WIND AND KITE ON DA BACK SEAT

BIRD: Snap out of it, dude. It may never happen.

BUFFALO: Wot do you know about it, dude? You weren't there.

BIRD: The mind plays winsome tricks, pair of noya an' all.

BUFFALO: Whatever. But I know wot she said.

BIRD: Just words, Buffters. Sometimes well ordered. Sometimes misplaced.

BUFFALO: Dude, listen to yourself. You're playing the game too. Aiming for profound but hitting a big fat pisswilly asswonk.

BIRD: Now I know you're upset, and a shade disorientated even, but you can be civil.

BUFFALO: I wear my heart on my sleeve. And everything else. You don't like it, suck on my gazunda!

BIRD: Whoa. Violation 1, retraction accepted. I haven't done anything. I'm trying to get you to talk your way through the fading blancmange.

BUFFALO: Highly unsuck-Cecilly so far, I might subtract.

BIRD: OK, look, if you hadn't started at A then said B then heard C but thought D, E wouldn't have occurred to you now. And as for F and G, well, they can wait until we've sussed out if A1 has got something to do with this.

BUFFALO: Cut the nitwibble, Birdman. You think I've got the wrong end of the pole vault. No more, no less.

BIRD: Or the right end of the electrode.

BUFFALO: I transcend that last remark. I haven't resorted to the Twirling Super Cone for well over two weeks. And I didn't think D at all. And hactually, I was closer to H when I found I'd hit the underpass, so to speak.

BIRD: Good. Now we're getting somewhere. Now if you were to articulate H, what would it be?

BUFFALO: Sharp, dude. Max respect. Well, H would be "wind". Gusts of. Howling. Blowing in. Listening to. In the willows. Of change.

BIRD: And D?

BUFFALO: Which I didn't think of anyway. D would be "kite". As high as. Go fly a. Red. Swirling. Punctured. Jeez, I'm SO depressed.

BIRD: Come on, dude. You remember that story you told me about when you were seven and you flew that kite higher than anyone and won all the choccies?

BUFFALO: Wot of it?

BIRD: Make yourself another kite, a massive one and get out on that hill and fly it! Fur get all your whirlies.

BUFFALO: Oh, wot's the point? As Mayakovsky said, "Love's boat has been shat on against the life of everyday".

BIRD: That's "shattered", dude, and when he wrote that he hadn't slept for a week. And he was well fooked by the authorities. But he never let a casual remark injure him.

BUFFALO: It wasn't a casual remark, and it didn't injure me. It just made me think that careless lips start heavy rumours. Turns out, the only reality worth catching is on the back seat of a parked car in a cul-de-sac with a cork a-popping. Encore!

BIRD: Dat's my boy! Sensory overload at eleven?

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!