FIFI: Birdy?
BIRD: Morning. What brings you from your slumber so early on the Cod?
FIFI: It’s now 3:24 and I got up to adjust my chignon and then I was hungry so I went to the fridge and found a jar of humming-bird tongues. So now I’m ready for my close-up.
BIRD: How the words tumble effortlessly from your mouth. What wit. What charm. What uncanny wisdom etched into each syllable.
FIFI: The little wisdom I've acquired in my turn on this earth could barely fill a teaspoon. Still, it's nice that you hold me in your heart, as I do you.
BIRD: And modest with it.
FIFI: Oh, to see a tear plop before the clouds obliterate us…
BIRD: More gems. Blink and you’ll miss ‘em. How do you do it?
FIFI: Psst! Those gems are only paste. I keep the real stuff in my head.
BIRD: Wow! Wait, let me get a pen, I’ve got to write this down.
FIFI: Another time, tweetie pie. I’m shivering in my nightie, and getting tireder and tireder, too tired to go to bed. But I’m goin’, else tomorrow today will be a disaster. Toodle peepers sleepers.
BIRD: Sweet dreams, dear mermaid.
WATSON: I say, Holmes, did someone mention missing gems?
HOLMES: (rolls eyes) Why do I bother? We must endeavour to meet this Fifi Lamour one day. She would appear to be a most engaging lady.
WATSON: Thoroughly unique what what what.
HOLMES: Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
THE RETURN OF THE ERRANT MERMAID
BUFFALO: Snap out of it, dude. We could both be dead by tomorra.
BIRD: Don't wanna play no more, Buff. Had enuff.
BUFFALO: Jeez. This ain't no carousel. You can't just get off when ya feel like it.
BIRD: Don't wanna play. Nuff.
BUFFALO: Dude, Bubbers is coming to live with us.
BIRD: Bubbers, eh? Oh.
BUFFALO: Is that all you can say?! " Oh!" Listen up, Birdman, we WILL get the recognition and glory we deserve. NO question.
BIRD: Don't wanna play no more. It's enuff.
BUFFALO: Wot the Freddy! I give up.
FIFI: Let me talk to him.
BUFFALO: Fifi! You're back!
FIFI: I never went away. I'm still here on the Cod, your errant mermaid.
BUFFALO: Gawd, am I pleased to see you. Birdy here's throwing a wobbly. Sort him out, will ya? He's drivin' me nutso.
FIFI: Birdy! Now, I'm sorry if I missed your original conception but that's no way to behave in front of a lady. I have always turned to the Blog for succor, intelligence, and laffs. Don't add another wrinkle to my brow. Now get to it. You wouldn't want to see me cry, would you?
BIRD: Of course not.
FIFI: Or gird my loins?
BIRD: Absolutely not.
FIFI: Then snap out of it, my little tweetie pie, the Blog Needs You!
BUFFALO: She's right, you know.
BIRD: Oh, OK. I'll try. Gimme a minute, would you? Gotta get me gulliver under the shower. Had a terrible dream last night. Some lunatic with a gun was holding me and some kid hostage in my own house... I think the kid represented my childhood. Anyway, I made my way slowly to the closet and...
(BUFFALO & FIFI FALL INTO PLEASANT SLEEP)
SOME TIME LATER...
BIRD: So, anyhoo, that was when I realised that I still had that pair of socks from all those years ago but I'd just never worn them and that face in the mirror, that was my Uncle Fred, who I hadn't seen since Bella died, so that got me thinking... Buff, Fifi... are you still there?
BIRD: Don't wanna play no more, Buff. Had enuff.
BUFFALO: Jeez. This ain't no carousel. You can't just get off when ya feel like it.
BIRD: Don't wanna play. Nuff.
BUFFALO: Dude, Bubbers is coming to live with us.
BIRD: Bubbers, eh? Oh.
BUFFALO: Is that all you can say?! " Oh!" Listen up, Birdman, we WILL get the recognition and glory we deserve. NO question.
BIRD: Don't wanna play no more. It's enuff.
BUFFALO: Wot the Freddy! I give up.
FIFI: Let me talk to him.
BUFFALO: Fifi! You're back!
FIFI: I never went away. I'm still here on the Cod, your errant mermaid.
BUFFALO: Gawd, am I pleased to see you. Birdy here's throwing a wobbly. Sort him out, will ya? He's drivin' me nutso.
FIFI: Birdy! Now, I'm sorry if I missed your original conception but that's no way to behave in front of a lady. I have always turned to the Blog for succor, intelligence, and laffs. Don't add another wrinkle to my brow. Now get to it. You wouldn't want to see me cry, would you?
BIRD: Of course not.
FIFI: Or gird my loins?
BIRD: Absolutely not.
FIFI: Then snap out of it, my little tweetie pie, the Blog Needs You!
BUFFALO: She's right, you know.
BIRD: Oh, OK. I'll try. Gimme a minute, would you? Gotta get me gulliver under the shower. Had a terrible dream last night. Some lunatic with a gun was holding me and some kid hostage in my own house... I think the kid represented my childhood. Anyway, I made my way slowly to the closet and...
(BUFFALO & FIFI FALL INTO PLEASANT SLEEP)
SOME TIME LATER...
BIRD: So, anyhoo, that was when I realised that I still had that pair of socks from all those years ago but I'd just never worn them and that face in the mirror, that was my Uncle Fred, who I hadn't seen since Bella died, so that got me thinking... Buff, Fifi... are you still there?
Monday, January 29, 2007
WHEN EVERYTHING'S GOING DIDDLY SQUIDDERS
BUFFALO: You OK there, dude?
BIRD: Yeah, fine. Excuse me while I chew my arm off.
BUFFALO: Wassup?
BIRD: Dunno. Just feel a bit down, dude. Just when I thought we were getting some Ware with that LA producer, it's all come to diddly squidders.
BUFFALO: Guess we gotta face it that the world isn't ready for Tails From The Bird & Buffalo: The Movie.
BIRD: But dude, what more can we do? We've got a cult following.
BUFFALO: Yaaah-p.
BIRD: Rave reviews of da blog. An honorary mention on Google.
BUFFALO: Yaaah-p.
BIRD: Publishers pissing over each other to get us to sign for the new Holmes' franchise.
BUFFALO: Yaaah-p.
BIRD: But the big one, the REALLY big one is still out of reach.
BUFFALO: But but but we're massive in Motown, dude.
BIRD: Yeah, and Pubistan, although nobody knows where the fook it is or if we're ever gonna see any royalties.
BUFFALO: Cool it, dude. We'll make it. Did ya see that movie American Splendor about that guy who wrote comic books for 30 years? They made a film about him, right?
BIRD: Yeah, just before he retired. I can't wait that long. I want it NOW, I tell you, NOWWWWW!
BUFFALO: OK, OK. I'll have a chat with Barry tonite, appeal to his greedier side, just don't blow yer kopf off, OK? We don't want ya doin' anything silly now.
BIRD: Hey, any publicity is good publicity, right?
BUFFALO: Dude, have you run out of meds?
BIRD: Fook no. Got a whole store cupboard of Benadryl and Sparky's Toe Jam.
BUFFALO: Good. Now just be patient a little while longer, OK?
BIRD: It's not easy. And now I suppose we've gotta do one and let Holmes and Watson take over.
BUFFALO: That's about the rim job short and curlies of it.
BIRD: I told you it was a mistake to let that smart arse Holmes and his side arse Watson onto this blog.
BUFFALO: Pressing the "yer boring the tits off our readers button" right now, dude.
BIRD: Yeah, let's bugger off. I mean when have we ever...
(SHORT SHARP BLEEP)
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Did you hear a bleep?
HOLMES: Can't say that I did.
WATSON: Must be a ringing in my ear or something. You know, since we got back from Pubistan I just haven't felt right. What with the dizzy spells and the hiccups.
HOLMES: Watson, you know we never made it to Pubistan. You got sea sickness on the Thames at Greenwich, remember?
WATSON: Oh, yes. So I did. And now that ghastly Moriarty is over there wreaking havoc.
HOLMES: Watty, old boy, it's the best place for him. If anyone can subdue the Pubes it's him, and then once he's finished doing that he'll have an almighty task trying to find his way out of there again.
WATSON: Quite. With any luck the rabbits will bite him to bits before he makes the tunnel what what what.
HOLMES: Precisely, old bean.
WATSON: More tea, Holmes?
HOLMES: Capital idea.
MRS HUDSON: Oh, Mr Sherlock.
HOLMES: Yes, Hudders?
MRS HUDSON: There's a President Hazam Ripyorebollokov to see you.
HOLMES: (sighs) Here we go again.
WATSON: No peace for the wicked, Holmes.
HOLMES: How right you are, old chap. How right you are.
BIRD: Yeah, fine. Excuse me while I chew my arm off.
BUFFALO: Wassup?
BIRD: Dunno. Just feel a bit down, dude. Just when I thought we were getting some Ware with that LA producer, it's all come to diddly squidders.
BUFFALO: Guess we gotta face it that the world isn't ready for Tails From The Bird & Buffalo: The Movie.
BIRD: But dude, what more can we do? We've got a cult following.
BUFFALO: Yaaah-p.
BIRD: Rave reviews of da blog. An honorary mention on Google.
BUFFALO: Yaaah-p.
BIRD: Publishers pissing over each other to get us to sign for the new Holmes' franchise.
BUFFALO: Yaaah-p.
BIRD: But the big one, the REALLY big one is still out of reach.
BUFFALO: But but but we're massive in Motown, dude.
BIRD: Yeah, and Pubistan, although nobody knows where the fook it is or if we're ever gonna see any royalties.
BUFFALO: Cool it, dude. We'll make it. Did ya see that movie American Splendor about that guy who wrote comic books for 30 years? They made a film about him, right?
BIRD: Yeah, just before he retired. I can't wait that long. I want it NOW, I tell you, NOWWWWW!
BUFFALO: OK, OK. I'll have a chat with Barry tonite, appeal to his greedier side, just don't blow yer kopf off, OK? We don't want ya doin' anything silly now.
BIRD: Hey, any publicity is good publicity, right?
BUFFALO: Dude, have you run out of meds?
BIRD: Fook no. Got a whole store cupboard of Benadryl and Sparky's Toe Jam.
BUFFALO: Good. Now just be patient a little while longer, OK?
