THIS JUST IN FROM DA WHO:
Gawd bless ya, Zimmers! I woz havin' a Ruby Murray, thinking about getting bucket and spade, when me Al Capone rang and some geezer told me the Zimmers had done us proud. Cheers! Baked potato. Keep rocking!
rubber glove
Roger
S'pose it's in a good cause but the guitar solo is rubbish. That chick third from the left in the back row's kind of hot, though.
All the best
Pete
x
AND THE REVIEW THEY'RE ALL TALKING ABOUT:
It meanders playfully in a daze of gargantuan contentment, effortlessly transforming erstwhile biddies to hitherto unknown levels of awareness and contextual gravitas. I defy anyone to listen to this song and not soil themselves then cry uncontrollably over past misdemeanours. A cultural hiatus at the crossroads. Unforgettable!
Dave Digitalis-Profunderer
Rolling Stoned
AND DON'T TAKE THEIR WORD FOR IT. DOWNLOAD IT NOW & MAKE THE CODGERS ETERNALLY PLENTIFUL
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqfFrCUrEbY
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
HONEY LOVE - IS IT TRUE TOMCHIK?
IN A CHANCE ENCOUNTER DOWN AT STUCKEY'S, THE AULD BUFF WAS RUDELY INTERRUPTED BY HIS PAST. AND NOW HE'S GOT SOME SONOROUS QUESTIONS FOR DA TOMCHIK INNIT
BUFFALO: Dude?
TOMCHIK: Oh, yes, I see, you're talking to me.
BUFFALO: Well, I don't see nobody else here.
TOMCHIK: You want to ask me about something?
BUFFALO: It's like this, Tomchik. I was hitting on the pecan logs down at Stuckey's when this drop-dead gorgeous blonde came my way. She ditsied over and kissed me full on the lips and said she never expected to find me here. Well, I knew that kiss, those cheeks, those eyes, that smell... It was Trudi, with an I, ya get me? And ker-bam sha-lam wooo-hooo! I was in love all over again. You still with me?
TOMCHIK: Er, yes, I think I can follow your meandering train of thought.
BUFFALO: Well, the thing is, see, Trudi and me were an item way back in the days when I wore shorts and she wore white ankle socks va va vooom!
TOMCHIK: You were, how do you say, childhood sweethearts, yes?
BUFFALO: Bull's-eye. Nailed it in one. So anyhoo, my question is this. Is it true, Tomchik, that honey love lasts forever?
TOMCHIK: By this you mean, that you can still harbour intense feelings for one individual all your life?
BUFFALO: Yup.
TOMCHIK: Well, I believe that my mother and father were inseparable and held a deep respect and love for each other, even though they frequently argued and kept their silence sometimes for years, right until the end. And my younger sister is still with the lorry driver who picked her up 20 years ago whilst delivering frozen chickens to the Arctic, so, yes, it seems to me perfectly possible that you still feel the same, as it were, for another human being.
BUFFALO: Thank Freddy for that, cos I thought I was going shit-stirring crazy. OK, right, my next question is this. See, Trudi et moi, well, we were fixing on making up for lost time so we um, went out in the parking lot, got in the back of the pickup and got on down with the wiggly-jiggly.
TOMCHIK: Oh, dear, now you are going to ask me for an opinion on something that has always refused to submit itself to scientific method.
BUFFALO: So... we rumpy pumpied till the parking lot was sparse and me loins were raw.
TOMCHIK: I'm sorry, you did what?
BUFFALO: Shagged like rabbits until me nuts near on fell off, like.
TOMCHIK: That's what I thought you meant.
BUFFALO: Anyhoo, to cut a long celery short, she asked me to marry her.
TOMCHIK: I see.
BUFFALO: So naturally, now I'm running scared, wishing I'd never set eyes on those all-dancing, all-singing melons of hers again. Am I afraid of commitment? Am I a loser? Am I always going to go Freddy up? Is it true, Tomchik?
TOMCHIK: Well, it seems to me, all things reduced defacto to the sum of the whole which is never quite the equal of its constituent parts, I would advise you to indulge in the classic pluses and minuses exercise.
BUFFALO: Huh? Wassat?
TOMCHIK: Make two columns, one for the elements you deem to be positive in this possible future together, and one for the elements you deem to be negative.
BUFFALO: Wow. OK. Here goes. On the plus side, um, we'll be able to fornicate like otters ad infinitum and... um... uh... ho... ha... he... And on the minus side, I'll have to be responsive to her needs 24/7, make her feel special, take her out, buy her presents, keep myself and the place tidy and pretend to like her mother a lot. Oh, and talk about settling down, holidays and how great it'll be to grow old together whilst I lose every goddamn friend I ever had. It's a no brainer, dude. Tanks a lot for making me seal the light.
TOMCHIK: It was nothing, really, you know. I merely helped you to apply your innate common sense to the seemingly imponderable situation.
BUFFALO: Phew. Relieved over here, dude. Hey, next time yer in Motown, look me up and I'll buy you a beer.
TOMCHIK: To be absolutely honest with you, I would not be seen dead in the industrial wasteland of misery Newsweek calls Michigan. And I hate beer. But I know your offer was meant well. Oh, I'm sorry, there's a very interesting email that has just arrived from the International Fellowship of Physicists & Other Concerned Academics Against Waste Paper & Other Antisocial Practices in the Former Soviet Union. It demands an immediate response. Goodbye.
BUFFALO: Wot the Freddy! Now dat's wot I call fecking rude, calculus for brains! Oh, er, is Trudi there, perchance? It's just I've been thinking...
BUFFALO: Dude?
TOMCHIK: Oh, yes, I see, you're talking to me.
BUFFALO: Well, I don't see nobody else here.
TOMCHIK: You want to ask me about something?
BUFFALO: It's like this, Tomchik. I was hitting on the pecan logs down at Stuckey's when this drop-dead gorgeous blonde came my way. She ditsied over and kissed me full on the lips and said she never expected to find me here. Well, I knew that kiss, those cheeks, those eyes, that smell... It was Trudi, with an I, ya get me? And ker-bam sha-lam wooo-hooo! I was in love all over again. You still with me?
TOMCHIK: Er, yes, I think I can follow your meandering train of thought.
BUFFALO: Well, the thing is, see, Trudi and me were an item way back in the days when I wore shorts and she wore white ankle socks va va vooom!
TOMCHIK: You were, how do you say, childhood sweethearts, yes?
BUFFALO: Bull's-eye. Nailed it in one. So anyhoo, my question is this. Is it true, Tomchik, that honey love lasts forever?
TOMCHIK: By this you mean, that you can still harbour intense feelings for one individual all your life?
BUFFALO: Yup.
TOMCHIK: Well, I believe that my mother and father were inseparable and held a deep respect and love for each other, even though they frequently argued and kept their silence sometimes for years, right until the end. And my younger sister is still with the lorry driver who picked her up 20 years ago whilst delivering frozen chickens to the Arctic, so, yes, it seems to me perfectly possible that you still feel the same, as it were, for another human being.
BUFFALO: Thank Freddy for that, cos I thought I was going shit-stirring crazy. OK, right, my next question is this. See, Trudi et moi, well, we were fixing on making up for lost time so we um, went out in the parking lot, got in the back of the pickup and got on down with the wiggly-jiggly.
TOMCHIK: Oh, dear, now you are going to ask me for an opinion on something that has always refused to submit itself to scientific method.
BUFFALO: So... we rumpy pumpied till the parking lot was sparse and me loins were raw.
TOMCHIK: I'm sorry, you did what?
BUFFALO: Shagged like rabbits until me nuts near on fell off, like.
TOMCHIK: That's what I thought you meant.
BUFFALO: Anyhoo, to cut a long celery short, she asked me to marry her.
TOMCHIK: I see.
