The study door opens... Lois staggers out, hair mussed, buttons awry... she’s walking funny, all bow-legged, like.
BIRD: Surely not!
BUFFALO: Swear to God, Birdy... and don’t call me Shirley.
BIRD: Sorry, old chum.
BUFFALO: Omigod, this is too much... the Spider Lady’s henchmen have lured the cops away from the museum entrance with a phony car crash! What a pair of lummoxes. Now two other henchmen slip through the front door carrying a large, klutzy Geiger counter. Ah, of course, they’re after the Kryptonite meteor accidentally discovered by the randy Professor Morgan... lordy, lordy, Superman is in deep dog poo now, dude.
BIRD: I knew it! I knew I smelled Kryptonite!
BUFFALO: Either that or the script.
BIRD: Go on, what next?
BUFFALO: For some reason Lois is now tied up and gagged, lying on the floor. I can’t believe the henchmen didn’t shag her while they had the chance. Ooh, good thigh shot! Holy batshite, Robin, the Geiger counter probe has come to life! It’s waving about in the air like a snake that’s just got religion. Rather obscene, actually, like one of those space alien probes. Uh, oh, it’s got Lois’s scent, Birdy. It’s like a bloody mechanical one-eyed trouser snake on the prowl. Hold the phone. . . hot damn, it’s sliding under her skirt! BLOODY HELL!
BIRD: Holy shite, Buffo, WHAT?
BUFFALO: “Continued Next Week”... and “Buy War Bonds.”
BIRD: I’m boogered here... drenched in sweat, like.
BUFFALO: That was the last episode in the vaults, too. Those baa-stoods.
BIRD: And where the hell was Superman all this time?
BUFFALO: His alter ego, Clark Kent, is trapped like a rat back at the Daily Planet. Ironically, Perry White’s punishing the Man of Steel for cowardly behavior by making him write an advice to the lovelorn column... while Lois Lane is in imminent danger of being deflowered by old “Steely Dan.”
BIRD: What about Jimmy Olsen, cub reporter?
BUFFALO: He’s out looking for Lois; following his old divining rod, if you get my drift. That poor green kid is hornier than a hop toad. Alas, we may have to write the ending for this one ourselves, Birdy. Film at eleven, the good Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise.
BIRD: Oh, Momma, check me... am I all right?
BIRD: I hope you’re taping this.
BUFFALO: They should have taped Lois’s niblets, dude, they’re so perky. Hard to believe they paid somebody to write this drivel, though.
BIRD: The dialogue’s that lame, eh?
BUFFALO: Dig it, this is rich... the Spider Lady is making an anonymous phone call to the police department. She’s telling them she’s going to pull a heist at the Metropolis Museum in one hour and there’s not a damn thing they can do about it. A bemused henchman asks, “Gee, boss, do you think it was a good idea tipping off the cops like that?”
BIRD: Does seem a bit precipitous, like.
BUFFALO: Aye... hard to say who’s dumber, the Spider Lady or the cops, who have planted two fat dumb flatfeet outside the front door of the museum, which looks more like the entrance to a Victorian funeral home. Ah, here’s Lois.
BIRD: Eh? I thought she was tied up and fried up, like?
BUFFALO: Yeah, she must have escaped. The plot is more full of holes than a round of Swiss cheese, Birdo. The coppers are hassling her, but she tells them she has an appointment with Professor Morgan, and they believe her. Metropolis’s Finest, indeed. God help us. She’s going through the front door, swinging her hips, and they’re ogling her legs and smirking, the dirty swine. Cut to Morgan’s office. Lois enters. Morgan rises, in more ways than one, the lecherous old bugger; he’s practically salivating, and slurring his words: “I think you’ll be more comfortable in my study, Lois.” (drool, drool)
BIRD: She’s not falling for it, is she?
BUFFALO: Like a big-arse safe out of a ten story window, Birdy. Cut to close-up of the wall clock... a power surge; the hour hand did a 360 in five seconds. The study door opens... Lois staggers out, hair mussed, buttons awry... she’s walking funny, all bow-legged, like.
BIRD: Surely not!
BUFFALO: Swear to God, Birdy... and don’t call me Shirley.
BIRD: Sorry, old chum.