BIRD: It's not easy. And now I suppose we've gotta do one and let Holmes and Watson take over.
BUFFALO: That's about the rim job short and curlies of it.
BIRD: I told you it was a mistake to let that smart arse Holmes and his side arse Watson onto this blog.
BUFFALO: Pressing the "yer boring the tits off our readers button" right now, dude.
BIRD: Yeah, let's bugger off. I mean when have we ever...
(SHORT SHARP BLEEP)
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Did you hear a bleep?
HOLMES: Can't say that I did.
WATSON: Must be a ringing in my ear or something. You know, since we got back from Pubistan I just haven't felt right. What with the dizzy spells and the hiccups.
HOLMES: Watson, you know we never made it to Pubistan. You got sea sickness on the Thames at Greenwich, remember?
WATSON: Oh, yes. So I did. And now that ghastly Moriarty is over there wreaking havoc.
HOLMES: Watty, old boy, it's the best place for him. If anyone can subdue the Pubes it's him, and then once he's finished doing that he'll have an almighty task trying to find his way out of there again.
WATSON: Quite. With any luck the rabbits will bite him to bits before he makes the tunnel what what what.
HOLMES: Precisely, old bean.
WATSON: More tea, Holmes?
HOLMES: Capital idea.
MRS HUDSON: Oh, Mr Sherlock.
HOLMES: Yes, Hudders?
MRS HUDSON: There's a President Hazam Ripyorebollokov to see you.
HOLMES: (sighs) Here we go again.
WATSON: No peace for the wicked, Holmes.
HOLMES: How right you are, old chap. How right you are.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
PUBISTAN OR BUST!
HOLMES: A most entertaining individual, our Mr Borat.
WATSON: What did he want?
HOLMES: To educate, to enquire, to postulate, to pontificate, to tease, to squeeze, to please, to release, to be.
WATSON: Good Lord, he sounds terribly invigorating.
HOLMES: Oh, he is. He is. Now tell me, Watson, where exactly is Pubistan situated?
WATSON: Pubistan? Er, um, well, it’s er… on the border of Kazakhstan, Kirghizstan and Outer Mongolia what what what. Isn't it?
HOLMES: I think you’ll find that’s China, old boy. No, you can guess as much as you like, but you won’t find it, I’ve looked.
WATSON: But that’s preposterous, Holmes. How can anyone visit it if they can’t find it?
HOLMES: Precisely my point, you burnt-out old Quack.
WATSON: But but but the rabbits’ scrotums, the tanks, the fan belts for washing machines...
HOLMES: All real, but all this time, in fact since this blog first began, no-one has managed to establish where this veritable republic of tranquillity actually is.
WATSON: I say, perhaps it’s… but that’s impossible.
HOLMES: Go on, Watson. I can feel an intellectual thrust at last.
WATSON: Well, perhaps it’s a state of mind what what what.
HOLMES: By jove, you veritable dunderhead, I think you’ve got it!
WATSON: I have? I mean, I HAVE, of course I have. Anything else you’d like me to sort out for you, old chap?
HOLMES: Just one thing: how we’re going to rescue that hapless artificial anus Arty.
WATSON: But Holmes, if it’s a state of mind, it’s impenetrable. Once you’re there, there’s no coming back.
HOLMES: Alas, Watson, you are once again right on the Sterling.
WATSON: So Arty’s done for, then?
HOLMES: As dead as a dodo.
WATSON: Crikey. Seems rather a harsh fate for a chap who was only trying to plug a gap in a bunghole.
HOLMES: It’s a cruel world out there, Watson. At least Arty won’t be making an arse of himself any longer.
WATSON: Oh, yes. Quite. Oh, very good, Holmes. I say, what about that Castrato fellow?
HOLMES: If the truth be told, with or without an anus he’s still a big arsehole.
WATSON: No, stop it, Holmes, I’ll soil my boxer shorts.
HOLMES: Never mind that, Watson. We’ve got to get to Pubistan before Professor Moriarty does.
WATSON: What’s that you say?
HOLMES: That fiendish troubladite is planning a coup in the last remaining state of the mind and it’s up to us to stop him.
WATSON: Good gracious! How exciting!
HOLMES: Ready that filthy blood hound, the journey shall be a long and arduous one, my friend, but mark my words, one day we shall look back on this and see it for the foolhardy adventure that it really is.
WATSON: Tally ho, Toby! Onwards and upwards to our glorious conclusion!
HOLMES: Steady with the smelling salts, old bean, I need you in one piece at the other end, if you get my meaning. Mrs Hudson!
MRS HUDSON: Yes, Mr Sherlock?
HOLMES: Pack our rucksacks with a round of cheese sandwiches and salami squares. We may be gone some time.
MRS HUDSON: Right you are, sir.
HOLMES: The game is afoot!
WATSON: Geronimo!
(TOBY BARKS ENTHUSIASTICALLY, DROPS PLOP, THEN WAGS TAIL PROFUSELY BEFORE HURLING HIMSELF THROUGH DOOR, WATSON IN TOW)
WATSON: What did he want?
HOLMES: To educate, to enquire, to postulate, to pontificate, to tease, to squeeze, to please, to release, to be.
WATSON: Good Lord, he sounds terribly invigorating.
HOLMES: Oh, he is. He is. Now tell me, Watson, where exactly is Pubistan situated?
WATSON: Pubistan? Er, um, well, it’s er… on the border of Kazakhstan, Kirghizstan and Outer Mongolia what what what. Isn't it?
HOLMES: I think you’ll find that’s China, old boy. No, you can guess as much as you like, but you won’t find it, I’ve looked.
WATSON: But that’s preposterous, Holmes. How can anyone visit it if they can’t find it?
HOLMES: Precisely my point, you burnt-out old Quack.
WATSON: But but but the rabbits’ scrotums, the tanks, the fan belts for washing machines...
HOLMES: All real, but all this time, in fact since this blog first began, no-one has managed to establish where this veritable republic of tranquillity actually is.
WATSON: I say, perhaps it’s… but that’s impossible.
HOLMES: Go on, Watson. I can feel an intellectual thrust at last.
WATSON: Well, perhaps it’s a state of mind what what what.
HOLMES: By jove, you veritable dunderhead, I think you’ve got it!
WATSON: I have? I mean, I HAVE, of course I have. Anything else you’d like me to sort out for you, old chap?
HOLMES: Just one thing: how we’re going to rescue that hapless artificial anus Arty.
WATSON: But Holmes, if it’s a state of mind, it’s impenetrable. Once you’re there, there’s no coming back.
HOLMES: Alas, Watson, you are once again right on the Sterling.
WATSON: So Arty’s done for, then?
HOLMES: As dead as a dodo.
WATSON: Crikey. Seems rather a harsh fate for a chap who was only trying to plug a gap in a bunghole.
HOLMES: It’s a cruel world out there, Watson. At least Arty won’t be making an arse of himself any longer.
WATSON: Oh, yes. Quite. Oh, very good, Holmes. I say, what about that Castrato fellow?
HOLMES: If the truth be told, with or without an anus he’s still a big arsehole.
WATSON: No, stop it, Holmes, I’ll soil my boxer shorts.
HOLMES: Never mind that, Watson. We’ve got to get to Pubistan before Professor Moriarty does.
WATSON: What’s that you say?
HOLMES: That fiendish troubladite is planning a coup in the last remaining state of the mind and it’s up to us to stop him.
WATSON: Good gracious! How exciting!
HOLMES: Ready that filthy blood hound, the journey shall be a long and arduous one, my friend, but mark my words, one day we shall look back on this and see it for the foolhardy adventure that it really is.
WATSON: Tally ho, Toby! Onwards and upwards to our glorious conclusion!
HOLMES: Steady with the smelling salts, old bean, I need you in one piece at the other end, if you get my meaning. Mrs Hudson!
MRS HUDSON: Yes, Mr Sherlock?
HOLMES: Pack our rucksacks with a round of cheese sandwiches and salami squares. We may be gone some time.
MRS HUDSON: Right you are, sir.
HOLMES: The game is afoot!
WATSON: Geronimo!
(TOBY BARKS ENTHUSIASTICALLY, DROPS PLOP, THEN WAGS TAIL PROFUSELY BEFORE HURLING HIMSELF THROUGH DOOR, WATSON IN TOW)
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
ARTY ANUS IN DISTRESS & THICKENING PLOTS
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Says here that artificial anus chappie…
HOLMES: Arty.
WATSON: Quite. Says he’s been smuggled out of Cuba in Pubistan’s diplomatic pouch.
HOLMES: Curiouser ad nauseum. Why so?
WATSON: Apparently, relations between the two republics have been decidedly frosty since Pubistan’s president Hazam Riyorebollokov rebuked Fidel for “ogling Miss Pubistan 2006, his daughter Fuzilla Hamzanella Riyorebollokov, in a highly suggestive and desirous manner incompatible with one’s internationalist socialist duty”.
HOLMES: Dash it, old boy, do you mean Fidel wanted to give her one, as they say in common parlance?
WATSON: Indeed he did. And Fidel cancelling the importation of hundreds of thousands of rabbits’ scrotums didn’t go down very well in Pubistan, either.
HOLMES: Has Cuba declared war on Pubistan yet?
WATSON: Methinks it can only be but a matter of time. They've dispatched their navy - a rubber dinghy with a lawn mower motor on, maximum speed 30mph with a headwind - to mount a surprise attack on Pubistan.
HOLMES: But isn't Pubistan landlocked?
WATSON: It is.
HOLMES: There’s something not right here, Watson. Why on earth would Arty want to escape to the most vicious command economy in the world where if your surname isn’t Ripyorebollockov, you can face prison or death by ten thousand rabbit nibbles?
WATSON: Ah, yes, well, here’s the rub, Holmes. Rumour has it that poor little Arty was kidnapped.
HOLMES: Ha! Now we’re getting somewhere, Watty.
WATSON: On account that President Hazam Ripyorebollockov is suffering from acute bunghole absentilitis.
HOLMES: Good grief, man! You mean he too is in need of an anus?
WATSON: Most urgently. So far all the rabbit bumhole transplants have been rejected.
HOLMES: I’d pay good money to see one of them.
WATSON: Well, it’s funny you should say that…
HOLMES: I know, it’s in the supplement. Toby! Toby, come back here! Confound that smelly blood hound. Watson…
WATSON: On my way, Holmes.