BUFFALO: So naturally, now I'm running scared, wishing I'd never set eyes on those all-dancing, all-singing melons of hers again. Am I afraid of commitment? Am I a loser? Am I always going to go Freddy up? Is it true, Tomchik?
TOMCHIK: Well, it seems to me, all things reduced defacto to the sum of the whole which is never quite the equal of its constituent parts, I would advise you to indulge in the classic pluses and minuses exercise.
BUFFALO: Huh? Wassat?
TOMCHIK: Make two columns, one for the elements you deem to be positive in this possible future together, and one for the elements you deem to be negative.
BUFFALO: Wow. OK. Here goes. On the plus side, um, we'll be able to fornicate like otters ad infinitum and... um... uh... ho... ha... he... And on the minus side, I'll have to be responsive to her needs 24/7, make her feel special, take her out, buy her presents, keep myself and the place tidy and pretend to like her mother a lot. Oh, and talk about settling down, holidays and how great it'll be to grow old together whilst I lose every goddamn friend I ever had. It's a no brainer, dude. Tanks a lot for making me seal the light.
TOMCHIK: It was nothing, really, you know. I merely helped you to apply your innate common sense to the seemingly imponderable situation.
BUFFALO: Phew. Relieved over here, dude. Hey, next time yer in Motown, look me up and I'll buy you a beer.
TOMCHIK: To be absolutely honest with you, I would not be seen dead in the industrial wasteland of misery Newsweek calls Michigan. And I hate beer. But I know your offer was meant well. Oh, I'm sorry, there's a very interesting email that has just arrived from the International Fellowship of Physicists & Other Concerned Academics Against Waste Paper & Other Antisocial Practices in the Former Soviet Union. It demands an immediate response. Goodbye.
BUFFALO: Wot the Freddy! Now dat's wot I call fecking rude, calculus for brains! Oh, er, is Trudi there, perchance? It's just I've been thinking...
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
SUPER POOCH TO THE RESCUE
WATSON: I say, Holmes...
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Have you heard the rumour?
HOLMES: What is a rumour if not a disintegration of integrity?
WATSON: Well, yes, of course. But this is serious, old man. They say that Professor Moriarty is sending an assassin to rub you out, old thing.
HOLMES: But Watty, old bean, that's old news. The intended assassin was found but ten minutes ago face down in a pile of dog faeces in Regent's Park.
WATSON: What?! But that's impossible! That is about when you took Toby for a stroll to the park to execute his daily ablutions.
HOLMES: Just so, old chap. Most fortuitous. The blighter was about to load up a poison dart when our dear pooch here hurled himself at the stinker with aplomb, digging his perfectly formed canine pincers right into the evildoer's jugular.
WATSON: Good Lord!
HOLMES: Whereupon in all the excitement, Toby brought forward his ablutions then expertly jumped back as the fiendish would-be murderer fell face down in the um...
WATSON: Poo. Quite remarkable. And you say Toby mauled him to death what what what?
HOLMES: With some detailed supervision, naturally.
WATSON: But Holmes, Toby wouldn't hurt a fly and suddenly he transforms himself into an efficient, well-oiled killing machine. It's, it's, why, it's incredible.
HOLMES: Elementary, my dear Watson. Any animal, human or otherwise, can be induced to commit a murderous act, given the right conditioning.
WATSON: You mean...
HOLMES: Yes, Watson. I rang the bell, and with true Pavlovian gusto, and not an inconsiderable amount of saliva, our loveable pooch got stuck in, so to speak.
WATSON: But it's preposterous, it's unethical, it's... just you be careful where you go ringing your bell, old bean.
HOLMES: And you be careful that you do not cross Toby again. Now the wagging doggy has a taste for it, he may well strike again if provoked.
WATSON: Good grief, Holmes. You've turned our sweet little Toby into a cold-blooded killer. Surely the ends do not justify the means.
HOLMES: The means, as we both know, do not always lead to the ends and never to the beginnings, so let there be an end to the means and a beginning to the ends, if you follow my drift.
WATSON: Well, if you put it like that...
HOLMES: I do, you wacky quackster. We must be vigilant and alert. And there will be many more Tobys that will join us in our neverending struggle with the forces of darkness, Watson. Many a yelp shall fall but it's all in the game.
WATSON: Nice going , Tobers. Have another choccie biccie.
(Toby yaps contentedly)
WATSON: And all's well that ends well.
HOLMES: This time, Watson.
WATSON: Doggy bone at eleven?
TOBY: Yap, yap!
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Have you heard the rumour?
HOLMES: What is a rumour if not a disintegration of integrity?
WATSON: Well, yes, of course. But this is serious, old man. They say that Professor Moriarty is sending an assassin to rub you out, old thing.
HOLMES: But Watty, old bean, that's old news. The intended assassin was found but ten minutes ago face down in a pile of dog faeces in Regent's Park.
WATSON: What?! But that's impossible! That is about when you took Toby for a stroll to the park to execute his daily ablutions.
HOLMES: Just so, old chap. Most fortuitous. The blighter was about to load up a poison dart when our dear pooch here hurled himself at the stinker with aplomb, digging his perfectly formed canine pincers right into the evildoer's jugular.
WATSON: Good Lord!
HOLMES: Whereupon in all the excitement, Toby brought forward his ablutions then expertly jumped back as the fiendish would-be murderer fell face down in the um...
WATSON: Poo. Quite remarkable. And you say Toby mauled him to death what what what?
HOLMES: With some detailed supervision, naturally.
WATSON: But Holmes, Toby wouldn't hurt a fly and suddenly he transforms himself into an efficient, well-oiled killing machine. It's, it's, why, it's incredible.
HOLMES: Elementary, my dear Watson. Any animal, human or otherwise, can be induced to commit a murderous act, given the right conditioning.
WATSON: You mean...
HOLMES: Yes, Watson. I rang the bell, and with true Pavlovian gusto, and not an inconsiderable amount of saliva, our loveable pooch got stuck in, so to speak.
WATSON: But it's preposterous, it's unethical, it's... just you be careful where you go ringing your bell, old bean.
HOLMES: And you be careful that you do not cross Toby again. Now the wagging doggy has a taste for it, he may well strike again if provoked.
WATSON: Good grief, Holmes. You've turned our sweet little Toby into a cold-blooded killer. Surely the ends do not justify the means.
HOLMES: The means, as we both know, do not always lead to the ends and never to the beginnings, so let there be an end to the means and a beginning to the ends, if you follow my drift.
WATSON: Well, if you put it like that...
HOLMES: I do, you wacky quackster. We must be vigilant and alert. And there will be many more Tobys that will join us in our neverending struggle with the forces of darkness, Watson. Many a yelp shall fall but it's all in the game.
WATSON: Nice going , Tobers. Have another choccie biccie.
(Toby yaps contentedly)
WATSON: And all's well that ends well.
HOLMES: This time, Watson.
WATSON: Doggy bone at eleven?
TOBY: Yap, yap!
Monday, May 28, 2007
POOR CHARLIE... CAMPAIGN FOR POETRY ON YouTube
Poor Charlie, he always loved parping
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cramped for him his Percy Bysshe gave way
They said
Oh ho ho ho, it was up, down, sideways always
(Still the cork popped whilst frumping)
I was much too far out in virtual, dude
And not waving but dumping
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qeKGZaoda1c
SUPPORT MORE POETRY ON YouTube now!
Download your poem on YouTube & Educate & Alleviate the Asses
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cramped for him his Percy Bysshe gave way
They said
Oh ho ho ho, it was up, down, sideways always
(Still the cork popped whilst frumping)
I was much too far out in virtual, dude
And not waving but dumping
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qeKGZaoda1c
SUPPORT MORE POETRY ON YouTube now!
Download your poem on YouTube & Educate & Alleviate the Asses
Monday, May 21, 2007
GIMME DA JOB, DUDE!
