LIKE A TURD FROM A TALL COW'S ASS

BUFFALO: Back from the south of France, are we?

BIRD: Alas, too true. Stuffed to the gunwales with pate de foie gras, truffles, escargot, brie, and buckets of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. So, I trust you fared well in my absence?

BUFFALO: No, but I falled well. . . fell, whatever.

BIRD: Cor blimey, missus! Not another accident?

BUFFALO: More like a catastrophe than an accident.

BIRD: Give us the feather and tails, Buff.

BUFFALO: A comedy of errors, Birdy. Mistake number one, I ventured into the shadowlands of downtown Detroit, at night, in a poorly lit neighborhood affectionately known as "The Bowery" - where one is advised to go armed.

BIRD: Blimey, were you trolling for muggers, like?

BUFFALO: No, I was enroute to a French flic.

BIRD: In a poorly lit alley?

BUFFALO: Argh. No, it was off-campus student housing for Wayne State University, named for Mad Anthony Wayne, a hero of the late unpleasantness between the Yanks and the Brits. A charming three story brick edifice that should have been condemned about 30 years ago.

BIRD: Ah, I see, you were trolling for co-eds.

BUFFALO: Argh. No, I was Lincoln up with my cameraman and his droogies. We were all going to see "Paris, J'Taime" at the bloody art theater.

BIRD: And you were struck by a lorry or sumfink?

BUFFALO: Ha, I wish. I followed Ken and his homies up to his flat where he proceeded to roll a spliff the size of a Monte Cristo.

BIRD: The sarnie?

BUFFALO: No, the cigar, you bloody obtuse ocelot.

BIRD: In udder wurst, you got stoned?

BUFFALO: Like Quasimodo, dude. That was mistake number two. I was in fookin' Wonderland.

BIRD: So, let me guess, you caught a rubber spark and set yourself on fire.

BUFFALO: No, worse than that. I was so wasted I left my jacket, wallet, money, driver's license, etc. in the bloody apartment. Mistake number three.

BIRD: Then time dilation set in and you missed the movie.

BUFFALO: Amazingly, I had the presence of mind to mind the time, so we departed Ken's den of iniquity on time.

BIRD: I see what's coming. With your gulliver in the ozone, you fell down the stairs and cracked your melon like a coconut.

BUFFALO: I wish I had. No, despite the fact that navigating the steep, narrow staircase was giving me flashbacks of "Vertigo", I made it to the front porch without incident.

BIRD: Ah, so you tumbled down the front steps, then?

BUFFALO: No, I made it to the sidewalk all right, then stepped off a curb, having failed to see it. Lost my balance and fell flat on my ugly mug, like a flippin' flapjack, in a patch of rough asphalt. Ken says I fell like a turd from a tall cow's ass, hitting the pavement KER-SPLAT, with no defensive moves, being highly tanked at the time.

BIRD: So how was the movie?

BUFFALO: Sod the movie! I was totally fooked up beyond all recognition, dude. Felt like someone had used me for an accordion and tried to bend me in two at the ribs. I was scraped from head to knee, bleeding and all.

BIRD: Hors alor, Buff! Did they take you to the horse pistol, then?

BUFFALO: No, I blew off the movie and drove to Osbee's place. She cleaned me up and bandaged me, like, and asked me how it happened.

BIRD: Did you tell her?

BUFFALO: Fook, no, I told her I was mugged. I was hoping I might get a sympathy sleeve job out of it, but no such luck.

BIRD: Did the lads go on to the movie, then?

BUFFALO: Yeah. Ken told me later that there were about five scenes in the movie where someone fell down, and every time, those wonkers laffed their arses off. Fookin' white punks on dope.

BIRD: A wee bit wet behind the ears, are they?

BUFFALO: Yeah, college students, green as grass. You could set yerself on fire and they'd think it was fookin' hilarious, ask you for an encore. Fookin' Philistines.

BIRD: So, how are you feeling now?

BUFFALO: Like a fookin' mule kicked me in the spare ribs, innit?

BIRD: Well, Buff, I certainly hope that you've learned something from all this, especially in regard to indulging in contraband, as it were.

BUFFALO: Indeed I have, Birdy.

BIRD: And that would be. . . ?

BUFFALO: When you know you're going to get ripped, be sure to bring a flashlight or a seeing-eye dog - and wear your wallet around your neck, like a flippin' albatross.

BIRD: I was hoping for more of a moral lesson, like.

BUFFALO: Birdy, we were going to a movie, not doing mushrooms.

BIRD: And you're quite sure you weren't trolling for co-eds?

BUFFALO: No way. Ken says the women who live in his apartment building rent themselves out for truffle hunts.

BIRD: Sacre bleu!

BUFFALO: Anyhoo, it's time for my meds, Birdy.

BIRD: A double dose of the old saltpeter, Buff?

BUFFALO: No, a handful of Mortrin, a couple of Darvocets, a good slug of codeine cough syrup, and a large snifter of Harvey's Bristol Cream, laced with Jack Daniels.

BIRD: My God, Buff, that would fell a shire horse!

BUFFALO: Yes, but fortunately, I'm a Buffalo, innit. Woo! Hit me, Mr Trank. Hit me!

BIRD: Film at eleven?