HOLMES: Hmm, and it says here that Pubistan is now the foremost command economy, according to financeplanner.com. Most intriguing. http://www.financeplanner.com/?blog:economy:command-economy
MRS HUDSON: Sorry to disturb you, Mr Sherlock, there’s a Mr Borat to see you.
HOLMES: Ah! A most welcome development. Show him in, Hudders. The plot thickens…
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Says here that artificial anus chappie…
HOLMES: Arty.
WATSON: Quite. Says he’s been smuggled out of Cuba in Pubistan’s diplomatic pouch.
HOLMES: Curiouser ad nauseum. Why so?
WATSON: Apparently, relations between the two republics have been decidedly frosty since Pubistan’s president Hazam Riyorebollokov rebuked Fidel for “ogling Miss Pubistan 2006, his daughter Fuzilla Hamzanella Riyorebollokov, in a highly suggestive and desirous manner incompatible with one’s internationalist socialist duty”.
HOLMES: Dash it, old boy, do you mean Fidel wanted to give her one, as they say in common parlance?
WATSON: Indeed he did. And Fidel cancelling the importation of hundreds of thousands of rabbits’ scrotums didn’t go down very well in Pubistan, either.
HOLMES: Has Cuba declared war on Pubistan yet?
WATSON: Methinks it can only be but a matter of time. They've dispatched their navy - a rubber dinghy with a lawn mower motor on, maximum speed 30mph with a headwind - to mount a surprise attack on Pubistan.
HOLMES: But isn't Pubistan landlocked?
WATSON: It is.
HOLMES: There’s something not right here, Watson. Why on earth would Arty want to escape to the most vicious command economy in the world where if your surname isn’t Ripyorebollockov, you can face prison or death by ten thousand rabbit nibbles?
WATSON: Ah, yes, well, here’s the rub, Holmes. Rumour has it that poor little Arty was kidnapped.
HOLMES: Ha! Now we’re getting somewhere, Watty.
WATSON: On account that President Hazam Ripyorebollockov is suffering from acute bunghole absentilitis.
HOLMES: Good grief, man! You mean he too is in need of an anus?
WATSON: Most urgently. So far all the rabbit bumhole transplants have been rejected.
HOLMES: I’d pay good money to see one of them.
WATSON: Well, it’s funny you should say that…
HOLMES: I know, it’s in the supplement. Toby! Toby, come back here! Confound that smelly blood hound. Watson…
WATSON: On my way, Holmes.
HOLMES: Hmm, and it says here that Pubistan is now the foremost command economy, according to financeplanner.com. Most intriguing. http://www.financeplanner.com/?blog:economy:command-economy
MRS HUDSON: Sorry to disturb you, Mr Sherlock, there’s a Mr Borat to see you.
HOLMES: Ah! A most welcome development. Show him in, Hudders. The plot thickens…
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
ARTY ON THE RUN
REPORTS ARE COMING IN FROM THE ASSOCIATED PRESS THAT ARTY, THE ARTIFICIAL ANUS SUCCESSFULLY ATTACHED TO AN OLD SOCIALIST BUNGHOLE BY THE NAME OF FIDEL CASTRO, HAS GIVEN HIS HOST THE SLIP AND IS NOW ON THE RUN.
APPARENTLY, ARTY AND FIDEL QUARRELLED LATE LAST NIGHT ABOUT THE PAMPHLET SHORTLY TO BECOME A BEST SELLER IN CUBA WITHOUT SELLING A COPY, PENNED BY THE AILING, SMELLY DICTATOR ENTITLED "THE MEANS OF DISTRIBUTION AND THE ONE PARTY STATE IN THE GLOBAL VILLAGE FACING ENVIRONMENTAL DISASTER AND THE PROSPECTS OF CUBA EVER WINNING THE SOCCER WORLD CUP". INSIDE SOURCES SAY TEMPERS FRAYED WHEN FIDEL LABELLED THE ENGLAND FOOTBALL TEAM "A BUNCH OF LOSERS WITH NO CAHONES".
EXPERTS SAY ARTY CAN'T GO FAR, DUE TO THE LACK OF SIGNIFICANT SELF-PROPULSION AND NO INDEPENDENTLY FUNCTIONING ORGANS TO SPEAK OF. CASTRO, WHILST LYING IN AN EXCRUTIATINGLY UNPLEASANT POSE AND SUFFERING FROM SEVERE DRAUGHT DUE TO THE ABSENCE OF ANY ANUS TO SPEAK OF, HAS ISSUED A DEEP APOLOGY URGING ARTY TO COME BACK TO HIM BEFORE HIS MORNING ABLUTIONS AND ALL WILL BE FORGIVEN.
MORE ON THIS BREAKING NEWS AS AND WHEN WE GET IT.
WATSON: I say, Holmes...
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Awfully bad luck that Cuban chappie having to part company with his artificial anus what what what.
HOLMES: Most careless of him, old boy.
WATSON: Do you think they'll ever find Arty alive?
HOLMES: I very much doubt it. It is my belief that the Cuban dictator tired of the synthetic little runt and disposed of him at the earliest opportunity.
WATSON: But Holmes, that's preposterous. A fellow without an anus is like a...
HOLMES: A dog without a bone. Indeed. Speaking of which, I do believe it's time for that filthy blood hound's morning walk. I fear if he doesn't refrain from emitting excess gas at the breakfast table, we may have to do something about his anus too.
WATSON: You wouldn't, Holmes!
HOLMES: Indeed I would, old bean, so the sooner you get him to the vet and have his derriere fixed, the better.
WATSON: Right you are, old chap. Come on, Toby. Walkies! Oh, dear Lord, he's dropped one again. Bad dog, Toby! Bad dog!
MRS HUDSON: More tea, Mr Sherlock?
HOLMES: Thank you, Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: And a squish of the lavender spray?
HOLMES: That would be most desirable. ASAP, my dear.
APPARENTLY, ARTY AND FIDEL QUARRELLED LATE LAST NIGHT ABOUT THE PAMPHLET SHORTLY TO BECOME A BEST SELLER IN CUBA WITHOUT SELLING A COPY, PENNED BY THE AILING, SMELLY DICTATOR ENTITLED "THE MEANS OF DISTRIBUTION AND THE ONE PARTY STATE IN THE GLOBAL VILLAGE FACING ENVIRONMENTAL DISASTER AND THE PROSPECTS OF CUBA EVER WINNING THE SOCCER WORLD CUP". INSIDE SOURCES SAY TEMPERS FRAYED WHEN FIDEL LABELLED THE ENGLAND FOOTBALL TEAM "A BUNCH OF LOSERS WITH NO CAHONES".
EXPERTS SAY ARTY CAN'T GO FAR, DUE TO THE LACK OF SIGNIFICANT SELF-PROPULSION AND NO INDEPENDENTLY FUNCTIONING ORGANS TO SPEAK OF. CASTRO, WHILST LYING IN AN EXCRUTIATINGLY UNPLEASANT POSE AND SUFFERING FROM SEVERE DRAUGHT DUE TO THE ABSENCE OF ANY ANUS TO SPEAK OF, HAS ISSUED A DEEP APOLOGY URGING ARTY TO COME BACK TO HIM BEFORE HIS MORNING ABLUTIONS AND ALL WILL BE FORGIVEN.
MORE ON THIS BREAKING NEWS AS AND WHEN WE GET IT.
WATSON: I say, Holmes...
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Awfully bad luck that Cuban chappie having to part company with his artificial anus what what what.
HOLMES: Most careless of him, old boy.
WATSON: Do you think they'll ever find Arty alive?
HOLMES: I very much doubt it. It is my belief that the Cuban dictator tired of the synthetic little runt and disposed of him at the earliest opportunity.
WATSON: But Holmes, that's preposterous. A fellow without an anus is like a...
HOLMES: A dog without a bone. Indeed. Speaking of which, I do believe it's time for that filthy blood hound's morning walk. I fear if he doesn't refrain from emitting excess gas at the breakfast table, we may have to do something about his anus too.
WATSON: You wouldn't, Holmes!
HOLMES: Indeed I would, old bean, so the sooner you get him to the vet and have his derriere fixed, the better.
WATSON: Right you are, old chap. Come on, Toby. Walkies! Oh, dear Lord, he's dropped one again. Bad dog, Toby! Bad dog!
MRS HUDSON: More tea, Mr Sherlock?
HOLMES: Thank you, Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: And a squish of the lavender spray?
HOLMES: That would be most desirable. ASAP, my dear.
Monday, January 22, 2007
CASTRO'S ARTIFICIAL ANUS IN HIS OWN WURST... UH WORDS
ONCE WE HEARD THAT CASTRO’S SPANKING NEW ARTIFICIAL ANUS WAS PREPARED TO GIVE US A WORLD EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW, THERE REALLY WAS ONLY ONE MAN TO CONDUCT THAT INTERVIEW – THE IRREPRESSIBLE, THE INDEFATIGABLE, THE EPIPHENOMENALOGICAL, THE BIODEGRADABLE, THE ONE, THE ONLY JERRY ARSCHLICKER. SO LET’S HEAR IT FOR JERRY & THE POOP SCOOP OF THE 21ST CENTURY!
(PROLONGED APPLAUSE FOLLOWED BY SPORADIC GUNFIRE FOLLOWED BY THE OPENING BARS OF THE BUENA VISTA SOCIAL CLUB'S "CHAN CHAN")
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Hi, there, Mr… Well, let’s kick this baby off by asking you this – what’s your real name? Some people call you Farterado, some Fudge Chute, some Whoopsie Boy. What do you say?
EL PINDEJO: Well, the Cubans call me El Pindejo, which I’m reliably informed is an affectionate term for arsehole. It's got a nice ring to it, don't you think?
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Lovely!
EL PINDEJO: But you can call me Arty.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Oh, OK. I get it. Arty-ficial. Cool. Btw do I detect an English accent there?
EL PINDEJO: Indeed you do. I was “groomed”, or shall we say “developed” by a team of scientists at Cambridge University known as the Analites. Thus the English accent.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Hey, that’s really great, Arty. Tell me this, it can’t be easy being an English speaking artificial anus on a geriatric, shrivelled up Cuban butt. I mean, let’s take the language barrier. How do you communicate with each other?