IN DESPERATION & IN VIEW OF AN IMPENDING COURT CASE, THE AULD BUFFALO HAS FINALLY BITTEN THE SAUERKRAUT & APPLIED FOR A JOB AT McDonald's. IN A MATTER OF HOURS, HE WILL DISPATCH THE FOLLOWING JOB APPLICATION, WHICH IS SHORTLY TO APPEAR ON YouTube. NUDGE, NUDGE, WINK, WINK, YOU KNOW WOT I MEEN. ANY INSENSIBLE SUGGESTIONS GREAT FULLY RECEIVED. BTW UNTIL THE MULTIMILLION DOLLAR OPTION FOR HIS SCREENPLAY ABOUT THE GREAT ALLEVIATOR & SOCIALLY BACKWARD IMMOBILIZER JEREMIAH JUGHEAD ENTITLED JUGS ARE MY LIFE COMES THRU, THIS IS HIS ONLY HOPE! PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY.
NAME: Splendor G. Mainwaring.
SEX: Now and then.
DESIRED POSITION: On top.
EDUCATION: I am in favor of it.
LAST POSITION HELD: Venison counter.
SALARY: Forty bucks an hour.
MOST NOTABLE ACHIEVEMENT: Teri Winderski.
REASON FOR LEAVING: She was preggers.
HOURS AVAILABLE TO WORK: Anything except Happy Hour.
PREFERRED HOURS: Noon to 1PM, Sundays.
DO YOU HAVE ANY SPECIAL SKILLS? I am adept at finding the Mons Venus within 2.5 seconds.
MAY WE CONTACT YOUR CURRENT EMPLOYER? If I had a current employer I wouldn't be wasting my time on this application.
DO YOU HAVE ANY PHYSICAL CONDITIONS THAT WOULD PROHIBIT YOU FROM LIFTING UP TO 50 LBS? Yes, a quadruple hernia and an impacted bandicoot.
DO YOU HAVE A CAR? No, but I'd have no trouble stealing one.
HAVE YOU RECEIVED ANY SPECIAL AWARDS OR RECOGNITION? I won the Bud Lite pissing contest three years in a row, and am frequently recognized by my children and my dog.
DO YOU SMOKE? I don't know, I never looked.
DO YOU CERTIFY THAT THE ABOVE IS TRUE AND COMPLETE TO THE BEST OF YOUR KNOWLEDGE? Huh? Oh, sure. The heavens never lie.
SIGN HERE "Welcome to Arkansas, Home of Bill Clinton. In Compliance with Megan's Law, the Above is a Known Sex Offender".
NAME: Splendor G. Mainwaring.
SEX: Now and then.
DESIRED POSITION: On top.
EDUCATION: I am in favor of it.
LAST POSITION HELD: Venison counter.
SALARY: Forty bucks an hour.
MOST NOTABLE ACHIEVEMENT: Teri Winderski.
REASON FOR LEAVING: She was preggers.
HOURS AVAILABLE TO WORK: Anything except Happy Hour.
PREFERRED HOURS: Noon to 1PM, Sundays.
DO YOU HAVE ANY SPECIAL SKILLS? I am adept at finding the Mons Venus within 2.5 seconds.
MAY WE CONTACT YOUR CURRENT EMPLOYER? If I had a current employer I wouldn't be wasting my time on this application.
DO YOU HAVE ANY PHYSICAL CONDITIONS THAT WOULD PROHIBIT YOU FROM LIFTING UP TO 50 LBS? Yes, a quadruple hernia and an impacted bandicoot.
DO YOU HAVE A CAR? No, but I'd have no trouble stealing one.
HAVE YOU RECEIVED ANY SPECIAL AWARDS OR RECOGNITION? I won the Bud Lite pissing contest three years in a row, and am frequently recognized by my children and my dog.
DO YOU SMOKE? I don't know, I never looked.
DO YOU CERTIFY THAT THE ABOVE IS TRUE AND COMPLETE TO THE BEST OF YOUR KNOWLEDGE? Huh? Oh, sure. The heavens never lie.
SIGN HERE "Welcome to Arkansas, Home of Bill Clinton. In Compliance with Megan's Law, the Above is a Known Sex Offender".
Saturday, May 19, 2007
YouTube CUMZ GUD
Omigod! After much wrangling and incentivisational inducements, YouTube have given the red, blue, amber, indigo light to I...
Is this the beginning
Or merely end to end?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhRNlCTTr4w
SUPPORT MORE POETRY ON YouTube NOW! DOWNLOAD YOUR POEM ON YouTube & EDUCATE & ALLEVIATE THE ASSES!
Is this the beginning
Or merely end to end?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhRNlCTTr4w
SUPPORT MORE POETRY ON YouTube NOW! DOWNLOAD YOUR POEM ON YouTube & EDUCATE & ALLEVIATE THE ASSES!
Thursday, May 17, 2007
IF... CAMPAIGN FOR POETRY ON YouTube
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a cyber interactive rabbit-poo festooned field
That is forever Pubistan
Jeremiah Jughead
SUPPORT MORE POETRY ON YouTube NOW! DOWNLOAD YOUR POEM ON YouTube & EDUCATE & ALLEVIATE THE ASSES
That there's some corner of a cyber interactive rabbit-poo festooned field
That is forever Pubistan
Jeremiah Jughead
SUPPORT MORE POETRY ON YouTube NOW! DOWNLOAD YOUR POEM ON YouTube & EDUCATE & ALLEVIATE THE ASSES
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
THE RIGHT GUFF ON YouTube
WATSON: I say, Holmes...
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I've just been offered half a million big ones to dish the dirt on you, old chap, what what what.
HOLMES: Watson, old man, what dirt could you possibly be referring to?
WATSON: Oh, you know, old beanster, those terribly naughty pastimes you pursued as a lad.
HOLMES: My dear Watty, I hardly think they would be of any interest even to my official biographer Jeremiah Jughead.
WATSON: Oh, come now, Holmes, you know that were the public to become acquainted with some of your youthful wayward practices, there would be demands for your head.
HOLMES: Now listen to me, my good man, anything I told you about guffing at school and kissing girls on their belly buttons in the tool shed by the light of a glow worm must never be committed to paper.
WATSON: Oh, really? So you ARE ashamed of your past?
HOLMES: Not in the slightest, dear boy. But these juvenile experiences do not maketh the man or shed any light on the genius that was to follow.
WATSON: Well, there's a turn up for the books. The great Sherlock Holmes attempting a cover up.
HOLMES: You know, Watson, I never thought of you as a greedy man. Or an amusing one, come to think of it, but I digress. I fail to see why you are trying to provoke me on this fine sunny day when Hudders is in full blossom and you are perfectly smitten.
WATSON: Well, Holmes, I just think it's time that you faced your demons. Maybe publishing a warts and all book about you will prove cathartic, put you at ease with your gremlins.
HOLMES: Watty, I am at perfect ease with my misguided misdemeanours, and frankly, doesn't everyone do things in the flame of youth they'd rather not dwell on?
WATSON: Not me, old boy.
HOLMES: Oh, dear, Watson. Game, set and match, I'm afraid. Caught in your own dastardly web of self-indulgence. You forget that you told me ALL your secrets one drunken night in the Limehouse Tavern.
WATSON: Now look here, Holmes, I may have compromised Lucinda underneath the cherry tree, and I may have overfamiliarised myself with Geraldine by the stables, and indeed I may have had wayward hands in the sweet shop on occasion, but I did NOT guff. My dear mama and papa would never sanction such a thing.
HOLMES: Ah, so this is what this is all about. You think I've guffed, don't you? And you want me to apologise.
WATSON: Well...
HOLMES: How petty you can be at times. Exhibit A...
WATSON: What? Toby?
