A CHRISTMAS SCENE Q TOBY IN THE PANTRY

WATSON: I say, Holmes.

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: You haven't, have you?

HOLMES: Not yet, but I was thinking about it.

WATSON: Shall we?

HOLMES: Well, I don't see why not.

WATSON: One, two, three...

(RIPPING SOUND)

WATSON: Toby, you filthy mutt!

HOLMES: Abominable hound!

WATSON: Whiffy woofer!

HOLMES: No more beans for you, my lad.

WATSON: Hudders, take him away.

HOLMES: Lock him in the pantry and throw away the key.

WATSON: Serves him right.

HOLMES: Quite.

WATSON: I say, Holmes.

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: I can feel another one coming on.

HOLMES: Me too.

WATSON: But now there's no Toby to take the flak.

HOLMES: Indeed.

WATSON: What to do what what what.

HOLMES: Open the window quick and get the bellows ready.

WATSON: Top hole!

HOLMES: Quick, I said!

(WINDOW IS FLUNG OPEN, FOLLOWED BY LOUD RIP)

HOLMES & WATSON: Ahhhh...

WATSON: Merry Christmas, Holmes!

HOLMES: Merry Christmas, Watson!

WATSON: Ablutions at eleven.

HOLMES: Not half!

FIRING BLANKS IN A WINDY CRESCENT AT CHRISTMAS TIME IN THE MORNING

FIRING BLANKS IN A WINDY CRESCENT

AT CHRISTMAS TIME IN THE MORNING

I was

firing blanks

but she didn't

seem to

mind

WHAT'S FOR TEA, DORIS?

THE RUNNER-UP IN MARTHA'S MUFFINS SIMMERING GENTLY POETRY OF THE LOST MILLENNIUM SPONSORED BY YouBoob IS...

WHAT'S FOR TEA, DORIS?

Safe in

the

glow

Of

A

Dung Beetle's

Poo

What's for tea,

Doris?

NetFlix Fix Q Sparky Nooks

BIRD: Buff, what's Sparky been up to lately?

BUFFALO: Fookin' up, as usual.

BIRD: What's he done now?

BUFFALO: I've been waiting all week for my first DVD from NetFlix. It finally occurred to me that bonehead might've intercepted it. Sure enough. The flaming twit didn't even bother to read the address label. He sent it back, because HE hadn't ordered it.

BIRD: Have you properly chastised him, then?

BUFFALO: No, it does no good. He just stands like a plank, inscrutable as a bleedin' Buddha. Doesn't matter if you praise him and give him a dog biscuit or smack him upside the head with a snow shovel. No reaction. It's inhuman, like.

BIRD: What about his cooking? Has it improved at all?

BUFFALO: Not a bit. Every day when he returns from work he nooks some kind of vile concoction in the nooker. No idea what it is, but it smells like the toxic residue from the horse-knacking factory. I have to fumigate the oven before I can use it, and I'm spending a small fortune on room deodorizers. It's a wonder the silly twit isn't glowing in the dark.

BIRD: Has his smeller gone tits up, then?

BUFFALO: Apparently so. I doubt if he can taste anything, either. He spent 22 years pickling his tongue with vodka, y'know.

BIRD: Ah, right, he was the original old booze machine, innit? He's still on the wagon, though?

BUFFALO: Yeah, but he was a lot more fun when he was on the sauce. Now he has the sense of humor of a Catholic missionary, which is to say, nun at all.

BIRD: Blimey. Has he no hobbies?

BUFFALO: Well, there's a persistent rumor that he weaves macramé key chains from his own ass hairs, but personally I doubt if he has that much ambition.

BIRD: Do the two of you ever just sit around and chew the fat?

BUFFALO: No, even when he was still putting away a quart of shellac a day, it was like trying to talk to your big toe, only to find out that it had become anti-social, like. The attention span of a two year old when he was in his cups.

BIRD: So, what exactly is the glue that keeps this relationship together?

BUFFALO: He pays half the rent and keeps a low profile. It's a lot like being married, with only half the inconvenience.

BIRD: You two are the contemporary Odd Couple, fur shore, Buffers.

BUFFALO: True. I could write a book.

BIRD: Or a blog.

BUFFALO: There's an idea.

BIRD: Well, have to go now. Time to wax the oven.

BUFFALO: Same here. I have an appointment to have my bowling ball redrilled.

BIRD: Good luck with that.

BUFFALO: Righto, and by the by, tanks for da mammaries.

BIRD: Film at eleven?

BUFFALO: Arf, arf.

MAMMARIES WON'T LET YOU DOWN

BUFFALO: As you may have guessed, I didn't hang myself after all.

BIRD: Glad to hear it, dude.

BUFFALO: Although I should have.

BIRD: What stopped ya, like?

BUFFALO: Mammaries, I mean memories.

BIRD: Ah, memories. They won't let you down.

BUFFALO: Even though most of them are bad ones. Horrorshow nightmares, like.

BIRD: But at least they're yours.