BUFFALO: Omigod, this is too much... the Spider Lady’s henchmen have lured the cops away from the museum entrance with a phony car crash! What a pair of lummoxes. Now two other henchmen slip through the front door carrying a large, klutzy Geiger counter. Ah, of course, they’re after the Kryptonite meteor accidentally discovered by the randy Professor Morgan... lordy, lordy, Superman is in deep dog poo now, dude.
BIRD: I knew it! I knew I smelled Kryptonite!
BUFFALO: Either that or the script.
BIRD: Go on, what next?
BUFFALO: For some reason Lois is now tied up and gagged, lying on the floor. I can’t believe the henchmen didn’t shag her while they had the chance. Ooh, good thigh shot! Holy batshite, Robin, the Geiger counter probe has come to life! It’s waving about in the air like a snake that’s just got religion. Rather obscene, actually, like one of those space alien probes. Uh, oh, it’s got Lois’s scent, Birdy. It’s like a bloody mechanical one-eyed trouser snake on the prowl. Hold the phone. . . hot damn, it’s sliding under her skirt! BLOODY HELL!
BIRD: Holy shite, Buffo, WHAT?
BUFFALO: “Continued Next Week”... and “Buy War Bonds.”
BIRD: I’m boogered here... drenched in sweat, like.
BUFFALO: That was the last episode in the vaults, too. Those baa-stoods.
BIRD: And where the hell was Superman all this time?
BUFFALO: His alter ego, Clark Kent, is trapped like a rat back at the Daily Planet. Ironically, Perry White’s punishing the Man of Steel for cowardly behavior by making him write an advice to the lovelorn column... while Lois Lane is in imminent danger of being deflowered by old “Steely Dan.”
BIRD: What about Jimmy Olsen, cub reporter?
BUFFALO: He’s out looking for Lois; following his old divining rod, if you get my drift. That poor green kid is hornier than a hop toad. Alas, we may have to write the ending for this one ourselves, Birdy. Film at eleven, the good Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise.
BIRD: Oh, Momma, check me... am I all right?
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
O The Tangled Web We Weave Part 1
BIRD: Wuzzup, Buff? Unless my nose relieves me, I smell Kryptonite.
BUFFALO: Your snorter is on the money, Birdo. They’re showing back-to-back episodes of “Superman” on Turner Classic Movies.
BIRD: Blam! Ker-whamo! Grunkkk! Episodes? ‘Splain, pliss, Lucy.
BUFFALO: Old one-reelers from the early Forties, my avian friend, predating the TV show with George Reeves and the movies with Chris Reeve. “Cliffhangers,” they called ‘em.
BIRD: Any good?
BUFFALO: They’re high camp, written by alcoholic hacks and closet queens. In the current episode, the infamous Spider Lady is out to nail Superman.
BIRD: What, to shag him, like?
BUFFALO: No, you jerk-berk, to dust him, take him out, settle his hash, buy him a one-way ticket to Palookaville. Capice?
BIRD: One question... is she hot?
BUFFALO: Like a string of firecrackers, dude. She’s a Lana Turner look-alike in a sheer black Rita Hayworth fookme evening gown, festooned with sequins. Lovely bit of prime cleavage, too.
BIRD: Brilliant... but how are her stems?
BUFFALO: Dazzling, my feathered friend. Perfectly shaped calves, trim ankles, and a totally hot pair of black stiletto shag-me-all-night pumps from the golden age of Frederick’s of Hollywood.
BIRD: I would expect no less from a Spider Lady. Does she have special powers, like?
BUFFALO: Aye, the power to cloud men’s minds, make them drool like TV evangelists, stomp their hind feet like lovesick prairie dogs and bark at the moon like fevered coyotes in estrus.
BIRD: Is she deliciously evil an’ all?
BUFFALO: Is she ever, dude. Her parlor wall sports a giant electrified silver lamé spider web, for frying her enemies. Whoa! She just fried Professor Morgan’s hapless lab assistant, Short Circuit Leeds. And now it’s Lois Lane’s turn... she’s been snatched, blindfolded, kidnapped, and transported to the spider lair.
BIRD: Diabolical... is it Margot Kidder, then?
BUFFALO: I don’t think Margot was born then, dude. It’s Noel Neill, in her prime... a bit on the mousy side, but tasty - in a virginal librarian sort of way. She’s dressed rather severely, in one of those horrible professional womens’ business suits. Nice gams, though.
BIRD: The suspense is killing me.
BUFFALO: Lois is pleading now, “You don’t have to kill me. I’ve been blindfolded the whole time, there’s no way I could identify you!”
