OF GAY DOGS AND COCAINE

WATSON: I've been thinking, Holmes...

HOLMES: Steady on, old chap, you might blow a blood vessel, and we wouldn't want that.

WATSON: No, really, I've been thinking about Toby.

HOLMES: Oh, dear. I do wish Hudders would fix the inflatable doll so I could distract myself from your daily dollop of mind-numbing claptrap.

WATSON: Seriously, Holmes, do you think Toby's, well, you know, sniffing up the other leg?

HOLMES: What on earth are you raving on about now, Watters? Have you been at the aniseed cake again?

WATSON: I mean, well, to put it bluntly, do you think his canine excitement lies elsewhere?

HOLMES: Oh, for Hudders sake, of course Toby's gay. I can't believe you've only just cottoned on to that fact.

WATSON: You knew? But when? How? With...

HOLMES: It was elementary, my dear quack, from the moment he started rising to the occasion on Primrose Hill whenever he saw Butch the Bulldog stomp by. Why, he even tried to mount Inspector Lestrade outside Scotland Yard last Christmas, if you recall.

WATSON: Oh, come now, he was only being playful. I mean, are you sure he barks for the other side? He seemed so fond of Clarissa, the poodle at number eight.

HOLMES: As sure as I am that that Moriarty partakes of an unsuspecting goat every now and then.

WATSON: No, Holmes! Tell me it isn't so! Why, the fiend. How utterly revolting. Does he, you know, dress her up and whatnot? In stockings and suspenders?

HOLMES: Watson, I have long suspected you of extreme perversity and unhealthy proclivities but this takes the Digestive. I can only say that it is better if you do not pursue this particular avenue of inquiry for your own sake.

WATSON: Yes, of course. All this talk of depravity is making me feel rather faint, old thing. I think I'll just go and have a lie down.

HOLMES: I fear, old chum, that that would not be a sensible course of action at this juncture. You might be tempted to have a flick at the old Freddy, what what what. Here, sniff this. It might quieten him down for a while.

WATSON: Holmes, you know I can't partake of intoxicating substances. It plays havoc with my bladder. And I'd be struck off in a whisker if the Medical Council ever found out.

HOLMES: For Pete's sake, it's only a pinch of coke. Never hurt anyone. Good stuff too, by all accounts. Fresh from the docks.

WATSON: Confound it, Holmes, what on earth would the great British public think if they knew that the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson were discussing gay dogs and goats in stockings and suspenders and cocaine?

HOLMES: Watson, I strongly suspect that if they knew, book sales would go through the roof and we'd become a global brand. Then we'd be able to retire to sunnier climes, with totty and booze and barbiturates beyond our wildest dreams.

WATSON: Oh, abomination, sugar and spice! Are the public so puerile, so base, so corrupted that moral upstanding has no place in society any more?

HOLMES: Never did, Watty Poos. It is but a meaningless, stifling veneer through which we breathe. Now feast your hooter on this. Go on.

(TOBY HOWLS IN DELIGHT IN THE DISTANCE)

WATSON: Oh, Toby! We're going to hell in a basket for this, Holmes, mark my words.

(BUTCH THE BULLDOG GRUNTS LOUDLY IN DELIGHT IN THE DISTANCE)

WATSON: Oh, woe are we. (SNIFFS COKE) Oh... Great shit, Holmes.

HOLMES: Indeed, Watson. Gay dogs on cocaine at eleven.

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

The milk of human kindness
Doth runneth over
And turneth sour
And clot
And stinketh to high heaven.

PUBISTAN WRITERS SUPPORT CAMPAIGN TO REVIVE INSOLENT RUDDER

COMMUNIQUE FROM COLLECTIVE OF WRITERS OF THE PUBISH TO THE GREAT INQUISITOR ON INNER NET:

My Dear!

Please release great comrade and eternal friend of Pubish revolution, Tim Ljunggren, to continue on the paths - revolutionary, economic, social, five year orientated and promulgated through institutional instruments of rehabilitation - to the glory of the worldwide creative thrust!

Thank you!

We kiss you!

But not your ass!

Verdimita "Steve" Ripyorebollokov

PS Is me, Maxim. Ha! Pull finger out, Tim. Let sun shine in!

You remember this below?


NOTES FROM PUBISTAN PART 3 – by Maxim Ripyorebollokov
Translated by Stewart Sumner

Dear readers, it is me again, Maxim Ripyorebollokov, the future of literature in the unfree world! Greetings to you all! As I squeeze the final drops of fervent dew from the horn of the affair with Larissa, Miss Pube 2007, a vegetarian, I thus seek the ultimate clarity (Trans – the Pubish word for red wine and lucidity are the same – klarkost. It is unclear what Maxim means to convey here). But where to find clarity? To shout loudly from the tree branch? To shudder in front of farmyard animal traffic? To pluck hair from a rabbit till the bladder is on display? “Drink to thine clarity”, the great Pubish poet Dmitri Ripyorebollokov – no relation – proclaimed as night was drawing in over State Rabbit Farm 6.5 one hoary night post-Revolution (Trans – you’re on your own here, the meaning is all but lost on a non-Pube).