BUFFALO: And they keep coming back, stabbing me when I'm not looking.

BIRD: Wot, memories?

BUFFALO: Mammaries.

BIRD: Mammaries?!

BUFFALO: Mammaries, memories, aren't they the same thing, all things sagged and done? I just know that if Mom hadn't denied me that lactose at birth, I'd be a happier bison now. Dad always said jugs would be my downfall.

BIRD: Dude, you're not making much sense.

BUFFALO: Every time I try to reach out to them they elude my touch, fall out of focus, slip softly away leaving no trace. I've spent my life trying to grasp them, trying to BE with them. But no, they don't want me, they never did, and here I am again, clutching at contours, wondering why they won't let me in. But I've got a cunning plan.

BIRD: Great. Please spill.

BUFFALO: Yeah, I'm gonna sneak up on them when they least expect it and when they stop, when they pause for thought, I'm gonna wrap my paws over them and squeeze 'em tight and I ain't never letting go. And they will reveal to me their hidden truths. Oh, yes, they will. And no more shall I flounder in a sea of emptiness and stale gloves. For they shall be mine. Mine, ya hear! ALL MINE!

BIRD: Dude, I think you've been at the creosote again. When are ya seeing the head doc again?

BUFFALO: Short Lee, Birdy, my old feather. Wait, I can hear some coming. Ha-ha! Come to me, sweet little mammaries, come to Dadda! Laters, dude.

BIRD: Fulfeeling at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

THIS EXTRACT IS FROM THE FORTHCOMING BIRD & BUFFALO POTBOILER JUGS FOR THE MAMMARIES, A PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO THE MECHANISMS OF SENSORY WITHDRAWAL 1901-1913 TO BE PUBLISHED BY SUCCULENTPAIRS.COM

HOT GROG SAVE ME Q 911

BUFFALO: Damn, nose stuffed up, head throbbing, muscles aching, eyes burning... and no lemons or whisky to make hot toddies with. Sonofabitch. No choice but to make a lemon and likker run, I guess. Hmmm. Let's see... there's some gin, but no whisky... blackberry brandy; God no, if I start on that, I'll do the whole pint and then I'm screwed, blue, er, black... black and blue. No, what I need is hot buttered rum - fookin' GROG! Yes, that's the ticket, hot grog with butter and biscuits. I can drink it and bathe in it. Okay, shower, fook the shave, off to Kroger's and the likker store. If that turd calls me "Boss" again I'm decking him. I don't know what's worse, "My friend" or "Boss". On second thoughts, maybe I'll just hang myself from the highest beam. But I can't find the rope I'm looking for, a classic Sacre Bleu Velveeta Rope (in Latin, an SPQR). All the others are much too scratchy (and tacky). When I finally do hang myself, it will be with the utmost style and decorum. Onwards and downwards. Birdy, you dere? Birdy! Dammit! Better phone 911 for a crane!

A BLOGO BY ANY OTHER NAME

BUFFALO: Wot a logo! Wot a logo! All the girls I've ever known have loved woodpeckers. Or is it woodies and peckers? It's been so long now. Anyhoo...

BIRD: A pecker made of pine even, hence the expression, pining for you!

BUFFALO: The Plywood Pecker. . . good name for a bar.

BIRD: Serving fresh woodies daily.

BUFFALO: Made my vanilla sundae, innit.

BIRD: And my raspberry cheesecake.

BUFFALO: And don't forget the mugs, thousands of them, floating into space.

BIRD: To educate and alleviate the asses.

BUFFALO: Quite right, Lee. Expressing our infernal gratitude to the Foxy Finn for immortalizing us in pen, ink and drool.

BIRD: And so she has. A blog isn't a blog without a good logo.

BUFFALO: A blogo, like.

BIRD: Egg-zack-lee! Aren't you the clever Buff?

BUFFALO: Well, I don't have a brain the size of a pea, innit?

BIRD: You filthy beast! Jeremiah, fetch my Hawkin gun! Take that, you cowardly bovine!

BUFFALO: Ouch! That hurt!

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

BOUVET ISLAND BOOGIE

BIRD: Yup, it's true, Buff. We have officially become the cultural ambassadors for Bouvet Island. And henceforth they have agreed to replace their flag with our logo.

BUFFALO: Wikkid! Now wot about da chicks, like, innit, wasshappin, dude?

BIRD: Been at the sherry trifle again, I fear. It's uninhabited, like. But I'm sure Miss Bouvet Island, 2007, a vegetarian, will oblige with the formalities.

BUFFALO: Nice! Anyone for seconds?

BIRD: Yaaap!

BUFFALO: Three cheers for the logo and Marja, the whizzo with the coloured stick! Hip, hip...

B&B: Hooray!

BUFFALO: Hip, hip...

B&B: Hooray!

BUFFALO: Hip, hip...

B&B: Hoorayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!

BUFFALO: Oh, fudge rocket, I've soiled myself.

BIRD: Nice! Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Unlimited T-shirts, mugs and assorted memorabilly-ya at twelve. Arf, arf!