HOLMES: Elementary, my dear teen slayer.
WATSON: But but but...
HOLMES: I fear it was the scotch eggs Hudders fed him for breakfast.
WATSON: Oh, Toby! You poor mutt.
HOLMES: And there he goes again. I fear we shall have to vacate shortly.
WATSON: Toby poos! Please forgive us for feeding you that rotten old salmanella thingie.
HOLMES: Come, Watson, we have work to do. And don't think you're off the hook, old man. Sherlock Holmes may forgive but he NEVER forgets.
WATSON: Crumpet at eleven?
HOLMES: Not 'arf!
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I've just been offered half a million big ones to dish the dirt on you, old chap, what what what.
HOLMES: Watson, old man, what dirt could you possibly be referring to?
WATSON: Oh, you know, old beanster, those terribly naughty pastimes you pursued as a lad.
HOLMES: My dear Watty, I hardly think they would be of any interest even to my official biographer Jeremiah Jughead.
WATSON: Oh, come now, Holmes, you know that were the public to become acquainted with some of your youthful wayward practices, there would be demands for your head.
HOLMES: Now listen to me, my good man, anything I told you about guffing at school and kissing girls on their belly buttons in the tool shed by the light of a glow worm must never be committed to paper.
WATSON: Oh, really? So you ARE ashamed of your past?
HOLMES: Not in the slightest, dear boy. But these juvenile experiences do not maketh the man or shed any light on the genius that was to follow.
WATSON: Well, there's a turn up for the books. The great Sherlock Holmes attempting a cover up.
HOLMES: You know, Watson, I never thought of you as a greedy man. Or an amusing one, come to think of it, but I digress. I fail to see why you are trying to provoke me on this fine sunny day when Hudders is in full blossom and you are perfectly smitten.
WATSON: Well, Holmes, I just think it's time that you faced your demons. Maybe publishing a warts and all book about you will prove cathartic, put you at ease with your gremlins.
HOLMES: Watty, I am at perfect ease with my misguided misdemeanours, and frankly, doesn't everyone do things in the flame of youth they'd rather not dwell on?
WATSON: Not me, old boy.
HOLMES: Oh, dear, Watson. Game, set and match, I'm afraid. Caught in your own dastardly web of self-indulgence. You forget that you told me ALL your secrets one drunken night in the Limehouse Tavern.
WATSON: Now look here, Holmes, I may have compromised Lucinda underneath the cherry tree, and I may have overfamiliarised myself with Geraldine by the stables, and indeed I may have had wayward hands in the sweet shop on occasion, but I did NOT guff. My dear mama and papa would never sanction such a thing.
HOLMES: Ah, so this is what this is all about. You think I've guffed, don't you? And you want me to apologise.
WATSON: Well...
HOLMES: How petty you can be at times. Exhibit A...
WATSON: What? Toby?
HOLMES: Elementary, my dear teen slayer.
WATSON: But but but...
HOLMES: I fear it was the scotch eggs Hudders fed him for breakfast.
WATSON: Oh, Toby! You poor mutt.
HOLMES: And there he goes again. I fear we shall have to vacate shortly.
WATSON: Toby poos! Please forgive us for feeding you that rotten old salmanella thingie.
HOLMES: Come, Watson, we have work to do. And don't think you're off the hook, old man. Sherlock Holmes may forgive but he NEVER forgets.
WATSON: Crumpet at eleven?
HOLMES: Not 'arf!
Monday, May 14, 2007
MUCUS EXTRACTION BANNED IN PUBISTAN
Yes, it's true, my freedom loving, tub thumping, freestyle humping chums! The People's Democratic Republic of Pubistan has just passed a law to ban making the picking of one's nose in public places an offence as of June 1st 2007. This inhuman, highly provocative and ultimately self-implosive act will prevent anyone over the age of two years of age with or without a runny nose from dealing appropriately with the offending snotpiece. It will also mean, since all vehicles and barns, sheds, garages, greenhouses and outside toilets have been designated as public areas, that any citizen caught in the aforementioned structures partaking of a bit of picky wicky of the honourable bogey will be liable to the maximum punishments under the law, which are as follows:
For the first offence: the nose shall be knitted together by needle and thread for a period of no more than ten years, and no less than nine years, eleven months and 30 days.
For the second offence: one or both nostrils shall be removed with the use of malnourished wild hogs specially bred for the procedure.
For the third offence: the nose shall be removed altogether with the use of the Pubistan all-in-one snothole slicer (patent pending).
For the fourth offence: the offender shall be cast out of his/her community, have heavy shackles attached to his/her legs and at the count of three be thrown into the Black Lagoon at midnight on the first day of the month and left to rot for ten calendar days.
For the fifth offence: the perpetrator will be unceremoniously fed to the rabbits of State Farm Number 16 and his/her entrails made into bargain rabbit burgers for the international market.
Stop the snot haters now! Write to your local MP, Member of the House of Representatives and Senate, the Mayor, the butcher, the baker, the chemist, the dressmaker, the stall holder, the handyman, the beach babe, the inventor of the iPod or digg or Joost or YouTube, or Technorati even and ROLL A BOGEY TODAY ON INTERNATIONAL PICK YOUR SNOT WITH PRIDE DAY ON JUNE 1st 2007 in solidarity with our brothers and sisters in Pubistan whose nasal passages and quiet moments of contemplation in front of family, friends and selected pets will be ruined forever if we do not act NOW!
TO PLEDGE YOUR FULL SUPPORT FOR SAFEGUARDING THE EXTRACTION OF MUCUS IN PUBISTAN & THROUGHOUT THE WORLD - JEEZ THEY'LL BE BANNING SMOKING & CREAM CAKES WITH CHERRIES ON TOP NEXT!!! - PLEASE EMAIL keeppickingsnotfree@SNOT4ALL.com
Thank you, good night and may your nostrils go with you.
For the first offence: the nose shall be knitted together by needle and thread for a period of no more than ten years, and no less than nine years, eleven months and 30 days.
For the second offence: one or both nostrils shall be removed with the use of malnourished wild hogs specially bred for the procedure.
For the third offence: the nose shall be removed altogether with the use of the Pubistan all-in-one snothole slicer (patent pending).
For the fourth offence: the offender shall be cast out of his/her community, have heavy shackles attached to his/her legs and at the count of three be thrown into the Black Lagoon at midnight on the first day of the month and left to rot for ten calendar days.
For the fifth offence: the perpetrator will be unceremoniously fed to the rabbits of State Farm Number 16 and his/her entrails made into bargain rabbit burgers for the international market.
Stop the snot haters now! Write to your local MP, Member of the House of Representatives and Senate, the Mayor, the butcher, the baker, the chemist, the dressmaker, the stall holder, the handyman, the beach babe, the inventor of the iPod or digg or Joost or YouTube, or Technorati even and ROLL A BOGEY TODAY ON INTERNATIONAL PICK YOUR SNOT WITH PRIDE DAY ON JUNE 1st 2007 in solidarity with our brothers and sisters in Pubistan whose nasal passages and quiet moments of contemplation in front of family, friends and selected pets will be ruined forever if we do not act NOW!
TO PLEDGE YOUR FULL SUPPORT FOR SAFEGUARDING THE EXTRACTION OF MUCUS IN PUBISTAN & THROUGHOUT THE WORLD - JEEZ THEY'LL BE BANNING SMOKING & CREAM CAKES WITH CHERRIES ON TOP NEXT!!! - PLEASE EMAIL keeppickingsnotfree@SNOT4ALL.com
Thank you, good night and may your nostrils go with you.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
One Nite In Taylor-Tucky - Wot The Freddy!
IN A HIGHLY DISTURBING ENVELOPMENT, WE PRESENT TO YOU A NEW FEATURE WHICH IS SPREADING THE WHIRLED - WOT THE FREDDY! SOON TO BE AVAILABLE ON YouTube & JOOST & FREDDYNET
BIRD: So, Buff, any more mass murders on your side of the pond lately?