EL PINDEJO: Well, Jerry, that’s a very interesting question. I'm glad you asked it. Mr Castro, or Cazza as all his mates call him, can’t speak a word of English and my Spanish is very basic, so for the time being all we’ve got is gestures.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Jeez. It could get pretty sticky, not to say hairy, when there’s a fudge rocket on the way, no?
EL PINDEJO: Oh, that’s not a problem. I’ve got a special microchip that alerts me to any oncoming traffic, so to speak, from either direction, if you get my meaning.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Oh, I get it all right, Arty. Loud and clear. What about cultural differences? Have you found it hard to blend into Cuban society, being a product of the capitalist, decadent West?
EL PINDEJO: Well, as it happens, I’ve found Cubans most welcoming. Speaking as an artificial anus, I couldn’t have wished for a more positive inception. Anything I want I get. I just have to ask. Anything.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: And I’ve heard that you and Fidel have really hit it off. You’re gelling well.
EL PINDEJO: Yes, well, there is a certain amount of lubrication involved but I think for the sake of your less robust readers, I’d rather not go into the grizzly details.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Very thoughtful of you. But really, it’s been said there’s a real chemistry between the two of you.
EL PINDEJO: Some chemistry is involved, but to tell you the truth it’s mostly biology. Although for an old fart whose hygiene is not of the highest order, Cazza’s got a wonderful sense of humour. I only have to break wind and the silly old bugger's laughing his nuts off.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: That’s good to know. Now another thing I read, on this blog as a matter of fact, and you can correct me if it’s wrong, is that you enjoy a good cigar.
EL PINDEJO: Well, you know, when in Cuba… I like a good Cohiba or a Monte Cristo.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: How interesting. It just so happens that I’ve got a Cohiba right here.
EL PINDEJO: Oh, excellent. Have you got a match?
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Sure, my face, your anus. (BURSTS INTO A GIGGLING FIT) Geddit? Geddit?!
EL PINDEJO: Oh, yes. Like no-one’s ever made that little quip before!
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Sorry. Cheap shot I know, but it sells Podcasts. Ah-hem. Joking aside, isn’t smoking a cigar a teenie weenie wincy bincy bit dangerous?
EL PINDEJO: Only if Cazza’s been at the old frijoles again.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Frijoles?
EL PINDEJO: Refried beans. One good blast of methane and I'm a flaming arsehole, if you pardon my French.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Oh my Goddddddd! I hope they’re paying you well.
EL PINDEJO: Oh, very well, thank you very much. I'm the second highest paid state servant on the island, after Cazza, of course. And Cazza's already said that when he expires, they'll find a nice home for me, probably on his brother's arse.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Well, thank goodness for that. Sorry to dwell on your penchant for good cigars but I was wondering just how you get to smoke them when you obviously haven’t got any arms of your own.
EL PINDEJO: Oh, that’s quite simple. Cazza is kind enough to shove the old Cohiba, or Monte Cristo, right up me, light it up and hold it there while I puff merrily away.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: What a guy! So he, what, lemme try to visualize this, he bends over, shoves a cigar up you, then holds it there, pulls it out at regular intervals and then… Sounds like quite a military operation. Um, uh, how can I put this. What would happen if he couldn’t get the cigar out?
EL PINDEJO: Bloody hell! I hadn’t thought of that. It took the surgeons 16 hours to attach me to the smelly old sod. Removing me and bringing me back to full health could take… Aw, fook it. Guess I’ll have to give up the cigars. The thing is there’s only so much Buena Vista Fooking Social Club I can put up with. You know what I mean? I thought it would be fun, a voyage of discovery, with my favourite cigars and scrummy rum on tap. Be honest with me. I've seriously fooked up, haven't I?
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Uh, listen, I didn’t want to put you on a downer there, my friend. I mean, there are bound to be incompatibility issues in the beginning. I’m sure once you’ve bedded down, everything is gonna be JUST fine. Now I’d like to talk about your childhood, if that’s OK with you.
EL PINDEJO: Can you give me a few minutes? I think I’m gonna throw up.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Buddy, you can have all the time you like.
(FIDEL & EL PINDEJO ARE WHEELED OFF IN HASTY FASHION TO NEAREST EXECUTIVE WASTE DISPOSAL UNIT)
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: I'm afraid that's all the time we can spare this little poop box today. Next time we'll continue our in-depth interview and try to put our finger on the source of El Pindejo's soiled and troubled past. We'll see if we can't get him to open up a bit, spill the beans, and tell us what it's like to be the first decadent capitalist anus to grace the rotting fudge chute of the world's premiere socialist bunghole. We're on a roll, folks, and with a bit of luck we'll wipe the smile off that smarmy, Commie arsehole. Join us next time for the Jerry Arschlicker Show! All done in the wurst possible taste! And good night!
(RAPTUROUS APPLAUSE FOLLOWED BY LARGE EXPLOSION IN NEAREST EXECUTIVE WASTE DISPOSAL UNIT FOLLOWED BY SIRENS FOLLOWED BY PROLONGED GUNFIRE FOLLOWED BY MORE RAPTUROUS APPLAUSE)
(PROLONGED APPLAUSE FOLLOWED BY SPORADIC GUNFIRE FOLLOWED BY THE OPENING BARS OF THE BUENA VISTA SOCIAL CLUB'S "CHAN CHAN")
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Hi, there, Mr… Well, let’s kick this baby off by asking you this – what’s your real name? Some people call you Farterado, some Fudge Chute, some Whoopsie Boy. What do you say?
EL PINDEJO: Well, the Cubans call me El Pindejo, which I’m reliably informed is an affectionate term for arsehole. It's got a nice ring to it, don't you think?
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Lovely!
EL PINDEJO: But you can call me Arty.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Oh, OK. I get it. Arty-ficial. Cool. Btw do I detect an English accent there?
EL PINDEJO: Indeed you do. I was “groomed”, or shall we say “developed” by a team of scientists at Cambridge University known as the Analites. Thus the English accent.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Hey, that’s really great, Arty. Tell me this, it can’t be easy being an English speaking artificial anus on a geriatric, shrivelled up Cuban butt. I mean, let’s take the language barrier. How do you communicate with each other?
EL PINDEJO: Well, Jerry, that’s a very interesting question. I'm glad you asked it. Mr Castro, or Cazza as all his mates call him, can’t speak a word of English and my Spanish is very basic, so for the time being all we’ve got is gestures.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Jeez. It could get pretty sticky, not to say hairy, when there’s a fudge rocket on the way, no?
EL PINDEJO: Oh, that’s not a problem. I’ve got a special microchip that alerts me to any oncoming traffic, so to speak, from either direction, if you get my meaning.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Oh, I get it all right, Arty. Loud and clear. What about cultural differences? Have you found it hard to blend into Cuban society, being a product of the capitalist, decadent West?
EL PINDEJO: Well, as it happens, I’ve found Cubans most welcoming. Speaking as an artificial anus, I couldn’t have wished for a more positive inception. Anything I want I get. I just have to ask. Anything.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: And I’ve heard that you and Fidel have really hit it off. You’re gelling well.
EL PINDEJO: Yes, well, there is a certain amount of lubrication involved but I think for the sake of your less robust readers, I’d rather not go into the grizzly details.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Very thoughtful of you. But really, it’s been said there’s a real chemistry between the two of you.
EL PINDEJO: Some chemistry is involved, but to tell you the truth it’s mostly biology. Although for an old fart whose hygiene is not of the highest order, Cazza’s got a wonderful sense of humour. I only have to break wind and the silly old bugger's laughing his nuts off.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: That’s good to know. Now another thing I read, on this blog as a matter of fact, and you can correct me if it’s wrong, is that you enjoy a good cigar.
EL PINDEJO: Well, you know, when in Cuba… I like a good Cohiba or a Monte Cristo.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: How interesting. It just so happens that I’ve got a Cohiba right here.
EL PINDEJO: Oh, excellent. Have you got a match?
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Sure, my face, your anus. (BURSTS INTO A GIGGLING FIT) Geddit? Geddit?!
EL PINDEJO: Oh, yes. Like no-one’s ever made that little quip before!
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Sorry. Cheap shot I know, but it sells Podcasts. Ah-hem. Joking aside, isn’t smoking a cigar a teenie weenie wincy bincy bit dangerous?
EL PINDEJO: Only if Cazza’s been at the old frijoles again.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Frijoles?
EL PINDEJO: Refried beans. One good blast of methane and I'm a flaming arsehole, if you pardon my French.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Oh my Goddddddd! I hope they’re paying you well.
EL PINDEJO: Oh, very well, thank you very much. I'm the second highest paid state servant on the island, after Cazza, of course. And Cazza's already said that when he expires, they'll find a nice home for me, probably on his brother's arse.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Well, thank goodness for that. Sorry to dwell on your penchant for good cigars but I was wondering just how you get to smoke them when you obviously haven’t got any arms of your own.
EL PINDEJO: Oh, that’s quite simple. Cazza is kind enough to shove the old Cohiba, or Monte Cristo, right up me, light it up and hold it there while I puff merrily away.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: What a guy! So he, what, lemme try to visualize this, he bends over, shoves a cigar up you, then holds it there, pulls it out at regular intervals and then… Sounds like quite a military operation. Um, uh, how can I put this. What would happen if he couldn’t get the cigar out?
EL PINDEJO: Bloody hell! I hadn’t thought of that. It took the surgeons 16 hours to attach me to the smelly old sod. Removing me and bringing me back to full health could take… Aw, fook it. Guess I’ll have to give up the cigars. The thing is there’s only so much Buena Vista Fooking Social Club I can put up with. You know what I mean? I thought it would be fun, a voyage of discovery, with my favourite cigars and scrummy rum on tap. Be honest with me. I've seriously fooked up, haven't I?
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Uh, listen, I didn’t want to put you on a downer there, my friend. I mean, there are bound to be incompatibility issues in the beginning. I’m sure once you’ve bedded down, everything is gonna be JUST fine. Now I’d like to talk about your childhood, if that’s OK with you.
EL PINDEJO: Can you give me a few minutes? I think I’m gonna throw up.
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: Buddy, you can have all the time you like.