O Sweet clarity, come forth to me. Show yourself, if thou’st dare. I was deep in thoughtfulness at the office yesterday when I was approached from behind by the man they call Spider. Officially, he is chief of quality control and a fine sculptor, which is a amplitudinous shame since sculpture was banned in the Second Decree of the Post-Revolution Phase of Our Great Revolution. So Spider – genuine name Richard but Spider since he is full of mischief and malice and crawls rather than walks. Also, he is deceptively quick to pounce. “So,” I said, “Spider, you are here!” “Yes,” Spider said, “I am. I have recipe for rabbit cake. You want?” I suspected a trap. “Yes, all right, Spider. Please.” Ha! He gave me no recipe, just the price to pay for such top secret information. You know, the last time rabbit cake was made in Pubistan was in the cruel, foreboding, winter of ’76. That was when we still had an abundance of cream. For your intrigue, now a bowl of imported cream cost 2 Pubes on blackest market. That is roughly 10 million of your American dollars! So anyway, I watched intently Spider with his hairy legs as he slowly crawled back to his darkened corner by the trap door to the exit used for employees who have displeased the furtherance of the glorious State of Pubistan in some despicable way. Sometimes, it is possible to believe Spider is indeed a spider and that it is my self-deception which maintains him to be a human being, but that way madness lies, and the trap door.

What does Spider want in life? What can he hope for? Will he fall through the trap door before he has realised his dream of assembling the greatest collection of octopedes the world outside Pubistan has never seen? Despite the fact that he is truly creepy and smells like a rabbit’s genitals after a prolonged session of heightened activity, I wish him only happiness and a resolution of his mother’s gender reassignment issues.

But sorry. Really. Where is the literature? You ask. I present you with two paragraphs of my novel, which unfortunately, do not follow sequentially, consequentially or even logically from what has gone before. You like? There is hope.

Night fell. The burrowing began. He stretched his arm out. The hand was not there. Just the newspaper with no news and the walking stick with no handle. They would find him. Soon. The trail of imported peanut butter would lead them to his resting place. His movements were slight. More twitching than calculated. The in-tray of despair mounted ever higher.

Were you gripped? And this paragraph. I think this might be the end. We shall see. Forgive me, for it is short.

The words tumbled. The wind blew. The extremely happy rabbit clucked. A pause. A heartbeat. Silence.

Oh, joy extended beyond, my friends. The literary journey continues. I must extinguish the candle now and think of Marsha, Miss Pube 2008, a carnivore. She could partake of my meat any day.

Long live The Pubish Writers Union!

Hail words together! May they never be parted!

I kiss you!

Maxim

THE CUCUMBER OF LOVE ONCE SCORNED

WINNER OF THE 2009 PROMOTING THE RESPONSIBLE USE OF CUCUMBERS AND OTHER VEGETABLES IN LOVING RELATIONSHIPS POETRY PRIZE

THE CUCUMBER OF LOVE ONCE SCORNED

I offered her
my great throbbing
cucumber of love
But she didn't carrot all for it.

AND THE WINNER OF THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE 2009...

BARACK OBAMA REFUSES TO ACCEPT THE PRIZE AND INSTEAD GIVES IT TO THE BIRD & BUFFALO, FOR EXTRAORDINARY EFFORTS TO PROMOTE PEACE AND MUTUAL WARM GOAT SACKS IN FINLAND IN OUR LIFETIME.

IN AN ABORTED ACCEPTANCE SPEECH, DUE TO INTERNECINE FIGHTING, WOLVERINE INDIFFERENCES AND FERAL FESTERINGS, THE AULD BUFF SAID...

FINLAND, LAND OF THE FINN, THEY SAID YOU WERE FINNISHED, THEY SAID FINNS WEREN'T GOING SO GREAT, THEY SAID YOU COULD NO LONGER ENJOY THE FINNER THINGS IN LIFE, THEY SAID THE FINN STOPS HERE... NO, HERE! NO, HERE! OH, HERE THEN! THEY SAID HUCKLEBERRY FINN WAS NO FINN AT ALL. BUT AS THE OLD FINNISH SAYING GOES, TO CRACK A RABBIT YOU MUST FIRST GREASE THE PITCH FORK AND LOWER THE RUMP VERY GENTLY. FINN OF ME WHENEVER YOU'RE LONELY. HELL SINK YE NEVER! BURY YOUR IRREVERENCES AND PREPARE THE BOAT. THE RUDDER IS STIRRING, TOGETHER YOU CAN BE INFATUATED. LIVE O FINNICLE ONES! AND THRIVE IN YOUR FORESTS SO DARK! FLY! FLY! FLY... FINNAIR!!!