BIRD: Is the Spider Lady buying it?
BUFFALO: No way, dude. She says, “I might take a chance and let you go, if I didn’t know you’re a reporter. Did you really think we wouldn’t search your hand bag?” What a hoot. Uh, oh, the henchmen are tying Lois to the spiderweb.
BIRD: Good heavens, she’s not going to toast Lois, is she?
BUFFALO: Looks bad, Birdy. Lois is miffed now. “You’ll never get away with this!” she protests. “Superman can’t help you now,” the Spider Lady smirks. Gorgonzola, dude, she’s done it! She’s thrown the mothering switch! There’s really cheesy animated lightning bolts jumping all over Lois’s bod!
BIRD: Sounds absolutely grizzly, Buffo.
BUFFALO: No, no bears so far, but Lois is twitching like a bug on a hot plate, screaming blue murder.
BIRD: Horrifying!
BUFFALO: It’s not all bad... the old juice has caused her nips to go all articulated, like... which would be incredibly arousing if it wasn’t so comical. Ah, bloody hell, should have seen this coming - “Continued Next Week.”
BIRD: Gott und Gorgonzola!
BUFFALO: Indeed. I’ll keep you posted. Ten-four.
BIRD: No film at eleven, sigh.
BUFFALO: Your snorter is on the money, Birdo. They’re showing back-to-back episodes of “Superman” on Turner Classic Movies.
BIRD: Blam! Ker-whamo! Grunkkk! Episodes? ‘Splain, pliss, Lucy.
BUFFALO: Old one-reelers from the early Forties, my avian friend, predating the TV show with George Reeves and the movies with Chris Reeve. “Cliffhangers,” they called ‘em.
BIRD: Any good?
BUFFALO: They’re high camp, written by alcoholic hacks and closet queens. In the current episode, the infamous Spider Lady is out to nail Superman.
BIRD: What, to shag him, like?
BUFFALO: No, you jerk-berk, to dust him, take him out, settle his hash, buy him a one-way ticket to Palookaville. Capice?
BIRD: One question... is she hot?
BUFFALO: Like a string of firecrackers, dude. She’s a Lana Turner look-alike in a sheer black Rita Hayworth fookme evening gown, festooned with sequins. Lovely bit of prime cleavage, too.
BIRD: Brilliant... but how are her stems?
BUFFALO: Dazzling, my feathered friend. Perfectly shaped calves, trim ankles, and a totally hot pair of black stiletto shag-me-all-night pumps from the golden age of Frederick’s of Hollywood.
BIRD: I would expect no less from a Spider Lady. Does she have special powers, like?
BUFFALO: Aye, the power to cloud men’s minds, make them drool like TV evangelists, stomp their hind feet like lovesick prairie dogs and bark at the moon like fevered coyotes in estrus.
BIRD: Is she deliciously evil an’ all?
BUFFALO: Is she ever, dude. Her parlor wall sports a giant electrified silver lamé spider web, for frying her enemies. Whoa! She just fried Professor Morgan’s hapless lab assistant, Short Circuit Leeds. And now it’s Lois Lane’s turn... she’s been snatched, blindfolded, kidnapped, and transported to the spider lair.
BIRD: Diabolical... is it Margot Kidder, then?
BUFFALO: I don’t think Margot was born then, dude. It’s Noel Neill, in her prime... a bit on the mousy side, but tasty - in a virginal librarian sort of way. She’s dressed rather severely, in one of those horrible professional womens’ business suits. Nice gams, though.
BIRD: The suspense is killing me.
BUFFALO: Lois is pleading now, “You don’t have to kill me. I’ve been blindfolded the whole time, there’s no way I could identify you!”
BIRD: Is the Spider Lady buying it?
BUFFALO: No way, dude. She says, “I might take a chance and let you go, if I didn’t know you’re a reporter. Did you really think we wouldn’t search your hand bag?” What a hoot. Uh, oh, the henchmen are tying Lois to the spiderweb.
BIRD: Good heavens, she’s not going to toast Lois, is she?
BUFFALO: Looks bad, Birdy. Lois is miffed now. “You’ll never get away with this!” she protests. “Superman can’t help you now,” the Spider Lady smirks. Gorgonzola, dude, she’s done it! She’s thrown the mothering switch! There’s really cheesy animated lightning bolts jumping all over Lois’s bod!