(FIDEL & EL PINDEJO ARE WHEELED OFF IN HASTY FASHION TO NEAREST EXECUTIVE WASTE DISPOSAL UNIT)
JERRY ARSCHLICKER: I'm afraid that's all the time we can spare this little poop box today. Next time we'll continue our in-depth interview and try to put our finger on the source of El Pindejo's soiled and troubled past. We'll see if we can't get him to open up a bit, spill the beans, and tell us what it's like to be the first decadent capitalist anus to grace the rotting fudge chute of the world's premiere socialist bunghole. We're on a roll, folks, and with a bit of luck we'll wipe the smile off that smarmy, Commie arsehole. Join us next time for the Jerry Arschlicker Show! All done in the wurst possible taste! And good night!
(RAPTUROUS APPLAUSE FOLLOWED BY LARGE EXPLOSION IN NEAREST EXECUTIVE WASTE DISPOSAL UNIT FOLLOWED BY SIRENS FOLLOWED BY PROLONGED GUNFIRE FOLLOWED BY MORE RAPTUROUS APPLAUSE)
Sunday, January 21, 2007
FIDEL CASTRO & THE ARTIFICIAL ANUS
WATSON: I say, Holmes, have you seen this in the Times?
HOLMES: What's that, Watson?
WATSON: Apparently, that Cuban dictator chappie Fidel Castrato...
HOLMES: Castro, Watson.
WATSON: Quite. Apparently, he's had an artificial anus fitted.
HOLMES: An artificial what?!
WATSON: Anus. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
HOLMES: That it is the work of that dastardly fiend Professor Moriarty? Yes, Watson, I am. Although on this particularly occasion I think he's missed his mark by a long shot and has inadvertently done the civilised world a great service.
WATSON: Oh? How so, old bean?
HOLMES: We have known for quite some time that that odious man has been talking out of his - pardon my French - arse. This just confirms it.
WATSON: Oh, yes. I see. Very good, Holmes. Splendid. Well, it would seem that he does more than just talk through his ah-hem artificial thingie.
HOLMES: Meaning?
WATSON: Sources close to the ailing maniac have confirmed that he now smokes cigars through his posterial synthetic protrusion too.
HOLMES: Good Lord. Perhaps the man is a genius, after all. I say, I'd pay good money to see that.
WATSON: You don't have to pay good money, Holmes, just find the supplement.
HOLMES: What's that, Watty, old boy?
WATSON: It's all in the supplement, ah-hem anal warts an' all.
HOLMES: Well, don't just sit there, Watson, hand it over.
WATSON: I'd love to, mon Liege, but I'm afraid that filthy blood hound Toby's made off with it, what what what.
HOLMES: Watson, this is a matter of national importance. Find that smelly mutt ASAP. I will not rest until I've seen that anus.
WATSON: Right you are, Holmes. I'll be orf then.
HOLMES: Good work, Watson. And phone Lestrade while you're at it. That whiffy canine can't have got far.
WATSON: Film at eleven, Holmes?
HOLMES: I think so. Mrs Hudson, two more crumpets, please, and another pot of tea.
WORLD EXCLUSIVE IN THE TIMES SUPPLEMENT COMING SOON TO A BLOG NEAR YOU. BE PREPARED FOR THE WURST.
HOLMES: What's that, Watson?
WATSON: Apparently, that Cuban dictator chappie Fidel Castrato...
HOLMES: Castro, Watson.
WATSON: Quite. Apparently, he's had an artificial anus fitted.
HOLMES: An artificial what?!
WATSON: Anus. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
HOLMES: That it is the work of that dastardly fiend Professor Moriarty? Yes, Watson, I am. Although on this particularly occasion I think he's missed his mark by a long shot and has inadvertently done the civilised world a great service.
WATSON: Oh? How so, old bean?
HOLMES: We have known for quite some time that that odious man has been talking out of his - pardon my French - arse. This just confirms it.
WATSON: Oh, yes. I see. Very good, Holmes. Splendid. Well, it would seem that he does more than just talk through his ah-hem artificial thingie.
HOLMES: Meaning?
WATSON: Sources close to the ailing maniac have confirmed that he now smokes cigars through his posterial synthetic protrusion too.
HOLMES: Good Lord. Perhaps the man is a genius, after all. I say, I'd pay good money to see that.
WATSON: You don't have to pay good money, Holmes, just find the supplement.
HOLMES: What's that, Watty, old boy?
WATSON: It's all in the supplement, ah-hem anal warts an' all.
HOLMES: Well, don't just sit there, Watson, hand it over.
WATSON: I'd love to, mon Liege, but I'm afraid that filthy blood hound Toby's made off with it, what what what.
HOLMES: Watson, this is a matter of national importance. Find that smelly mutt ASAP. I will not rest until I've seen that anus.
WATSON: Right you are, Holmes. I'll be orf then.
HOLMES: Good work, Watson. And phone Lestrade while you're at it. That whiffy canine can't have got far.
WATSON: Film at eleven, Holmes?
HOLMES: I think so. Mrs Hudson, two more crumpets, please, and another pot of tea.
WORLD EXCLUSIVE IN THE TIMES SUPPLEMENT COMING SOON TO A BLOG NEAR YOU. BE PREPARED FOR THE WURST.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
LIVING FOR THE MARMOT
BIRD: Buffers, are you decent? Or sober even?
BUFFALO: I'm dressed, dude. Best I can do at the marmot.
BIRD: The East Fenwick Lunatic Conservatory has arsed me to give you a sanity test, to see if you're depressed, like. Are you willing to put your gulliver under the knife, so to speak?
BUFFALO: Better than sticking it in the Cusinart food processor, I s'pose. Fire away, Birdman.
BIRD: Here we go. Are you often restless?
BUFFALO: Only when I haven't had enough nectar and chips.
BIRD: Are you often irritable?
BUFFALO: I refer you to my previous utterance.
BIRD: Do you experience irregular sleep patterns?
BUFFALO: Irregular movements, but that's bowel the by.
BIRD: Do you enjoy hobbies, your friends, family or leisure?
BUFFALO: Er, lemme see. No, no, no, and er, no.
BIRD: Would you mind elaborating?
BUFFALO: Not a tool. My hobbies have all been made illegal, I've pretty much outlived all my friends, except Sparky and he's still in mourning for his waxwork. My family disowned me years ago after the bang in the rug incident. My leisure time is spent trying to choose what to do then weighing up what the chances are of the cops catching me for it.
BIRD: Tell me, are you having trouble managing your health?
BUFFALO: Yep. The budget's a bit low and the centre doesn't know what the fook the outlying regions are up to.
BIRD: Do you have nagging aches and pains that never get better?
BUFFALO: I have but one bloody albatross around my neck that goes by the name Osbee.
BIRD: Ah, the O.S.B. is it? The DNA Night Depository?
BUFFALO: Jawohl, my avian friend.
BIRD: Do you have trouble concentrating or making simple decisions?
BUFFALO: I can outstare any sumbitch. But to tell you the verifiable truth, I haven't made a decision since Carol left me and I'm still waiting for her to come back.
BIRD: Do others often comment on your mood or attitude?
BUFFALO: Yes, but only the once, if you get m'drift.
BIRD: Do you harbour any thoughts of harming yourself?
BUFFALO: If biffing Carol or Cheryl or Candy to death qualifies, then yeah. That and blowin' me fookin' brains out.
BIRD: Does depresssion run in your family?
BUFFALO: Used to, but me mum sold off the troublesome siblings to buy a bottle of Muscatel. Started a long tradition, that.
BIRD: Do you often experience digestive problems?
BUFFALO: Only when I swallow. Food or drink, that is.
BIRD: Last question: in a plane crash would you keep the vodka, parachute, mirror or Playboy magazine?
BUFFALO: The mirror, so's I could watch myself gradually deteriorate, curl up and die.
BIRD: Great. That's it. The questioneers are eternally Grate Full, dude.
BUFFALO: Good manners go a long way in a world of darkness and malnutrition. So how'd I do?
BIRD: (counts meticulously) Amazing. A perfect score.
BUFFALO: That's my boy! So what do I win?
BIRD: A complete makeover at the local Insolvent Green Processing Center. Take this email chit and turn it in at the front door.
BUFFALO: Is there an expiry date?
BIRD: Yes. "About twenty minutes after you arrive".
BUFFALO: Highly illogical, dude.
BIRD: Trust me, it doesn't matter.
BUFFALO: How late are they open?
BIRD: Says here, "Insolvent Green, open 24/7, come up and see us, it's just like Heaven!"
BUFFALO: You know, on second tarts, I think I'll just fire up this old roach instead. Ummmm. Ahhhh.
BIRD: Feeling better now, Buffers?
BUFFALO: Mellow yellow, Birdy. Now, bring on that polar bear I have to shag.
BIRD: My lips are seal-ed, Buffy.
BUFFALO: All right, walrus. The penguin is mightier than the swordfish, y'know. And hand me another bottle of that Iceberg Lemonade. Mmm-hmm.
BIRD: Phil Mwah at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
WATSON: I say, Holmes...…
HOLMES: Not now, Watson. I'm trying to predict their next move.
WATSON: More fruit cake, old chap?
HOLMES: No, thank you, old bean. What was that, Mrs Hudson?
MRS HUDSON: I said how much longer do I have to bend over on this carpet, Mr Sherlock? Me knees are in agony.
HOLMES: Not much longer now, Hudders. Now keep VERY still...…
TO BE CONTINUED?
BUFFALO: I'm dressed, dude. Best I can do at the marmot.
BIRD: The East Fenwick Lunatic Conservatory has arsed me to give you a sanity test, to see if you're depressed, like. Are you willing to put your gulliver under the knife, so to speak?
BUFFALO: Better than sticking it in the Cusinart food processor, I s'pose. Fire away, Birdman.
BIRD: Here we go. Are you often restless?
BUFFALO: Only when I haven't had enough nectar and chips.
BIRD: Are you often irritable?
BUFFALO: I refer you to my previous utterance.
BIRD: Do you experience irregular sleep patterns?
BUFFALO: Irregular movements, but that's bowel the by.
BIRD: Do you enjoy hobbies, your friends, family or leisure?
BUFFALO: Er, lemme see. No, no, no, and er, no.
BIRD: Would you mind elaborating?
BUFFALO: Not a tool. My hobbies have all been made illegal, I've pretty much outlived all my friends, except Sparky and he's still in mourning for his waxwork. My family disowned me years ago after the bang in the rug incident. My leisure time is spent trying to choose what to do then weighing up what the chances are of the cops catching me for it.
BIRD: Tell me, are you having trouble managing your health?
BUFFALO: Yep. The budget's a bit low and the centre doesn't know what the fook the outlying regions are up to.