BUFF: No, all quiet on the Midwestern affront, Birdy. Just the odd spouse dismemberment now and then.
BIRD: You’re having me on, Buff.
BUFF: No, my avian chum. . . carving up one’s spouse has become the new state sport in Michigan. They have competitions now, with prizes and blue ribbons. Gives a whole new meaning to the expression “trophy wives.”
BIRD: Wot the Freddy!
BUFF: The latest incident was at the Sign of the Beef Carver, one of those Midwestern culinary anachronisms – the all-you-can-eat buffet, where gluttony is still considered an heroic virtue. Apparently this fellow had been standing in line for an hour and tired of his wife chewing on his ass non-stop, so he stuck her head in the roast beef slicer.
BIRD: That’s fookin’ horrible, like! Is the hubby in jail, then?
BUFF: No, it was officially ruled a suicide. . . seems that the county sheriff is the hubby’s brother. Another fellow strangled his comely wife recently, then sliced and diced her and sowed the bits all over a local Metro park. At first it was rumored that he was trying to grow his own gaggle of "Stepford Wives” - but it turned out he had no real motive, just a keen desire to try out his new chain saw.
BIRD: Fudge rocket on a stick! Me yarbles have just shrivelled up and retreated back into the old abominable cavity, like. It’s like a scene from “Clockwork Orange” – pure horrorshow. Cor, but you Yanks are a bloodthirsty lot.
BUFF: What, us? Dude, we’re a Christian nation. Ask the Indians. Before we do anything violent we always ask, “What would Jesus do?” Of course we usually conclude that Jesus would kick ass and take names.
BIRD: Let’s change the subject, Buff, before I lose my Cadbury Biscuits, like. Is it true that there’s a town in Georgia where it’s a law that you must own a gun?
BUFF: It's the fair dinkum, Birdy. And it makes perfect sense, too. An armed society is a polite society. . .
BIRD: Oh, well, at least it’s comforting to know that you don’t own a gun, Buffer.
BUFF: Like hell, Birdman. Dream on. I’ve got a .20 gage shotgun and a .357 Magnum.
BIRD: I’m horrified, like. Why do you need all that artillery?
BUFF: Haven’t needed it in a long time, but the last time I had the misfortune to find myself downriver, in Taylor-Tucky, stopped at a red light, an inbred piece of white trailer trash pulled a Dirty Harry Special on me.
BIRD: Wazzat, like a Dirty Sanchez or summat?
BUFF: No, you berk, it’s a long-barreled Colt .44 Python. Sumbitch’ll put a magnum round through a fookin’ Hummer, I mean right through the perishing engine block, and still take out two or three innocent by-standers on the way out.
BIRD: Wot the Freddy! My blood’s turned to aspic, Buff. Why would a perfect stranger pull a cannon on you, unprovoked, like?
BUFF: He was far from perfect, Birdy - more like a failed genetic experiment that’s gone horribly awry. Think “Island of Dr. Moreau” meets "Larry the Cable Guy".
BIRD: Sphincter time here, Buff.
BUFF: Ha, you should’ve BEEN there. So, anyway, this butt-ugly sister-humper unholstered his Monty. . .
BIRD: The Python, that is?
BUFF: Right-o. . . right after I flipped him the bird.
BIRD: Wot the Freddy! You give him the auld index digit? What in the name of God’s holy trousers possessed you to do that?
BUFF: I was returning the favor, like. He flipped me the twig first. See, I made the mistake of making eye contact with this Confederate shit-kicker, and he raised his left arm, ensconced in a plaster cast covered with a lot of badly-spelled graffiti, and used his middle finger to indicate his I.Q. Well, I assumed this was the Taylor-Tucky equivalent of the Welcome Wagon, so, not wishing to offend him, I returned the salute - in double digits. That’s when he cleared leather on me.
BIRD: Zut alors, Buffer, how did you survive this hair-raising ordeal?
BUFF: I gave him the “V” sign - the universal gesture that means “Wanna drag?” Well, he was driving a souped-up Road Runner, while I was behind the wheel of a Saturn SL-2 - so he flashed me a semi-toothless grin right out of “Deliverance” and when the light turned green, he peeled rubber for a hundred yards while I made an illegal left turn on westbound M-14 and fled for my life to Ypsilanti.
BIRD: Wot the Freddy! And the moral is?
BUFF: The credo of the Coast Guard: Semper Paratus. In udder wurds, never drive around unarmed.
BIRD: Bloodcurdling, Buff. Film at eleven?
BUFF: Arf, arf!
BIRD: So, Buff, any more mass murders on your side of the pond lately?
BUFF: No, all quiet on the Midwestern affront, Birdy. Just the odd spouse dismemberment now and then.
BIRD: You’re having me on, Buff.
BUFF: No, my avian chum. . . carving up one’s spouse has become the new state sport in Michigan. They have competitions now, with prizes and blue ribbons. Gives a whole new meaning to the expression “trophy wives.”
BIRD: Wot the Freddy!
BUFF: The latest incident was at the Sign of the Beef Carver, one of those Midwestern culinary anachronisms – the all-you-can-eat buffet, where gluttony is still considered an heroic virtue. Apparently this fellow had been standing in line for an hour and tired of his wife chewing on his ass non-stop, so he stuck her head in the roast beef slicer.
BIRD: That’s fookin’ horrible, like! Is the hubby in jail, then?
BUFF: No, it was officially ruled a suicide. . . seems that the county sheriff is the hubby’s brother. Another fellow strangled his comely wife recently, then sliced and diced her and sowed the bits all over a local Metro park. At first it was rumored that he was trying to grow his own gaggle of "Stepford Wives” - but it turned out he had no real motive, just a keen desire to try out his new chain saw.
BIRD: Fudge rocket on a stick! Me yarbles have just shrivelled up and retreated back into the old abominable cavity, like. It’s like a scene from “Clockwork Orange” – pure horrorshow. Cor, but you Yanks are a bloodthirsty lot.
BUFF: What, us? Dude, we’re a Christian nation. Ask the Indians. Before we do anything violent we always ask, “What would Jesus do?” Of course we usually conclude that Jesus would kick ass and take names.
BIRD: Let’s change the subject, Buff, before I lose my Cadbury Biscuits, like. Is it true that there’s a town in Georgia where it’s a law that you must own a gun?
BUFF: It's the fair dinkum, Birdy. And it makes perfect sense, too. An armed society is a polite society. . .
BIRD: Oh, well, at least it’s comforting to know that you don’t own a gun, Buffer.
BUFF: Like hell, Birdman. Dream on. I’ve got a .20 gage shotgun and a .357 Magnum.
BIRD: I’m horrified, like. Why do you need all that artillery?
BUFF: Haven’t needed it in a long time, but the last time I had the misfortune to find myself downriver, in Taylor-Tucky, stopped at a red light, an inbred piece of white trailer trash pulled a Dirty Harry Special on me.
BIRD: Wazzat, like a Dirty Sanchez or summat?
BUFF: No, you berk, it’s a long-barreled Colt .44 Python. Sumbitch’ll put a magnum round through a fookin’ Hummer, I mean right through the perishing engine block, and still take out two or three innocent by-standers on the way out.
BIRD: Wot the Freddy! My blood’s turned to aspic, Buff. Why would a perfect stranger pull a cannon on you, unprovoked, like?
BUFF: He was far from perfect, Birdy - more like a failed genetic experiment that’s gone horribly awry. Think “Island of Dr. Moreau” meets "Larry the Cable Guy".
BIRD: Sphincter time here, Buff.
BUFF: Ha, you should’ve BEEN there. So, anyway, this butt-ugly sister-humper unholstered his Monty. . .