BIRD: Sounds absolutely grizzly, Buffo.
BUFFALO: No, no bears so far, but Lois is twitching like a bug on a hot plate, screaming blue murder.
BIRD: Horrifying!
BUFFALO: It’s not all bad... the old juice has caused her nips to go all articulated, like... which would be incredibly arousing if it wasn’t so comical. Ah, bloody hell, should have seen this coming - “Continued Next Week.”
BIRD: Gott und Gorgonzola!
BUFFALO: Indeed. I’ll keep you posted. Ten-four.
BIRD: No film at eleven, sigh.
Monday, November 06, 2006
THE FIFI TAPES - A RETROSPECTIVE
WHEN THE FIFI TAPES WERE FIRST PUBLISHED IN NEWS PRICK FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, THE WORLD WAS STUNNED & CURIOUSLY AROUSED. NOW IN A LONG-OVERDUE RETROSPECTIVE, THE ORIGINAL INTERVIEWER, SOME SAY SALACIOUS TOAD WITH A PERMANENT STIFFY, RETRACES WHAT IT FELT LIKE TO SMASH THE QUASI-ETHEREAL BANALITIES OF EXISTENCE, AND EXPLORES THE SUBSEQUENT CATHARTIC REAWAKENING OF THE MOST INCREDIBLE GODDESS TO EVER COMBUST IN CYBERSPACE
JERRY ARSHLICKER: You said fifteen years ago you were shocked by the furore the tapes caused. How do you think people would react today?
FIFI: Time is circular. How the sands of time run through my fingers. Yoick!
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Hm. Do you regret anything you said then?
FIFI: His was full-on but no tongue. Mine was a bit more guarded. What more can I say?
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Perhaps it’s not what you say, or said even, but what you do, did?
FIFI: Oh, I don’t know. All desire left me and I retreated to my bills and my bathroom floor.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Yes. Tell me about your bathroom floor. I gather it’s been a great source of solace over the years.
FIFI: Oh, you know, it’s much like any other, but it’s mine.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: I see. You said before we started that there would be no topics off-limits. With that in mind, I’d like to ask you about Noel and the all-night tea parties.
FIFI: OK.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: What was it about Noel that first attracted you to him?
FIFI: We aren’t talking tea and crumpets here. Danger lurked behind that mysterious dark exterior.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: So you were frightened and aroused in his company?
FIFI: As free as a boid! A caged canary.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Did you have any inkling then that he’d wind up face down butt nekkid in a vat of vanilla and toffee crunch at Ben & Jerry’s?
FIFI: Well, he always had a sweet tooth and he often likened orgasm to a choc ice, so I suppose yes.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Do you regret now introducing him to the banana split?
FIFI: Not really. I’d had a craving for one and I knew he’d like it. All our desires were fulfilled.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: But for that craving, Noel might still be alive. You must feel some pang of guilt, surely?
FIFI: It will happen when it happens. The world spins on.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: So, no regrets.
FIFI: None.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: I’d like to bring up the thorny topic of the Pope, if I may.
FIFI: Fine.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: It seems to me that your life has been dominated by the Pope and the search for extreme self-gratification. Is that a fair analysis?
FIFI: You stop that right now, or I’ll tan your bottom.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: So, I take it you’d rather not talk about it?
FIFI: Don’t get me started. Oh, OK. Did you hear that The Pope is abolishing Limbo? He's throwing hundreds and thousands of unbaptized babies out in the cold. No diapers. Babies without a country. They can join all the people who went to hell for eating meat. Wonder where they're wandering? The stockyards?
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Is that a yes, then, to my question?
FIFI: Then all the saints that are no more. I hear tell their golden crowns were all melted for bouillion. Is it for God's coffers or the Pope's? In job applications they could list 'former saint'.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Indeed. You raise some interesting issues. What do you think all those years in the gutter have taught you?
FIFI: Patience, my darling. Good things come in time. Sometimes life sparkles brightly and leads folks to beguiling paths. Sometimes that life holds responsibilities and duties that take precedence over a quick appearance in digital, delightful though it may be. Sometimes old friends must be comforted.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Which brings me on to your collaboration with The Bird & Buffalo. Would it be fair to say your encounters with these goons, especially with the auld perv, have re-energized a tired, flagging career?
FIFI: The lady only accepts rubies and poils.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Finally, knowing what you know now, is there anything you would’ve done differently fifteen years ago?