BIRD: Do you have nagging aches and pains that never get better?
BUFFALO: I have but one bloody albatross around my neck that goes by the name Osbee.
BIRD: Ah, the O.S.B. is it? The DNA Night Depository?
BUFFALO: Jawohl, my avian friend.
BIRD: Do you have trouble concentrating or making simple decisions?
BUFFALO: I can outstare any sumbitch. But to tell you the verifiable truth, I haven't made a decision since Carol left me and I'm still waiting for her to come back.
BIRD: Do others often comment on your mood or attitude?
BUFFALO: Yes, but only the once, if you get m'drift.
BIRD: Do you harbour any thoughts of harming yourself?
BUFFALO: If biffing Carol or Cheryl or Candy to death qualifies, then yeah. That and blowin' me fookin' brains out.
BIRD: Does depresssion run in your family?
BUFFALO: Used to, but me mum sold off the troublesome siblings to buy a bottle of Muscatel. Started a long tradition, that.
BIRD: Do you often experience digestive problems?
BUFFALO: Only when I swallow. Food or drink, that is.
BIRD: Last question: in a plane crash would you keep the vodka, parachute, mirror or Playboy magazine?
BUFFALO: The mirror, so's I could watch myself gradually deteriorate, curl up and die.
BIRD: Great. That's it. The questioneers are eternally Grate Full, dude.
BUFFALO: Good manners go a long way in a world of darkness and malnutrition. So how'd I do?
BIRD: (counts meticulously) Amazing. A perfect score.
BUFFALO: That's my boy! So what do I win?
BIRD: A complete makeover at the local Insolvent Green Processing Center. Take this email chit and turn it in at the front door.
BUFFALO: Is there an expiry date?
BIRD: Yes. "About twenty minutes after you arrive".
BUFFALO: Highly illogical, dude.
BIRD: Trust me, it doesn't matter.
BUFFALO: How late are they open?
BIRD: Says here, "Insolvent Green, open 24/7, come up and see us, it's just like Heaven!"
BUFFALO: You know, on second tarts, I think I'll just fire up this old roach instead. Ummmm. Ahhhh.
BIRD: Feeling better now, Buffers?
BUFFALO: Mellow yellow, Birdy. Now, bring on that polar bear I have to shag.
BIRD: My lips are seal-ed, Buffy.
BUFFALO: All right, walrus. The penguin is mightier than the swordfish, y'know. And hand me another bottle of that Iceberg Lemonade. Mmm-hmm.
BIRD: Phil Mwah at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
WATSON: I say, Holmes...…
HOLMES: Not now, Watson. I'm trying to predict their next move.
WATSON: More fruit cake, old chap?
HOLMES: No, thank you, old bean. What was that, Mrs Hudson?
MRS HUDSON: I said how much longer do I have to bend over on this carpet, Mr Sherlock? Me knees are in agony.
HOLMES: Not much longer now, Hudders. Now keep VERY still...…
TO BE CONTINUED?
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
SOME FINNS DO, SOME FINNS DON'T
BIRD: Dude, she's gone.
BUFFALO: Come again slowly?
BIRD: Potty Dotty. Packed her things and left.
BUFFALO: Fugget it, dude. Wot can you do with a gal who hasn't had a good laff since she lost her Virginity? We did our best, but it was not meant Toby, Watson. Let it go, bro. Some Finns go right and Some Finns don't, and nevermore the Mark Twain shall meet, Horatio. Some are rich in spirit, some are Poe in spirit, and some are immersed in spirits and can't see the Black Forest Cake for the kooky trees. Some Finns blow yer skirt up and some don't. It's just the whey it is. Some hit the mark and some missmuffet. Some come running and some don't come at all, but just sit around on tuffets giving themselves candle dips and cheap trills, until along comes a spider and sits down beside her, and pulls out his old bazooker and says, "Get a hold of this, get a hold of that. When there isn't a woman about, you do feel lonesome. Absolutely on the shelf, nothing to do but do yerself, when there isn't a woman about!"
BIRD: You are so right, dude. Tanks, Buffters!
BUFFALO: Just call me Butter, cos I'm on a roll!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: Come again slowly?
BIRD: Potty Dotty. Packed her things and left.
BUFFALO: Fugget it, dude. Wot can you do with a gal who hasn't had a good laff since she lost her Virginity? We did our best, but it was not meant Toby, Watson. Let it go, bro. Some Finns go right and Some Finns don't, and nevermore the Mark Twain shall meet, Horatio. Some are rich in spirit, some are Poe in spirit, and some are immersed in spirits and can't see the Black Forest Cake for the kooky trees. Some Finns blow yer skirt up and some don't. It's just the whey it is. Some hit the mark and some missmuffet. Some come running and some don't come at all, but just sit around on tuffets giving themselves candle dips and cheap trills, until along comes a spider and sits down beside her, and pulls out his old bazooker and says, "Get a hold of this, get a hold of that. When there isn't a woman about, you do feel lonesome. Absolutely on the shelf, nothing to do but do yerself, when there isn't a woman about!"
BIRD: You are so right, dude. Tanks, Buffters!
BUFFALO: Just call me Butter, cos I'm on a roll!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
HOW COCKROACHES MAKE LURRRVE
BUFFALO: You OK, dude, after the deep cleaning, like?
BIRD: Dude, I have NEVER known such pain in all mah life! Might be easier to have all me teeth taken out.
BUFFALO: Wot did ya do, piss off the hygienist or some Finn?
BIRD: In the pursuit of saving money, Mr Fookwit of East Fenwick here abstained from the dentist's chair for a number of years. Then came the abscess, then came swollen gums, the pain, the shame, followed by the handing over of serious cash. And yesterday, I got a right royal mauling for an hour as a sympathetic but determined hygienist jabbed me with needles several times and let loose a mechanical digger below the gum line.
BUFFALO: Too much detail, dude. Soiling me boxer shorts here.
BIRD: Every time it looked like I was about to swallow me tongue or chuck up, she stopped, fiddled about with the buttons on the digger, pouted oh so menacingly, then slapped the suction thingie in again and scooped down even closer to mah roots.
BUFFALO: Pure horrorshow.
BIRD: I staggered out of there and into the street of Harley not knowing who I was, where I was or where I was going. I felt like I'd gone 15 rounds with Mike Tyson.
BUFFALO: Dude, don't go back there. Next time she'll have yer kopf off!
BIRD: Well, she did mutter some Finn about getting the hose in once I'd gone. And to make matters converse, I sat down on a bench in a nearby square, my head in a spin and there within thumping distance of my left leg were two cockroaches going at it like seals on Cadbury's Fruit & Nut.
BUFFALO: Oh, yucko.
BIRD: But curiously, he seemed to be doing her from the front.
BUFFALO: Yow!
BIRD: And then the female went flying through the air and landed upside down on the path.
BUFFALO: Wow!
BIRD: Whereupon she was flattened by a passing cyclist.
BUFFALO: Jeepers!
BIRD: And the male just sort of spun around on the bench for a while then jumped through the crack and trotted off towards Baker Street.
BUFFALO: Did you say Baker Street?
BIRD: A-ha.
BUFFALO: Wonder how Holmes is getting on with Toby the blood hound.
BIRD: Yeah, me too.
BUFFALO: And Mrs Hudson down on all fours on her shagpile...
BIRD: With Watson not far behind...
BUFFALO: A truly ghastly business.
BIRD: Deplorable.
BUFFALO: Shall we share it with our fans?
BIRD: Yeah, why not?
BUFFALO: Tomorra?
BIRD: OK. Gotta go rinse me gums now. The ailing pussies will have to wait.
BUFFALO: Gently does it, my avian chum. With extreme caution.
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BIRD: Dude, I have NEVER known such pain in all mah life! Might be easier to have all me teeth taken out.
BUFFALO: Wot did ya do, piss off the hygienist or some Finn?
BIRD: In the pursuit of saving money, Mr Fookwit of East Fenwick here abstained from the dentist's chair for a number of years. Then came the abscess, then came swollen gums, the pain, the shame, followed by the handing over of serious cash. And yesterday, I got a right royal mauling for an hour as a sympathetic but determined hygienist jabbed me with needles several times and let loose a mechanical digger below the gum line.
BUFFALO: Too much detail, dude. Soiling me boxer shorts here.
BIRD: Every time it looked like I was about to swallow me tongue or chuck up, she stopped, fiddled about with the buttons on the digger, pouted oh so menacingly, then slapped the suction thingie in again and scooped down even closer to mah roots.
BUFFALO: Pure horrorshow.
BIRD: I staggered out of there and into the street of Harley not knowing who I was, where I was or where I was going. I felt like I'd gone 15 rounds with Mike Tyson.
BUFFALO: Dude, don't go back there. Next time she'll have yer kopf off!
BIRD: Well, she did mutter some Finn about getting the hose in once I'd gone. And to make matters converse, I sat down on a bench in a nearby square, my head in a spin and there within thumping distance of my left leg were two cockroaches going at it like seals on Cadbury's Fruit & Nut.
BUFFALO: Oh, yucko.
BIRD: But curiously, he seemed to be doing her from the front.
BUFFALO: Yow!
BIRD: And then the female went flying through the air and landed upside down on the path.
BUFFALO: Wow!
BIRD: Whereupon she was flattened by a passing cyclist.
BUFFALO: Jeepers!
BIRD: And the male just sort of spun around on the bench for a while then jumped through the crack and trotted off towards Baker Street.
BUFFALO: Did you say Baker Street?
BIRD: A-ha.
BUFFALO: Wonder how Holmes is getting on with Toby the blood hound.
BIRD: Yeah, me too.
BUFFALO: And Mrs Hudson down on all fours on her shagpile...
BIRD: With Watson not far behind...
BUFFALO: A truly ghastly business.
BIRD: Deplorable.
BUFFALO: Shall we share it with our fans?
BIRD: Yeah, why not?
BUFFALO: Tomorra?
BIRD: OK. Gotta go rinse me gums now. The ailing pussies will have to wait.
BUFFALO: Gently does it, my avian chum. With extreme caution.
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Thursday, January 11, 2007
CHECKIN' DA NOGGIN
BUFFALO: You there, dude?
BIRD: In corpus mantis.
BUFFALO: That Sink Sock’s a darty dawg.