THE REAL STEWART SUMNER REPOSED TO PROFANITY FAIR

BUFFALO: Is dat you, dude?

BIRD: WotdaFachenbach! My own mother, selling the family jewels to Profanity Fair. Does family honour mean nothing in a rectal world?

BUFFALO: So you ARE Stewart Sumner!

BIRD: Merely a Doppelganger.

BUFFALO: Dude, that IS you!

BIRD: OK, OK, OK! It's me. Yes, I am THE Stewart Sumner, the writer. Happy now?

BUFFALO: I don't believe you.

BIRD: The camera doesn't lie.

BUFFALO: Dude, I've never met you. You could like the way this guy looks and pretend to be him, because you like the glamour and intrigue that goes with being a writer.

BIRD: Dude, I'm tired of the centrifuge. Maybe if I just fess up, MI5, the CIA, the FBI, Interpol, the Women's Institute and the Jehovah's Witnesses will finally leave me alone, already.

BUFFALO: Un-ber-feck-Inn-B-leave-ab-all. So you really are THE Stewart Sumner! I've read all your stuff. You're a friggin' genius!

BIRD: Thanks, Buff. You're not so bad yourself. I especially liked Moose Turd Pie. A modern classic of scatological entropy.

BUFFALO: Blushing here, dude.

BIRD: Ha! So you are THE Marcel DeClercq, literary powerhouse of Michigan.

BUFFALO: 'Fraid so.

BIRD: Wow. So they were right. I don't get it. Who did we think we were fooling?

BUFFALO: Our lovers, mostly. But that's another inventory.

BIRD: But dude...

BUFFALO: Yes, dude?

BIRD: You're always be da auld Buff to me.

BUFFALO: And you'll always be Birdy to me.

BIRD: Phew. So nothing's changed.

BUFFALO: Apart from the global recognition, ya mean? Nope.

BIRD: And the blog goes on.

BUFFALO: Yarp.

BIRD: Excrement.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

WARNING: The previous conversation does not constitute irreputable proof that the above individuals are who they say they are. And since the advent of PhotoShop, photographic evidence don't mean badgershit. You have been fooled. I mean warned.

COMING SOON: What Stewart Sumner said to his mum when he went home for tea to confront her over selling explicit images to reductable publications. INCLUDES FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY AND EXPLICIT LOW-FLYING SCONES.

THE SHIT SANDWICH GOES ON...

BUFFALO: Dude, I've just been told I have a 5% chance that I'll live.

BIRD: Well, don't blame me that you're on the CIA shit list. I mean, those fooklars have NO sense of humour whatsoever.

BUFFALO: How da fawk was I to know they'd tap our Skype? I mean, you and me, we're just shootin' the breeze, innit. Messin' with the pessin'. Rumping the trumpet.

BIRD: Jealousy, dude. There are some comedians out there that can't take our cult status. They'll ask you a few questions, take a few jugshots, shove a meerkat up yer arse then toss you back where you belong.

BUFFALO: You don't understand, I've been implicated. I'm heading for the state penal tensionary.

BIRD: Dude, you're innocent.

BUFFALO: I know, but they need someone to take a hit.

BIRD: A fall guy?

BUFFALO: You got it.

BIRD: I see. So the shit sandwich goes on...

BUFFALO: Jeez. I need this as much as I need another asshole. Maybe we should come clean about Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner.

BIRD: It won't make any difference.

BUFFALO: But the intercepts...

BIRD: Hearsay. Coded messages at best.

BUFFALO: Dude, if I'm Marcel DeClercq...

BIRD: A-ha.

BUFFALO: And you're Stewart Sumner...

BIRD: Right.

BUFFALO: Then who are the Bird and Buffalo?

BIRD: Oh, yeah. That's a good one. Well... they might just be the guys that Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner aspire to being when the constraints of a tyrannical imaginary delusionary non-participatory gyratory construct are set free.

BUFFALO: Or total impostors who deserve all the fame and recognition that comes their way.

BIRD: Or a satirical monolithic retrospective vision of the future in the past tense.

BUFFALO: Wotdafachenbach! You've got it, dude.

BIRD: Collateral thinking, doncha know.

BUFFALO: Rock on, Marcel and Stewie!

BIRD: Seize the whey!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

CIA INTERCEPT LEAKED TO WORLD MEDIA - CODENAME ARF, ARF TEMPLATE 28871593 DONUT

REPRODUCED HERE VERBATIM.