FIFI: I don’t like air conditioners; much prefer fans. I'd never had one before, but last summer someone gave me a used one, and it helped some.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Thank you so much for talking to me again, Fifi. Still got the stiffy.
FIFI: You forgot to plug my new book, Arshlicker!
JERRY ARSHLICKER: So I did. Briefly, in the dying seconds of this scintillating reunion of minds and bodies, just tell us how you came to write it.
FIFI: Earlier last fall, whilst slurping canned lentil soup (lo how the mighty have fallen) the whole idea came to me & I dropped the spoon, picked up a pencil, and began writing furiously when--the phone rang and I made the mistake of picking it up.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: That’s quite incredible. And Fifi Lamour’s slice it up and spit it out and lick what’s left over autobiography If This Is Tuesday I Must Be In Heaven, is out this Friday and will be available from all reputable retailers. Still no chance of a shag?
FIFI: Dreamy, lovely, but useless.
IF YOU’D LIKE TO TALK TO FIFI LAMOUR ABOUT HER AUTOBIOGRAPHY ON BIRD & BUFFALO INTERACTIVE, WRITE TO US AT birdandbuffalo@hotmail.com
SHORTLY AFTER THIS INTERVIEW WAS RECORDED, JERRY ARSHLICKER DISAPPEARED UNDER A CLOUD AND WAS LAST SEEN IN RIO WITH A BRAZILIAN TRANNY NAMED RUPERT, BUT THAT’S ANOTHER STORY, PROBABLY NEVER TO BE TOLD.
FOR THE FULL TEXT OF THIS INTERVIEW & A 6-MINUTE DVD EXCLUSIVE OF FIFI LAMOUR IN THE BUFF IN THE BATH BLOWING BUBBLES & QUAFFING CHAMPAGNE, PLEASE SEND 1OO BIG ONES TO fifilamourinbuffwithbubbles@hotmail.com OR TEXT LAMOURBUFF99 WITH WHATEVER YOU CAN AFFORD
JERRY ARSHLICKER: You said fifteen years ago you were shocked by the furore the tapes caused. How do you think people would react today?
FIFI: Time is circular. How the sands of time run through my fingers. Yoick!
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Hm. Do you regret anything you said then?
FIFI: His was full-on but no tongue. Mine was a bit more guarded. What more can I say?
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Perhaps it’s not what you say, or said even, but what you do, did?
FIFI: Oh, I don’t know. All desire left me and I retreated to my bills and my bathroom floor.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Yes. Tell me about your bathroom floor. I gather it’s been a great source of solace over the years.
FIFI: Oh, you know, it’s much like any other, but it’s mine.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: I see. You said before we started that there would be no topics off-limits. With that in mind, I’d like to ask you about Noel and the all-night tea parties.
FIFI: OK.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: What was it about Noel that first attracted you to him?
FIFI: We aren’t talking tea and crumpets here. Danger lurked behind that mysterious dark exterior.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: So you were frightened and aroused in his company?
FIFI: As free as a boid! A caged canary.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Did you have any inkling then that he’d wind up face down butt nekkid in a vat of vanilla and toffee crunch at Ben & Jerry’s?
FIFI: Well, he always had a sweet tooth and he often likened orgasm to a choc ice, so I suppose yes.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Do you regret now introducing him to the banana split?
FIFI: Not really. I’d had a craving for one and I knew he’d like it. All our desires were fulfilled.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: But for that craving, Noel might still be alive. You must feel some pang of guilt, surely?
FIFI: It will happen when it happens. The world spins on.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: So, no regrets.
FIFI: None.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: I’d like to bring up the thorny topic of the Pope, if I may.
FIFI: Fine.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: It seems to me that your life has been dominated by the Pope and the search for extreme self-gratification. Is that a fair analysis?
FIFI: You stop that right now, or I’ll tan your bottom.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: So, I take it you’d rather not talk about it?
FIFI: Don’t get me started. Oh, OK. Did you hear that The Pope is abolishing Limbo? He's throwing hundreds and thousands of unbaptized babies out in the cold. No diapers. Babies without a country. They can join all the people who went to hell for eating meat. Wonder where they're wandering? The stockyards?
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Is that a yes, then, to my question?
FIFI: Then all the saints that are no more. I hear tell their golden crowns were all melted for bouillion. Is it for God's coffers or the Pope's? In job applications they could list 'former saint'.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Indeed. You raise some interesting issues. What do you think all those years in the gutter have taught you?