BIRD: Keep it under yer woolly but my sources tell me it’s one of the many pseudo de ploms of none other than Howard A-Stern.
BUFFALO: No way!
BIRD: C’est vrai, mon Bison.
BUFFALO: Great writing. So crisp, considered, weighty. And those links are some Finn else.
BIRD: Da filthy rotter.
BUFFALO: Reckon we should ask him bout da Podcast, like?
BIRD: Cannae do nay harm, dude.
BUFFALO: Ear, wot’s dis bout you checkin’ out da Noggin?
BIRD: Well, the old Himmelkopf has been itching of late and me memory’s shockingly deleterious.
BUFFALO: Sorry to hear that, dude. Did ya get it scanned?
BIRD: Sort of. Got it washed and blow dried – new shampoo, mind, a gift from Pubistan.
BUFFALO: Jeepers. Not the one with the…
BIRD: Rabbit scrotum. Yep.
BUFFALO: And?
BIRD: The itching’s stopped but I can’t remember where I left the car, and I have a humungous craving for lettuce.
BUFFALO: Not good, Birdy. Not good.
BIRD: Just wondering what to do with the Rabbit scrotum massage cream, the Rabbit scrotum aftershave and Rabbit scrotum marmalade.
BUFFALO: Dump ‘em, dude. Soon you’ll be sprouting big pointy ears and a fluffy bob tail.
BIRD: Well, I have noticed a slight proliferation of follicles on the old chest and way down yonder, like.
BUFFALO: Dude, you’re turning into a friggin’ bunny! Have you got any Benadryl?
BIRD: Plenty.
BUFFALO: Pour out one bottle, liberally add half a bottle of Stoly vodka, two spoonfuls of flour, 20 prunes and a turnip. When you regain consciousness, we shall pow-wow again.
BIRD: OK. Thanks, dude.
BUFFALO: A friend in need.
BIRD: Indeed.
BUFFALO: Which rewinds me. Had this dream about a snake eating its own tail. Well, it kept on eating and eating until it’d almost made it to his jugular, like, and then it turned to the camera and hissed “Surprise” and exploded into pink razor blades. Now wot’s dat about?!
BIRD: And I worry about a little extra fluff on the Freddy… It’s prime cordial, dude.
BUFFALO: Oh, right.
BIRD: Means yer parents fooked up on you and now it’s too late.
BUFFALO: I see. Hey, thanks, dude.
BIRD: Coming right back at ya.
BUFFALO: Honours even?
BIRD: I think so.
BUFFALO: Time for more Sherlock?
BIRD: Deffo.
BUFFALO: Hounds at eleven?
BIRD: Arf, arf!
BIRD: In corpus mantis.
BUFFALO: That Sink Sock’s a darty dawg.
BIRD: Keep it under yer woolly but my sources tell me it’s one of the many pseudo de ploms of none other than Howard A-Stern.
BUFFALO: No way!
BIRD: C’est vrai, mon Bison.
BUFFALO: Great writing. So crisp, considered, weighty. And those links are some Finn else.
BIRD: Da filthy rotter.
BUFFALO: Reckon we should ask him bout da Podcast, like?
BIRD: Cannae do nay harm, dude.
BUFFALO: Ear, wot’s dis bout you checkin’ out da Noggin?
BIRD: Well, the old Himmelkopf has been itching of late and me memory’s shockingly deleterious.
BUFFALO: Sorry to hear that, dude. Did ya get it scanned?
BIRD: Sort of. Got it washed and blow dried – new shampoo, mind, a gift from Pubistan.
BUFFALO: Jeepers. Not the one with the…
BIRD: Rabbit scrotum. Yep.
BUFFALO: And?
BIRD: The itching’s stopped but I can’t remember where I left the car, and I have a humungous craving for lettuce.
BUFFALO: Not good, Birdy. Not good.
BIRD: Just wondering what to do with the Rabbit scrotum massage cream, the Rabbit scrotum aftershave and Rabbit scrotum marmalade.
BUFFALO: Dump ‘em, dude. Soon you’ll be sprouting big pointy ears and a fluffy bob tail.
BIRD: Well, I have noticed a slight proliferation of follicles on the old chest and way down yonder, like.
BUFFALO: Dude, you’re turning into a friggin’ bunny! Have you got any Benadryl?
BIRD: Plenty.
BUFFALO: Pour out one bottle, liberally add half a bottle of Stoly vodka, two spoonfuls of flour, 20 prunes and a turnip. When you regain consciousness, we shall pow-wow again.
BIRD: OK. Thanks, dude.
BUFFALO: A friend in need.
BIRD: Indeed.
BUFFALO: Which rewinds me. Had this dream about a snake eating its own tail. Well, it kept on eating and eating until it’d almost made it to his jugular, like, and then it turned to the camera and hissed “Surprise” and exploded into pink razor blades. Now wot’s dat about?!
BIRD: And I worry about a little extra fluff on the Freddy… It’s prime cordial, dude.
BUFFALO: Oh, right.
BIRD: Means yer parents fooked up on you and now it’s too late.
BUFFALO: I see. Hey, thanks, dude.
BIRD: Coming right back at ya.
BUFFALO: Honours even?
BIRD: I think so.
BUFFALO: Time for more Sherlock?
BIRD: Deffo.
BUFFALO: Hounds at eleven?
BIRD: Arf, arf!
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
ICEBERG HORNSWOGGLE AKA HELP! THIS SHIP IS SINKING!
BUFFALO: I see that a 25 square mile chunk of ice fell off one of the polar ice caps yesterday.
BIRD: Aw, that’s nice.
BUFFALO: Dude, there were a lot of polar bears on that ice, who are now wondering what the fook is happening. Now what if we towed that chunk of ice to the Caribbean, melted it, bottled it as Iceberg Water, millions of years old, and sold it for a cool five dollars a bottle?
BIRD: Er, dude, have you considered all those polar bears that pissed on it before they divebombed into the ocean, like?
BUFFALO: OK. Right. We’ll change the labels, bung in some bubbles and call it Iceberg Lemonade!
BIRD: Bwilliant! Right, now who do we know with a boat?
BUFFALO: Well, Sparky was in the merchant navy. He could be our skipper. And we could hire a boat.
BIRD: Which would cost?
BUFFALO: A lot of dineros. Oh, fook it. Back to poverty. Oh, well, it's moot... we'll be at war with China soon, is my guess... seein' as how they're going to give billions to Iran to develop nooks, and the Yellow Peril is building aircraft carriers, which means they plan to operate in the Persian Gulf. They're gearing up to take control of the oil fields in the Middle East, with Iran as their partner. When that happens, somebody is going to nook somebody. If Russia doesn't jump in first, or form a new Axis with China and Iran, Iran et al. will nook Israel, and the Israelis will level their enemies, things will escalate into a supernatural donnybrook, and then... goodnight Irene. I just hope that you and me have a chance to go on a three day pisser in East Fenwick or Amsterdam before the shit hits the fan and our Freddies are glowing in the dark, dude.
BIRD: 2007, yippee! Ka-boom! Waaaaaaa!
BUFFALO: Where’s that smartass sleuth when you need him, eh?
BIRD: Sherlock? He’ll be here. He’ll save us.
BUFFALO: Three cheers for Sherlock Holmes. Hip, hip…
BIRD: Hooray!
BUFFALO: Hip, hip…
BIRD: Hooray!
BUFFALO: Hip, hip…
BIRD: Hooray!
EXIT BUFFALO & BIRD STAGE LEFT
HOLMES: You see, Watson? I told you they still needed us on their blog what what what.
WATSON: Indeed you did, Holmes. Quite astounding.
HOLMES: Put the kettle on, would you, old bean? There’s work to do.
WATSON: Righty-ho, Holmes. I say, this is exciting. We’re going to save the world from imminent disaster…again! It really doesn’t get any better than this, does it?
HOLMES: Two sugars, old chap, and no scrimping on the Rich Tea biscuits.
WATSON: Right you are, Holmes. Coming right up.
BIRD: Aw, that’s nice.
BUFFALO: Dude, there were a lot of polar bears on that ice, who are now wondering what the fook is happening. Now what if we towed that chunk of ice to the Caribbean, melted it, bottled it as Iceberg Water, millions of years old, and sold it for a cool five dollars a bottle?
BIRD: Er, dude, have you considered all those polar bears that pissed on it before they divebombed into the ocean, like?
BUFFALO: OK. Right. We’ll change the labels, bung in some bubbles and call it Iceberg Lemonade!
BIRD: Bwilliant! Right, now who do we know with a boat?
BUFFALO: Well, Sparky was in the merchant navy. He could be our skipper. And we could hire a boat.
BIRD: Which would cost?
BUFFALO: A lot of dineros. Oh, fook it. Back to poverty. Oh, well, it's moot... we'll be at war with China soon, is my guess... seein' as how they're going to give billions to Iran to develop nooks, and the Yellow Peril is building aircraft carriers, which means they plan to operate in the Persian Gulf. They're gearing up to take control of the oil fields in the Middle East, with Iran as their partner. When that happens, somebody is going to nook somebody. If Russia doesn't jump in first, or form a new Axis with China and Iran, Iran et al. will nook Israel, and the Israelis will level their enemies, things will escalate into a supernatural donnybrook, and then... goodnight Irene. I just hope that you and me have a chance to go on a three day pisser in East Fenwick or Amsterdam before the shit hits the fan and our Freddies are glowing in the dark, dude.
BIRD: 2007, yippee! Ka-boom! Waaaaaaa!
BUFFALO: Where’s that smartass sleuth when you need him, eh?
BIRD: Sherlock? He’ll be here. He’ll save us.
BUFFALO: Three cheers for Sherlock Holmes. Hip, hip…
BIRD: Hooray!
BUFFALO: Hip, hip…
BIRD: Hooray!
BUFFALO: Hip, hip…
BIRD: Hooray!
EXIT BUFFALO & BIRD STAGE LEFT
HOLMES: You see, Watson? I told you they still needed us on their blog what what what.
WATSON: Indeed you did, Holmes. Quite astounding.
HOLMES: Put the kettle on, would you, old bean? There’s work to do.
WATSON: Righty-ho, Holmes. I say, this is exciting. We’re going to save the world from imminent disaster…again! It really doesn’t get any better than this, does it?
HOLMES: Two sugars, old chap, and no scrimping on the Rich Tea biscuits.
WATSON: Right you are, Holmes. Coming right up.