BIRD: The Python, that is?
BUFF: Right-o. . . right after I flipped him the bird.
BIRD: Wot the Freddy! You give him the auld index digit? What in the name of God’s holy trousers possessed you to do that?
BUFF: I was returning the favor, like. He flipped me the twig first. See, I made the mistake of making eye contact with this Confederate shit-kicker, and he raised his left arm, ensconced in a plaster cast covered with a lot of badly-spelled graffiti, and used his middle finger to indicate his I.Q. Well, I assumed this was the Taylor-Tucky equivalent of the Welcome Wagon, so, not wishing to offend him, I returned the salute - in double digits. That’s when he cleared leather on me.
BIRD: Zut alors, Buffer, how did you survive this hair-raising ordeal?
BUFF: I gave him the “V” sign - the universal gesture that means “Wanna drag?” Well, he was driving a souped-up Road Runner, while I was behind the wheel of a Saturn SL-2 - so he flashed me a semi-toothless grin right out of “Deliverance” and when the light turned green, he peeled rubber for a hundred yards while I made an illegal left turn on westbound M-14 and fled for my life to Ypsilanti.
BIRD: Wot the Freddy! And the moral is?
BUFF: The credo of the Coast Guard: Semper Paratus. In udder wurds, never drive around unarmed.
BIRD: Bloodcurdling, Buff. Film at eleven?
BUFF: Arf, arf!
SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY JOOST RIGHT
BIRD: Buff, you darty auld Finn sniffer, you've been sleeping with the enemy!!
BUFFALO: Rubbish, lad. Rumors of my deflection have been greatly exaggerated. I'm merely taking a walk on the Wilde side, so to speak.
BIRD: But you're consorting with. . . ugh. . . felons - er, felines, pussy people!
BUFFALO: Takes all kinds to make a whirled, Birdy. I mean, look at the two of us - we're fookin' certifiable, mate, and yet Fifi still talks to us.
BIRD: Ah, Fifi Lamour... now there's a woman for ya.
BUFFALO: If you want to chastise someone, get on her case for sleeping with the VC.
BIRD: The Victoria Cross?
BUFFALO: The Charlie. Geddit?
BIRD: Tendriolic obscurios, Buffters. I appertain your meanness. Well, at least you have to give the lad high marks for good taste.
BUFFALO: Yes, but as the cultured lady said to the Thunnus thynnus, or blue fin tuna to you, Birdy...
BIRD: Izzat right? Well, bollax to you, too, Buffo!
BUFFALO: I'll pretend I didn't hear that. As Pearl, the cultured lady, said to the aforementioned social climbing fish of the thynnus family, "We want tunas that taste good, Charlie, not tunas with good taste."
BIRD: My great Aunt Flossie was reputed to have cohalibutated with a fish that was alleged to be a musical prodigy.
BUFFALO: Ah, the infamous piano tuna?
BIRD: The very same. Aunt Flossie was quite keyed up over it. Gil, his name was. A Finn, I think.
BUFFALO: Oh, Gawd, here we go again. I have to buzz off now, mate. Family emergency. I have to chauffeur a sick kiddy to the pediatrician.
BIRD: You're trucking a chucking up cat to the vet?! I knew it! I knew this is where it would all lead!
BUFFALO: (sighs) You've been at the cooking sherry again, innit, mate?
BIRD: C'est possible, mon Bison.
BUFFALO: Catnip?
BIRD: Touché.
BUFFALO: Gotta run. X-ray film at eleven.
BIRD: Meow. . . er, Ci-ao.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf...
BUFFALO: Rubbish, lad. Rumors of my deflection have been greatly exaggerated. I'm merely taking a walk on the Wilde side, so to speak.
BIRD: But you're consorting with. . . ugh. . . felons - er, felines, pussy people!
BUFFALO: Takes all kinds to make a whirled, Birdy. I mean, look at the two of us - we're fookin' certifiable, mate, and yet Fifi still talks to us.
BIRD: Ah, Fifi Lamour... now there's a woman for ya.
BUFFALO: If you want to chastise someone, get on her case for sleeping with the VC.
BIRD: The Victoria Cross?
BUFFALO: The Charlie. Geddit?
BIRD: Tendriolic obscurios, Buffters. I appertain your meanness. Well, at least you have to give the lad high marks for good taste.
BUFFALO: Yes, but as the cultured lady said to the Thunnus thynnus, or blue fin tuna to you, Birdy...
BIRD: Izzat right? Well, bollax to you, too, Buffo!
BUFFALO: I'll pretend I didn't hear that. As Pearl, the cultured lady, said to the aforementioned social climbing fish of the thynnus family, "We want tunas that taste good, Charlie, not tunas with good taste."
BIRD: My great Aunt Flossie was reputed to have cohalibutated with a fish that was alleged to be a musical prodigy.
BUFFALO: Ah, the infamous piano tuna?
BIRD: The very same. Aunt Flossie was quite keyed up over it. Gil, his name was. A Finn, I think.
BUFFALO: Oh, Gawd, here we go again. I have to buzz off now, mate. Family emergency. I have to chauffeur a sick kiddy to the pediatrician.
BIRD: You're trucking a chucking up cat to the vet?! I knew it! I knew this is where it would all lead!
BUFFALO: (sighs) You've been at the cooking sherry again, innit, mate?
BIRD: C'est possible, mon Bison.
BUFFALO: Catnip?
BIRD: Touché.
BUFFALO: Gotta run. X-ray film at eleven.
BIRD: Meow. . . er, Ci-ao.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf...
Friday, May 04, 2007
LOVE SUCKS
BIRD: It’s like a fookin’ tomb in here, Buff.
BUFF: Oh, that’s because I’ve been up to my ass in vampires lately, dude.
BIRD: Vampires? What are you doing mucking about with the Undead, like?
BUFF: Gotta come up with a new title for “Bloodsuit”. Hud says those wonkers in Hollywood all think it’s a horror film and they won’t read the fookin’ script. Hud thinks the title should be more romantic like, and also make it clear that it’s about Dracula, who’s become an attorney and is shagging his old lover Lucrezia Borgia, who’s also an attorney, and also make it clear that they’re duking it out in court over a billion dollar lawsuit.
BIRD: Blimey, that’s a tall order. I always liked “Bloodsuit” myself.
BUFF: I know, but Hud’s in Hawaii watching his wing-ding float in a lagoon, slurping Poi, surrounded by Hula girls in grass skirts with Hibiscus flower pasties on their great articulated nips. I fear he's gone native.
BIRD: The darty old Hudster. How about “Bloodsucking Attorney and Smokin’ Hot Sorceress Duke It Out in Court and Shag Like Sea Otters ‘Til the Dugongs Come Home”?
BUFF: Not bad. It gets the point across. Bit windy, though.
BIRD: “Drac Loves Lucy”?
BUFF: I already ran that one up the flagpole, and Hud piddy-widdled on it. Do you like “Courting Lucrezia”?
BIRD: Bit lame, innit?
BUFF: Well, it is more romantic, like. And there’s the double entendre.
BIRD: Yeah, it’s totally lame.
BUFF: Miserable auld Willy Wonker, always widdling on my parade.
BIRD: Does it really matter? Won’t the studio change the title anyway?
BUFF: Of course. They’ll probably call it “Love Sucks!” or some such shit.
BIRD: So go with that, beat ‘em to the Punch and Judy, like.
BUFF: Yeah, right… then they’ll call it “Blood on the Bailiff” or “Vampire Verdict” or something equally nauseating. You can't win with those assholes. I should try honest work for a change – like robbing graves or summat.
BIRD: There’s a good theme for a Holmes adventure, Buff.
BUFF: Hmmm, you could have something there. It’s a dark and stormy night on Baker Street, raining cats and Cocker Spaniels, and Holmes and Watters send out for a curry pizza. . .