FIFI: Patience, my darling. Good things come in time. Sometimes life sparkles brightly and leads folks to beguiling paths. Sometimes that life holds responsibilities and duties that take precedence over a quick appearance in digital, delightful though it may be. Sometimes old friends must be comforted.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Which brings me on to your collaboration with The Bird & Buffalo. Would it be fair to say your encounters with these goons, especially with the auld perv, have re-energized a tired, flagging career?
FIFI: The lady only accepts rubies and poils.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Finally, knowing what you know now, is there anything you would’ve done differently fifteen years ago?
FIFI: I don’t like air conditioners; much prefer fans. I'd never had one before, but last summer someone gave me a used one, and it helped some.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: Thank you so much for talking to me again, Fifi. Still got the stiffy.
FIFI: You forgot to plug my new book, Arshlicker!
JERRY ARSHLICKER: So I did. Briefly, in the dying seconds of this scintillating reunion of minds and bodies, just tell us how you came to write it.
FIFI: Earlier last fall, whilst slurping canned lentil soup (lo how the mighty have fallen) the whole idea came to me & I dropped the spoon, picked up a pencil, and began writing furiously when--the phone rang and I made the mistake of picking it up.
JERRY ARSHLICKER: That’s quite incredible. And Fifi Lamour’s slice it up and spit it out and lick what’s left over autobiography If This Is Tuesday I Must Be In Heaven, is out this Friday and will be available from all reputable retailers. Still no chance of a shag?
FIFI: Dreamy, lovely, but useless.
IF YOU’D LIKE TO TALK TO FIFI LAMOUR ABOUT HER AUTOBIOGRAPHY ON BIRD & BUFFALO INTERACTIVE, WRITE TO US AT birdandbuffalo@hotmail.com
SHORTLY AFTER THIS INTERVIEW WAS RECORDED, JERRY ARSHLICKER DISAPPEARED UNDER A CLOUD AND WAS LAST SEEN IN RIO WITH A BRAZILIAN TRANNY NAMED RUPERT, BUT THAT’S ANOTHER STORY, PROBABLY NEVER TO BE TOLD.
FOR THE FULL TEXT OF THIS INTERVIEW & A 6-MINUTE DVD EXCLUSIVE OF FIFI LAMOUR IN THE BUFF IN THE BATH BLOWING BUBBLES & QUAFFING CHAMPAGNE, PLEASE SEND 1OO BIG ONES TO fifilamourinbuffwithbubbles@hotmail.com OR TEXT LAMOURBUFF99 WITH WHATEVER YOU CAN AFFORD
Sunday, November 05, 2006
SPARKY IN THE PARK WITH ALCOPOPS PART 4
SPARKY: I miss her, man. I really do. She may be potty. She may be dotty. But she was ALL woman. Hey, anybody got a beer?!
SPARKY IN THE PARK WITH ALCOPOPS PART 3
SPARKY: Birds, trees, baseball, football, volleyball. Gawd, I hate Bicardi Breezers. Do I have to drink this shit?
SPARKY IN THE PARK WITH ALCOPOPS PART 2
SPARKY: Ice creams and swings. "Higher, Pop, higher! Yikes, think I'm gonna chuck up! Watch out!"
SPARKY IN THE PARK WITH ALCOPOPS
SPARKY: Gawd, it's real peaceful in this park, man. Back to nature, y'know? See those leaves up there? The US of A. It's a big place, man. Things happen here. Every day.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
TREATISE OF THE OCTOPIDDLE INVERSION UDDER
TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH BY OLAF DRIBBLE (All Rights Reversed)
O great Udder, speak to us. We are forever in your debt. Udder as dream, Udder as music. No udder passes our conscience in the way you do, penetrating deep down into the dark loins of our souls. We write in Octopiddle Inversion, awaiting the flesh and sinew of images. Udder is everything, we are nothing. Udder is time’s carcass. Let us worship at the altar of none Udder, inverted in the Octopiddle way. "Diagonal! Diagonal!" I hear you say. Coming, Indigo. Coming.
FORTHCOMING ATTRACTIONS:
SPARKY IN THE PARK WITH ALCOPOPS
THE FIFI TAPES - A RETROSPECTIVE
OH WOT A TANGLED WEB WE WEAVE, PART 1 REDUX
PLUS!