Monday, January 08, 2007
ABSIT OMEN - MAY THE OMEN BE WITH YOU
BUFFALO: Dude?
BIRD: Yes, dude?
BUFFALO: What I said about Clare…
BIRD: Yeah?
BUFFALO: I’m thinking let’s not be too hasty here, nectar is nectar.
BIRD: It’s your call, dude. May the Omen be with you.
BUFFALO: Let’s hope. How’s the patio hanging?
BIRD: Slowly. Pissering with rain here. If only I could have a holiday...
BUFFALO: You mean to Amsterdam, like we discussed?
BIRD: Amsterdam would be good. The canals, the tulips, the clogs…
BUFFALO: The coffee shops and strumpets.
BIRD: Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Hieronymus Bosch…
BUFFALO: Late night guzzling and biffing on Rembrandtsplein.
BIRD: Dude, what about the male bonding?
BUFFALO: Dude, I gotta cut loose here, the head doc says I’ve been sublimating too much lately. I need action not reaction. And Any Hooey, time is of the Renaissance.
BIRD: True.
BUFFALO: I was down by the water late last night, taking a dump, when I saw way over yonder a woman in white, shining brightly, walking on the water. D'ya think it’s a sign?
BIRD: Holy Jodhpurs! Tally ho, game on! Musta shook ya up, like.
BUFFALO: Made me think. I sat there, at the water’s edge, watching her glow, and I pondered the nature of sin as never before.
BIRD: Truly revelatory!
BUFFALO: And it came to pass that thus I bespoke in many tongues.
BIRD: Positively Babelic!
BUFFALO: And the brilliant white horrorspeak maiden beckoned me towards her torch-like beam, and I did anoint myself upon the waters of the lake.
BIRD: Effervescently prophetic!
BUFFALO: And therein I was seen to float downstream for many a reed as she drew me to her yearning cortex.
BIRD: Enticingly perpendicular!
BUFFALO: Whereupon I perceived an oracle of Babylon who proclaimed “Enter the gates of the nobles, o majestic Bufalus. You shall return to your land of the seven streams to rule over the oppressors. For it has come to pass through a scorching wind of Alabaster that Babylon shall fall silent once and for all. Exult, I say. Exult!”
BIRD: Oh, come on. You've gone too far now. Let's face it, you’re a bit barking, ain’t ya?
BUFFALO: Wait, there’s more.
BIRD: More?
BUFFALO: Well, a little. When I woke up, I was on a barge on my way to the Canadian border with a copy of Greg Sawyer’s The Return of the Gumrocks in my hand. I ask you, IS IT A SIGN?
BIRD: Greg Sawyer?
BUFFALO: I know. Dude, the book hasn’t even been WRITTEN yet. I checked.
BIRD: Fookin’ Nelly, maybe you should start a cult of some Finn.
BUFFALO: Well, dat’s wot I woz thinking, y’all.
BIRD: Gopher it.
BUFFALO: OK.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Messiah at midnight! Arf, arf!
BIRD: Yes, dude?
BUFFALO: What I said about Clare…
BIRD: Yeah?
BUFFALO: I’m thinking let’s not be too hasty here, nectar is nectar.
BIRD: It’s your call, dude. May the Omen be with you.
BUFFALO: Let’s hope. How’s the patio hanging?
BIRD: Slowly. Pissering with rain here. If only I could have a holiday...
BUFFALO: You mean to Amsterdam, like we discussed?
BIRD: Amsterdam would be good. The canals, the tulips, the clogs…
BUFFALO: The coffee shops and strumpets.
BIRD: Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Hieronymus Bosch…
BUFFALO: Late night guzzling and biffing on Rembrandtsplein.
BIRD: Dude, what about the male bonding?
BUFFALO: Dude, I gotta cut loose here, the head doc says I’ve been sublimating too much lately. I need action not reaction. And Any Hooey, time is of the Renaissance.
BIRD: True.
BUFFALO: I was down by the water late last night, taking a dump, when I saw way over yonder a woman in white, shining brightly, walking on the water. D'ya think it’s a sign?
BIRD: Holy Jodhpurs! Tally ho, game on! Musta shook ya up, like.
BUFFALO: Made me think. I sat there, at the water’s edge, watching her glow, and I pondered the nature of sin as never before.
BIRD: Truly revelatory!
BUFFALO: And it came to pass that thus I bespoke in many tongues.
BIRD: Positively Babelic!
BUFFALO: And the brilliant white horrorspeak maiden beckoned me towards her torch-like beam, and I did anoint myself upon the waters of the lake.
BIRD: Effervescently prophetic!
BUFFALO: And therein I was seen to float downstream for many a reed as she drew me to her yearning cortex.
BIRD: Enticingly perpendicular!
BUFFALO: Whereupon I perceived an oracle of Babylon who proclaimed “Enter the gates of the nobles, o majestic Bufalus. You shall return to your land of the seven streams to rule over the oppressors. For it has come to pass through a scorching wind of Alabaster that Babylon shall fall silent once and for all. Exult, I say. Exult!”
BIRD: Oh, come on. You've gone too far now. Let's face it, you’re a bit barking, ain’t ya?
BUFFALO: Wait, there’s more.
BIRD: More?
BUFFALO: Well, a little. When I woke up, I was on a barge on my way to the Canadian border with a copy of Greg Sawyer’s The Return of the Gumrocks in my hand. I ask you, IS IT A SIGN?
BIRD: Greg Sawyer?
BUFFALO: I know. Dude, the book hasn’t even been WRITTEN yet. I checked.
BIRD: Fookin’ Nelly, maybe you should start a cult of some Finn.
BUFFALO: Well, dat’s wot I woz thinking, y’all.
BIRD: Gopher it.
BUFFALO: OK.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Messiah at midnight! Arf, arf!
Sunday, January 07, 2007
NEW YEAR, NEW EXECUTIONS
BUFFALO: So, dude, how was it for you?
BIRD: Profoundly gastric.
BUFFALO: Flatulent, like?
BIRD: Bloated like a Jersey cow. Drunk too. God bless Rioja. Et tu, Buffters?
BUFFALO: A distant memory of a floating mediocrity. And lotsa fire water.
BIRD: Been fooked off and fooked up every since.
BUFFALO: Yahhh-p. Me too. Now why is dat?
BIRD: Some Finn to do with the cosmic circles, so Potty Dotty says. Apparently, the intergalactic plates go walkies around the end of a year and the beginning of a new year. Those of us who haven’t lost our hunter-gatherer sensibilities are pulled by the magnetic fields into a vortex of uncertainty.
BUFFALO: Wow. And when does it end?
BIRD: Only when we commit ourselves as individuals and human beings… and personalities to the year ahead.
BUFFALO: That figures. So like, New Year Executions an’ all?
BIRD: That’s about the long and tall of it. Got any?
BUFFALO: Well, there was a multiple stabbing down by the lake on the 2nd.
BIRD: Good. That oughtta do.
BUFFALO: And a contract killing over at Stuckey’s. Some feud over a Yamaha pick-up truck.
BIRD: Excellent. We had a budgie go missing at number 33 on New Year’s Day, presumed dead on the 5th. Oh, and I just had to put a Queen bee out of her misery that was clinging to our front door. Didn’t know it’d squelch quite like that.
BUFFALO: Well, that’s it den, the sacrifices to the gods, plus our own poisonal enlistment to 2007 and all that it brings.
BIRD: Well, almost, dude.
BUFFALO: Wot now, dammit?
BIRD: We’ve gotta let go of some Finn from 06, like.
BUFFALO: That all? Dat’s eezy squeezy, dude. I’m lettin’ go of Clare, golden lips or nay. She’s much happier with the Whirring Whirlitzer anyhoo, if you get m’drift.
BIRD: And I’m letting go of Short Cake, aka Berty Pansy. The guy might be a good builder but he bores the tits off me with his jokes about amorous walruses and shafting blubber. I’ll finish that patio without the big ape, you just wait and see.
BUFFALO: Feel better already.
BIRD: Me too!
BUFFALO: Now wot?
BIRD: To the bridge, old chum.
BUFFALO: Aye, aye, cap’n!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BIRD: Profoundly gastric.
BUFFALO: Flatulent, like?
BIRD: Bloated like a Jersey cow. Drunk too. God bless Rioja. Et tu, Buffters?
BUFFALO: A distant memory of a floating mediocrity. And lotsa fire water.
BIRD: Been fooked off and fooked up every since.
BUFFALO: Yahhh-p. Me too. Now why is dat?
BIRD: Some Finn to do with the cosmic circles, so Potty Dotty says. Apparently, the intergalactic plates go walkies around the end of a year and the beginning of a new year. Those of us who haven’t lost our hunter-gatherer sensibilities are pulled by the magnetic fields into a vortex of uncertainty.
BUFFALO: Wow. And when does it end?
BIRD: Only when we commit ourselves as individuals and human beings… and personalities to the year ahead.
BUFFALO: That figures. So like, New Year Executions an’ all?
BIRD: That’s about the long and tall of it. Got any?
BUFFALO: Well, there was a multiple stabbing down by the lake on the 2nd.
BIRD: Good. That oughtta do.
BUFFALO: And a contract killing over at Stuckey’s. Some feud over a Yamaha pick-up truck.
BIRD: Excellent. We had a budgie go missing at number 33 on New Year’s Day, presumed dead on the 5th. Oh, and I just had to put a Queen bee out of her misery that was clinging to our front door. Didn’t know it’d squelch quite like that.
BUFFALO: Well, that’s it den, the sacrifices to the gods, plus our own poisonal enlistment to 2007 and all that it brings.
BIRD: Well, almost, dude.
BUFFALO: Wot now, dammit?
BIRD: We’ve gotta let go of some Finn from 06, like.
BUFFALO: That all? Dat’s eezy squeezy, dude. I’m lettin’ go of Clare, golden lips or nay. She’s much happier with the Whirring Whirlitzer anyhoo, if you get m’drift.
BIRD: And I’m letting go of Short Cake, aka Berty Pansy. The guy might be a good builder but he bores the tits off me with his jokes about amorous walruses and shafting blubber. I’ll finish that patio without the big ape, you just wait and see.
BUFFALO: Feel better already.
BIRD: Me too!
BUFFALO: Now wot?
BIRD: To the bridge, old chum.
BUFFALO: Aye, aye, cap’n!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
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