BIRD: . . and some twit delivers a cadaver by mistake!
BUFF: Right, and Watson says…
WATSON: I say, Holmes, it’s bad enough that Katmandu Pizza’s gone and delivered us a stinking cadaver, but they’ve left off the anchovies again.
HOLMES: Worse than that, Watson, this cadaver is highly suspect. I have reason to believe that it was obtained illegally.
WATSON: Blimey, Holmes, how could you possible deduce that with no evidence whatsoever?
HOLMES: On the contrary, Watson, this corpse is crawling with evidence.
WATSON: Damned if I can see it, Holmes. The filthy swine’s so covered with curried rice it’s hard to make out any clues at all.
HOLMES: If you look more closely, you’ll see that the rice is moving, Watson.
WATSON: Eh, what? Ah, so it is. It’s maggots, then… filthy, slimy maggots… which could explain why it didn’t taste like curried rice at all.
HOLMES: Forget the vermin for now, Watson. They don’t tell us much, except that this cadaver is several days old, and hasn’t been properly refrigerated.
WATSON: Scandalous. Hand me the telephone, Holmes, I’m going to report those damned tricksters to the authorities. Baked fresh to order, indeed…
HOLMES: Hold the inside leg, Watson. Unless my ears deceive me, I think I hear Mrs. Hudson taking delivery of our pizza this very moment.
MRS. HUDSON: Oh, Mr. Holmes, your filthy curry pizza has arrived!
WATSON: Shall I go and retrieve it, Holmes?
HOLMES: As you wish, Watson, though I’ve quite lost my appetite. When you return I want you to call the pizza parlor and repeat the order you gave them earlier.
WATSON: Should I mention the missing anchovies, Holmes?
HOLMES: No, repeat the order verbatim.
WATSON: Very well, Holmes, but I thought you’d gone off your feed?
HOLMES: And so I have, Watson… but unless I’m very much mistaken, I think your order will result in the delivery of another cadaver.
WATSON: Well, if it does, as Heracles is my witness, I'll go back to burgers.
LATER...
MRS. HUDSON: Oh, Mr. Holmes, there’s a tradesman around the back entrance with another filthy body. Shall I send him up or tell him to clear off?
HOLMES: Send him up, Mrs. Hudson, straightaway. The topping is afoot. Finally, a murder to get my teeth into!
WATSON: Here we go again...
BUFF: Oh, that’s because I’ve been up to my ass in vampires lately, dude.
BIRD: Vampires? What are you doing mucking about with the Undead, like?
BUFF: Gotta come up with a new title for “Bloodsuit”. Hud says those wonkers in Hollywood all think it’s a horror film and they won’t read the fookin’ script. Hud thinks the title should be more romantic like, and also make it clear that it’s about Dracula, who’s become an attorney and is shagging his old lover Lucrezia Borgia, who’s also an attorney, and also make it clear that they’re duking it out in court over a billion dollar lawsuit.
BIRD: Blimey, that’s a tall order. I always liked “Bloodsuit” myself.
BUFF: I know, but Hud’s in Hawaii watching his wing-ding float in a lagoon, slurping Poi, surrounded by Hula girls in grass skirts with Hibiscus flower pasties on their great articulated nips. I fear he's gone native.
BIRD: The darty old Hudster. How about “Bloodsucking Attorney and Smokin’ Hot Sorceress Duke It Out in Court and Shag Like Sea Otters ‘Til the Dugongs Come Home”?
BUFF: Not bad. It gets the point across. Bit windy, though.
BIRD: “Drac Loves Lucy”?
BUFF: I already ran that one up the flagpole, and Hud piddy-widdled on it. Do you like “Courting Lucrezia”?
BIRD: Bit lame, innit?
BUFF: Well, it is more romantic, like. And there’s the double entendre.
BIRD: Yeah, it’s totally lame.
BUFF: Miserable auld Willy Wonker, always widdling on my parade.
BIRD: Does it really matter? Won’t the studio change the title anyway?
BUFF: Of course. They’ll probably call it “Love Sucks!” or some such shit.
BIRD: So go with that, beat ‘em to the Punch and Judy, like.
BUFF: Yeah, right… then they’ll call it “Blood on the Bailiff” or “Vampire Verdict” or something equally nauseating. You can't win with those assholes. I should try honest work for a change – like robbing graves or summat.
BIRD: There’s a good theme for a Holmes adventure, Buff.
BUFF: Hmmm, you could have something there. It’s a dark and stormy night on Baker Street, raining cats and Cocker Spaniels, and Holmes and Watters send out for a curry pizza. . .
BIRD: . . and some twit delivers a cadaver by mistake!
BUFF: Right, and Watson says…
WATSON: I say, Holmes, it’s bad enough that Katmandu Pizza’s gone and delivered us a stinking cadaver, but they’ve left off the anchovies again.
HOLMES: Worse than that, Watson, this cadaver is highly suspect. I have reason to believe that it was obtained illegally.
WATSON: Blimey, Holmes, how could you possible deduce that with no evidence whatsoever?
HOLMES: On the contrary, Watson, this corpse is crawling with evidence.
WATSON: Damned if I can see it, Holmes. The filthy swine’s so covered with curried rice it’s hard to make out any clues at all.
HOLMES: If you look more closely, you’ll see that the rice is moving, Watson.
WATSON: Eh, what? Ah, so it is. It’s maggots, then… filthy, slimy maggots… which could explain why it didn’t taste like curried rice at all.
HOLMES: Forget the vermin for now, Watson. They don’t tell us much, except that this cadaver is several days old, and hasn’t been properly refrigerated.
WATSON: Scandalous. Hand me the telephone, Holmes, I’m going to report those damned tricksters to the authorities. Baked fresh to order, indeed…
HOLMES: Hold the inside leg, Watson. Unless my ears deceive me, I think I hear Mrs. Hudson taking delivery of our pizza this very moment.
MRS. HUDSON: Oh, Mr. Holmes, your filthy curry pizza has arrived!
WATSON: Shall I go and retrieve it, Holmes?
HOLMES: As you wish, Watson, though I’ve quite lost my appetite. When you return I want you to call the pizza parlor and repeat the order you gave them earlier.
WATSON: Should I mention the missing anchovies, Holmes?
HOLMES: No, repeat the order verbatim.
WATSON: Very well, Holmes, but I thought you’d gone off your feed?
HOLMES: And so I have, Watson… but unless I’m very much mistaken, I think your order will result in the delivery of another cadaver.
WATSON: Well, if it does, as Heracles is my witness, I'll go back to burgers.
LATER...
MRS. HUDSON: Oh, Mr. Holmes, there’s a tradesman around the back entrance with another filthy body. Shall I send him up or tell him to clear off?
HOLMES: Send him up, Mrs. Hudson, straightaway. The topping is afoot. Finally, a murder to get my teeth into!
WATSON: Here we go again...
Thursday, May 03, 2007
JOOST IS THE WORD
Well, actually, it's not. But to be incontrovertible, what is Joost? What does it taste like? What does it smell like? What does it look like? Where does it live? What lies beneath all the hype and the slime? Should MySpace and YouTube and Britney feel threatened? Is Second Life out of breath? Is Google about to be God no? Is Adsense ass sense? Is blogroll no better than bog roll? Is there beauty in the beast? Is the environment a nice place to live? Is silverlight as translucent as Bakolite? Are cream crackers really so smooth? Is vitamin C the tablet of choice? Is the Year Zero a band or a brand? Is Digg not all that groovy? Are current events as sexy as Kent? Is the vacuum the cleaner or the wiser? Is open-source a scar or a spot? Can HD-DVD be better than Pal? Is Ajax a place or a powder? Is Coke still cool or all bubbled out? Are the children safe or about to grow old? Isn't it time to stop calling me baby? What is war if not the absence of peace? Is daily life not finally at an end? Where is American Idol going? Are you really my friend? Must people scowl?