THE CONCLUDING EXTRACT OF THE DIARY OF MR PITIFUL MOTOWN
PLUS! PLUS!
WHEN THE SQUIDGIES DON'T WORK - BIRDY SHARES HIS INNERMOST THOUGHTS ABOUT LIFE ON THE McDUMPSTER
ALL THIS AND SO MUCH MORE ON THE JERK-BERK BLOG SIMPLY EVERYBODY'S TALKING ABOUT!!!!
"Gratuitous!" - The New Porker
"Insipid!" - Pub Splashers Weekly
"Lightweight!" - Rollin' Stoned
"Hermetic!" - East Fenwick Advertiser
FOR A SLICE OF THE ACTION, SUBSCRIBE, SUBSCRIBE, SUBSCRIBE
AT birdandbuffalo@hotmail.com AND YOU'LL BE ABLE TO TELL YOUR GRANDCHILDREN WITH PRIDE "I WAS THERE".
Arf, arf!
O great Udder, speak to us. We are forever in your debt. Udder as dream, Udder as music. No udder passes our conscience in the way you do, penetrating deep down into the dark loins of our souls. We write in Octopiddle Inversion, awaiting the flesh and sinew of images. Udder is everything, we are nothing. Udder is time’s carcass. Let us worship at the altar of none Udder, inverted in the Octopiddle way. "Diagonal! Diagonal!" I hear you say. Coming, Indigo. Coming.
FORTHCOMING ATTRACTIONS:
SPARKY IN THE PARK WITH ALCOPOPS
THE FIFI TAPES - A RETROSPECTIVE
OH WOT A TANGLED WEB WE WEAVE, PART 1 REDUX
PLUS!
THE CONCLUDING EXTRACT OF THE DIARY OF MR PITIFUL MOTOWN
PLUS! PLUS!
WHEN THE SQUIDGIES DON'T WORK - BIRDY SHARES HIS INNERMOST THOUGHTS ABOUT LIFE ON THE McDUMPSTER
ALL THIS AND SO MUCH MORE ON THE JERK-BERK BLOG SIMPLY EVERYBODY'S TALKING ABOUT!!!!
"Gratuitous!" - The New Porker
"Insipid!" - Pub Splashers Weekly
"Lightweight!" - Rollin' Stoned
"Hermetic!" - East Fenwick Advertiser
FOR A SLICE OF THE ACTION, SUBSCRIBE, SUBSCRIBE, SUBSCRIBE
AT birdandbuffalo@hotmail.com AND YOU'LL BE ABLE TO TELL YOUR GRANDCHILDREN WITH PRIDE "I WAS THERE".
Arf, arf!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
OLAF DRIBB AND THE OCTOPIDDLES
POTTY DOTTY: Well, pardon me for saying so, but don't you think this Motown Piffle is overrated? I mean flow-of-consciousness is just SO yesterday. Has no-one in here read Olaf Dribb and the Octopiddle movement? Now THAT'S cutting edge.
BUFFALO: Wot the fookster on a spit are you goin' on about, Dott P?
POTTY DOTTY: Ah, so someone's alive.
BUFFALO: Bare Lee.
POTTY DOTTY: Olaf Dribb and the Octopiddle movement - literature for the multidimensional.
BUFFALO: Jeez. Shakespeare must be turning in his grave.
POTTY DOTTY: O ye of little faith. Listen to this, taken from his latest work The Bead Of Nevermore: "I woke up this morning, I thought I was dead, but I pinched myself VERY slowly and soon realised that dead has no place in my life, not today, not tomorrow but someday, and then when I noticed the clock on the wall I thought, damn, I'm late for the mortuary, well, not exactly late, because I don't work there or anything, just observe and help my friend Rodney, who does work there but would prefer to play games in Neutron Park, which doesn't actually exist yet but nevertheless is VERY real for him and makes his heart throb whenever he thinks of it, which is a blessing, really, because when he's alone he feels SO superfluous and diagonal..." Well? What do you feel about it?
BUFFALO: Garroted.
POTTY DOTTY: Beg pardon?
BUFFALO: It's shite, PD. Empty, inconsequential cod spew. And you dare to compare this gibberish to Diary of The Pitiful Motown? Pah, I say. Pah! Not only that, there's no full stop!
POTTY DOTTY: Must one always search for closure?
BUFFALO: Always.
POTTY DOTTY: Does Letter To A Parliamentarian In Indigo mean nothing to you?