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

WIBBLING AND DWIBBLING ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON

WATSON: I say, Holmes.

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: I'm bored.

HOLMES: Where's Hudders?

WATSON: Out window shopping again, what what what.

HOLMES: Oh. And you've got nothing to read? No learned research papers? Or a decent comic?

WATSON: I've read The Medical Impersonal from cover to cover. And The Dandy is just not up to scratch this week.

HOLMES: What about a crossword? A conundrum, even.

WATSON: I fear I don't have the patience. I mean, it's Saturday, Holmes. We should be outside, perusing, solving crimes, catching unsavoury villains. Instead of which, here we are, sitting in our moth-eaten armchairs, twiddling our thumbs, gazing at the ceiling, wondering when it's all going to end.

HOLMES: Speak for yourself, O Hippocratic One, I am engaged in deep contemplation.

WATSON: Oh, really? On what subject?

HOLMES: I am contemplating my navel, old bean. Its shape, size, essence, spiritual significance and imposing presence.

WATSON: (chortles) No, don't, Holmes, I'll pee myself. Contemplating your navel. Oh, Jeeves, that's most whimsical.

HOLMES: Why do you laugh? Did I say something rib-ticklingly hilarious?

WATSON: Your navel... oh, really, no, I can't... (giggles like demented choir boy)

HOLMES: I rib tickle ye not, Watty Botty. The navel is all-encompassing. You ignore it at your peril.

WATSON: Ignore it? I don't ignore it, old thing. Never knowingly, anyway. I haven't seen it for 15 years. I suppose it's still there but it passed out of view before I became fully aware of its um... true meaning. I could get Hudders to examine it.

HOLMES: Oh, I'm sure she's done that already. Do you have an outee or an inee?

WATSON: I beg your pardon?

HOLMES: Does your tummy button protrude or invert?

WATSON: I'm afraid you've lost me past the formaldehyde, Holmes. One craves an explanation.

HOLMES: Watson, it's VERY important which one you have. I have an outee, that is to say, it protrudes, it projects, it is... proudly prominent, like yours truly.

WATSON: Hmm. Well, all I can tell you is that I have terrible trouble washing the abominable thing.

HOLMES: Sounds like you do indeed have an inee, which would explain your reticence, uncertainty and general morbidity.

WATSON: Do you really think so?

HOLMES: Well, it's not an exact science but according to a survey in The Doctor's Ingest Bi-Monthly nine out of ten people revert to type.

WATSON: Good Lord!

HOLMES: And it is said in Quacked Incorporating Whacko Weekly that the navel contains the the living history of one's ancestry. Thus, I was contemplating my navel.

WATSON: But but but... It can't be true.

HOLMES: Well, maybe it is. I always get a twinge when thunder is on its way. And it definitely moves when I tell a fib, which admittedly is not often, but still. Sometimes, it seems as if it has a life of its own. Quite extraordinary.

WATSON: Oh, for Horatio's sake, Holmes! Next you'll be saying it talks to you.

HOLMES: Yes, I believe it does, sometimes. In navel speak, so to speak. It wibbles when it's time for tea.

WATSON: Good Lord!

HOLMES: And dwibbles when it's time for bed.

WATSON: Good Gosh!

HOLMES: And bwibbles when it's time for... well, let's leave it there, shall we? But yes, it is a living thing with a will of its own. Or is it? I truly can't decide. If only more people would contemplate their navels more often, perhaps we would find the answer to this perplexing question.

WATSON: Holmes, you've been at the Warfarin again. Why, your navel is no more alive than... than... Hudders' beloved Tabby that was flattened by a Hackney carriage but last week.

HOLMES: Show me.

WATSON: Show you what?

HOLMES: Get your navel out. Let's see if it responds to questioning.

WATSON: Now you're just being plain daft.

HOLMES: Whip it out, I say. Let scientific method decide.

WATSON: Oh, all right. If this will break your blessed obession with your Umbilicus. There! Happy now?

HOLMES: No more than I am on any other weekend. Now pay attention. Think about having a hearty lunch.

WATSON: Now you're talking. Oh, yum. Yes, a Sunday roast with lashings of gravy and Yorkshire pudding.

HOLMES: Look! There! It moved!

WATSON: What's that you say?

HOLMES: It wibbled.

WATSON: But but but...

HOLMES: Now yawn a bit, stretch your arms. Think about slumber.

WATSON: Oh... (yawns and stretches)

HOLMES: Ha! It dwibbled. Who's the cracked quack now, hmm?

WATSON: Poppycock. And anyway, as I've already, I can't see the blighter so you could say whatever you liked.

HOLMES: Here, take this pocket mirror and observe.

WATSON: Hmm, well, all right then.

HOLMES: A piping roast with delicious Yorshire pud!

WATSON: Good Lord! It wibbled!

HOLMES: I rest my case.

WATSON: But that's impossible.

HOLMES: Watch. I'm stretching my arms and pretending to yawn.

WATSON: Good Lord! It dwibbled! It's alive!

HOLMES: O ye of little faith.

WATSON: That's absolutely remarkable. I say, Holmes.

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: Let's sit here and contemplate our navels together.

HOLMES: Right you are, old chum.

WATSON: Hmm.

HOLMES: Hmm.

WATSON: Wibble at eleven?

HOLMES: Not 'arf!