Ink-wiring minds...
Ink-wiring minds...
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
NEW FEATURE: IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK?
TOMCHIK, A MAN OF MYSTERY, SOME SAY HALF LITERAL/HALF VERSUPIAL. AN INQUISITOR IF EVER THERE WOZ ONE. ASK HIM ANYTHING & HE'LL... THINK ABOUT IT. A GENIUS IN HIS OWN SHOPPING BASKET, A LEGEND IN HIS OWN CROTCH, LADIES & GENTLEMEN, I GIVE YOU...
IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK?
BIRD: So anyway, I was wondering...
TOMCHIK: Yes?
BIRD: Well, maybe you could tell us about yourself, make the readers feel comfy with you.
TOMCHIK: Well, it seems to me, you know, that possibly this will not happen, but I will endeavour.
BIRD: That's the spirit. Now here's a little getting to know Tomchik questionnaire. First, is it true that I invented you in Thomas Mann's own image because you have your nose stuck in a book, even whilst making love?
TOMCHIK: I have been known to turn a few pages during fornication, this is an accurate statement.
BIRD: And you are medium height?
TOMCHIK: That is so.
BIRD: Medium build?
TOMCHIK: It would appear to be the case.
BIRD: You have receding curly black hair on an unusually large jutting forehead?
TOMCHIK: Well, yes, I agree.
BIRD: And you have large Bambi black eyes?
TOMCHIK: They have been referred to as cute by certain members of the female population.
BIRD: And you are still searching for the seventh dimension?
TOMCHIK: Yes, that and the missing chapter from Lady Chatterley's Lover.
BIRD: And your favourite meal is Uzbek dumplings with lamb and pilau rice?
TOMCHIK: Don't forget the green tea with oatmeal biscuits.
BIRD: As if. OK, here goes. Favourite colour?
TOMCHIK: Black, although indigo has its merits.
BIRD: Dog or cat?
TOMCHIK: Fruit bat, actually. A fascinating creature.
BIRD: Airplane or train?
TOMCHIK: Bicycle, if possible. Although I did suffer a terrible head wound the last time I cycled in central London. One really doesn't know how to educate the thoughtless inner city driver.
BIRD: Top five books ever?
TOMCHIK: I could not possibly give you an answer before sometime next week, but the most influential book on my way of thinking has been Only Cowgirls Get The Blues by Tom Robbins, and on my way of preparing food The Beginner's Guide To Mastering Bacon by Alain de Jamrolly.
BIRD: The last film you saw?
TOMCHIK: One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, on DVD. It rekindled my fondness for basketball and all things medicinal.
BIRD: Favourite pastime, apart from reading?
TOMCHIK: I like to walk and swim and fish and rummage through people's bins for objects of interest.
BIRD: Most embarrassing moment during puberty?
TOMCHIK: Discovering that my mother couldn't ski. No, that my father could not play the piano OR build his own radio transmitter.
BIRD: Most embarrassing moment in adulthood?
TOMCHIK: Losing a volume of Proust's Remembrance Of Things Past somewhere between Barnet & Camden Town on the Northern Line of the London Underground whilst under the influence of a wine gum.
BIRD: That's great. I think our readers are now building up a picture of you. Now it's time for the punchline.
TOMCHIK: I am ready.
BIRD: Alvin Toffler states in The Third Wave, that ageing societies will be using new medical technologies from self-diagnosis to instant toilet urinalysis to self-administered therapies delivered by nanotechnology to do for themselves what doctors used to do. Well, IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK?
TOMCHIK: It seems to me that this pronouncement largely depends on many factors which once factored into the multitude of existing factors and those factors which do not at present exist but will one day come into being and thus, one's understanding of the fundamental proposition must be by its very nature compromised.
BIRD: Wow. I think you're going to fit in nicely on the blog. Tomchik, thanks for dropping by. We'll be back next week with more mouthwatering utterances and gutterances in IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK?
AND YOU CAN VISIT THE IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK? PODCAST SHORTLY ON YouTube & OTHER CLASSY OUTLETS
IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK?
BIRD: So anyway, I was wondering...
TOMCHIK: Yes?
BIRD: Well, maybe you could tell us about yourself, make the readers feel comfy with you.
TOMCHIK: Well, it seems to me, you know, that possibly this will not happen, but I will endeavour.
BIRD: That's the spirit. Now here's a little getting to know Tomchik questionnaire. First, is it true that I invented you in Thomas Mann's own image because you have your nose stuck in a book, even whilst making love?
TOMCHIK: I have been known to turn a few pages during fornication, this is an accurate statement.
BIRD: And you are medium height?
TOMCHIK: That is so.
BIRD: Medium build?
TOMCHIK: It would appear to be the case.
BIRD: You have receding curly black hair on an unusually large jutting forehead?
TOMCHIK: Well, yes, I agree.
BIRD: And you have large Bambi black eyes?
TOMCHIK: They have been referred to as cute by certain members of the female population.
BIRD: And you are still searching for the seventh dimension?
TOMCHIK: Yes, that and the missing chapter from Lady Chatterley's Lover.
BIRD: And your favourite meal is Uzbek dumplings with lamb and pilau rice?
TOMCHIK: Don't forget the green tea with oatmeal biscuits.
BIRD: As if. OK, here goes. Favourite colour?
TOMCHIK: Black, although indigo has its merits.
BIRD: Dog or cat?
TOMCHIK: Fruit bat, actually. A fascinating creature.
BIRD: Airplane or train?
TOMCHIK: Bicycle, if possible. Although I did suffer a terrible head wound the last time I cycled in central London. One really doesn't know how to educate the thoughtless inner city driver.
BIRD: Top five books ever?
TOMCHIK: I could not possibly give you an answer before sometime next week, but the most influential book on my way of thinking has been Only Cowgirls Get The Blues by Tom Robbins, and on my way of preparing food The Beginner's Guide To Mastering Bacon by Alain de Jamrolly.
BIRD: The last film you saw?
TOMCHIK: One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, on DVD. It rekindled my fondness for basketball and all things medicinal.
BIRD: Favourite pastime, apart from reading?
TOMCHIK: I like to walk and swim and fish and rummage through people's bins for objects of interest.
BIRD: Most embarrassing moment during puberty?
TOMCHIK: Discovering that my mother couldn't ski. No, that my father could not play the piano OR build his own radio transmitter.
BIRD: Most embarrassing moment in adulthood?
TOMCHIK: Losing a volume of Proust's Remembrance Of Things Past somewhere between Barnet & Camden Town on the Northern Line of the London Underground whilst under the influence of a wine gum.
BIRD: That's great. I think our readers are now building up a picture of you. Now it's time for the punchline.
TOMCHIK: I am ready.
BIRD: Alvin Toffler states in The Third Wave, that ageing societies will be using new medical technologies from self-diagnosis to instant toilet urinalysis to self-administered therapies delivered by nanotechnology to do for themselves what doctors used to do. Well, IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK?
TOMCHIK: It seems to me that this pronouncement largely depends on many factors which once factored into the multitude of existing factors and those factors which do not at present exist but will one day come into being and thus, one's understanding of the fundamental proposition must be by its very nature compromised.
BIRD: Wow. I think you're going to fit in nicely on the blog. Tomchik, thanks for dropping by. We'll be back next week with more mouthwatering utterances and gutterances in IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK?
AND YOU CAN VISIT THE IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK? PODCAST SHORTLY ON YouTube & OTHER CLASSY OUTLETS
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
IN DEFENCE OF GALILEA MONTIJA
And I quote: "The kid has a lovely wanger. Give him a chance!" - Britney.
And I quote again: "Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother." - George Orwell.
And I quote again: "Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother." - George Orwell.
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