BUFFALO: Nothing.
POTTY DOTTY: What about The Octopiddles Are Coming Thither?
BUFFALO: Not a blutwurst.
POTTY DOTTY: Then Olaf is finished.
BUFFALO: Before he started.
POTTY DOTTY: But wait.
BUFFALO: Must I?
POTTY DOTTY: For now I will reveal the true identity of he who has until now remained nameless and faceless and... truth be told, fairly clueless.
BUFFALO: Oh, go on then.
POTTY DOTTY: For it is none other than...
BUFFALO: Popeye the sailorman?
POTTY DOTTY: Drum roll, per-leeeeze! THE SAGE OF SWEDEN!
BUFFALO: No!
POTTY DOTTY: Yes! And he comes with a message for us all.
BUFFALO: (gulps hard) Go on.
POTTY DOTTY: "If one's nose is pointing ahead, the feet will surely follow."
BUFFALO: Wow.
POTTY DOTTY: "The Octopiddles are upon us and there isn't a Gammler thing we can do about it."
BUFFALO: Gammler?! You mean Jeremy...
POTTY DOTTY: Is an Octopiddle? Oh, yes.
BUFFALO: Lummee! I must recant.
POTTY DOTTY: Indeed you should.
BUFFALO: Respect, Sage.
POTTY DOTTY: I'm e-mailing you Treatise Of The Octopiddle Inversion Udder. Read it and we shall talk again. Film at eleven, Buffy.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: Wot the fookster on a spit are you goin' on about, Dott P?
POTTY DOTTY: Ah, so someone's alive.
BUFFALO: Bare Lee.
POTTY DOTTY: Olaf Dribb and the Octopiddle movement - literature for the multidimensional.
BUFFALO: Jeez. Shakespeare must be turning in his grave.
POTTY DOTTY: O ye of little faith. Listen to this, taken from his latest work The Bead Of Nevermore: "I woke up this morning, I thought I was dead, but I pinched myself VERY slowly and soon realised that dead has no place in my life, not today, not tomorrow but someday, and then when I noticed the clock on the wall I thought, damn, I'm late for the mortuary, well, not exactly late, because I don't work there or anything, just observe and help my friend Rodney, who does work there but would prefer to play games in Neutron Park, which doesn't actually exist yet but nevertheless is VERY real for him and makes his heart throb whenever he thinks of it, which is a blessing, really, because when he's alone he feels SO superfluous and diagonal..." Well? What do you feel about it?
BUFFALO: Garroted.
POTTY DOTTY: Beg pardon?
BUFFALO: It's shite, PD. Empty, inconsequential cod spew. And you dare to compare this gibberish to Diary of The Pitiful Motown? Pah, I say. Pah! Not only that, there's no full stop!
POTTY DOTTY: Must one always search for closure?
BUFFALO: Always.
POTTY DOTTY: Does Letter To A Parliamentarian In Indigo mean nothing to you?
BUFFALO: Nothing.
POTTY DOTTY: What about The Octopiddles Are Coming Thither?
BUFFALO: Not a blutwurst.
POTTY DOTTY: Then Olaf is finished.
BUFFALO: Before he started.
POTTY DOTTY: But wait.
BUFFALO: Must I?
POTTY DOTTY: For now I will reveal the true identity of he who has until now remained nameless and faceless and... truth be told, fairly clueless.
BUFFALO: Oh, go on then.
POTTY DOTTY: For it is none other than...
BUFFALO: Popeye the sailorman?
POTTY DOTTY: Drum roll, per-leeeeze! THE SAGE OF SWEDEN!
BUFFALO: No!
POTTY DOTTY: Yes! And he comes with a message for us all.
BUFFALO: (gulps hard) Go on.
POTTY DOTTY: "If one's nose is pointing ahead, the feet will surely follow."
BUFFALO: Wow.
POTTY DOTTY: "The Octopiddles are upon us and there isn't a Gammler thing we can do about it."
BUFFALO: Gammler?! You mean Jeremy...
POTTY DOTTY: Is an Octopiddle? Oh, yes.
BUFFALO: Lummee! I must recant.
POTTY DOTTY: Indeed you should.
BUFFALO: Respect, Sage.
POTTY DOTTY: I'm e-mailing you Treatise Of The Octopiddle Inversion Udder. Read it and we shall talk again. Film at eleven, Buffy.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
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