"Dude, they're on to us. From now on, to evade capture, or any responsibility for our actions or thoughts or our debt to society bullshit, we MUST, repeat MUST talk in code. Dude, are you there? How's the scooter? Still on holiday? Eh? Eh? Arf, arf! Shit. Shouldn't have said that. Arf, arf! I mean. Come in, autumn! Dude! This is beyond an enclosure, innit. What's the title? Quick. We don't have much time. I'm telling you, that Marcel DeClercq is a frigging genius. Learn more, compose edit, preview. Dude, you're fading. Html! H-T-M-L! Fugget! Whither the REAL Stewart Sumner? Moderation posts. Comment. Monetise. Template. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Dashboard free. Repeat DASHBOARD FREE. Dude? Dude?"
END OF TRANSMISSION

SO YOU'RE TELLING US THAT WE'RE MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND STEWART SUMNER! HA! HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW MUCH PUBLICITY MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND STEWART SUMNER ARE GOING TO GET OUT OF YOUR ILLEGAL WIRE TAPPING? HMM? HMM??? THESE TWO, BY ALL ACCOUNTS, EXTREMELY TALENTED WRITERS AND THOROUGHLY NICE CHAPS ARE GONNA MAKE MILLIONS OUT OF THIS.

EGG ON YOUR FACE, CIA!

EGG ON YOUR FACE.

HEAR THAT GUFFAWING?

'TIS THE GREAT MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND THE FAB STEWART SUMNER LAFFING ALL THE WAY TO THE BANK.

ARF, ARF!

THE BIRD & BUFFALO FINALLY EXPOSED?

SPECULATION IN THE WORLD MEDIA IS RIFE THAT FINALLY, AFTER YEARS OF INVESTIGATIONS AND TIP OFFS, THE TRUE IDENTITY OF THE BIRD & BUFFALO CAN NOW BE REVEALED...

ACCORDING TO CIA AND MI5 INTERCEPTS, A CERTAIN MARCEL DeCLERCQ & AN ALLEGED STEWART SUMNER HAVE BEEN COMMUNICATING "IN A WAY NOT UNLIKE THE BIRD & BUFFALO". THE EVIDENCE GOES ON... AND ON...

MEANWHILE, EXHIBIT A...

Kite Flyer from Michelle Ouellette on Vimeo.

Illustration & Animation - Michelle Ouellette
Story by - Marcel DeClercq
Edit & Sound - Chad Dogby

IS THIS WORK OF THE AULD BUFF? YOU, CITIZENS OF B&B WORLD MUST DECIDE.

WE, BIRD & BUFFALO, KNOW THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH, BUT OUR LIPS ARE SEALED BY AN INTERNATIONAL GAGGING ORDER 2134564a PENDING.

BUT WE ASK YOU... CAN THIS POETRY...

I am
On the top
Looking down
Wondering
Why
I
See
Only You
And your
Trout

..WRITTEN BY AN 10-YEAR-OLD STEWART SUMNER TO IMPRESS HIS PRIMARY SCHOOLTEACHER, Ms JUMPMEE - WE KID THEE NOT, TRUE NAME! -

CAN THIS POSSIBLY BE COMPARED TO BIRDY'S RECENT BITINGLY SATIRICAL POETIC SPIN ON ANGST IN INNER CITY LONDON?

In the city
Inner
Bitter
Chewy
Bluey
Fooey
Inner
City
Angst

WELL????

EXPOSED? WE SHALL SEE!

ARF, ARF!

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 2 - A CRITIQUE

Reminiscent of a telephone conversation I had with my agent one hoary night in May, Fate Go Fugg Yerself Part 2 leads us into a labyrinthine world of winners and losers and cosmic sages with ample time but little ambulatory inclincation. When my agent asked me whether I felt it was acceptable to rhyme "thimble" with "titball" I gave an unequivocable "No!" And this, the second poem in a series of ten, or more, seems to say to us, if we are humble and hungry enough to listen - "Yes!" Or is it, "Oh, no!" Not since Shakespeare's Lost Cornets For Hornets cycle has a poem hit the dizzy heights of solemn triumphalist confrontation and celebration with a small C. "To eat the world's jewel on the blackboard of rhyme" - it categorically doesn't get any better than that. If Shakespeare were alive today, he'd be squeezing out melons in sheer delight at the deconstructive interrogatory tone of what is undoubtedly the masterpiece of the as yet anonymous poet's contemplative irrigation. Hit!

Brett Trivia-Bricking-Shitezer IV Jnr.

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 2

Tender is the world's fresh ornament
O churl most strange
Pity
Pity
Thee
Let me
Let me
Be
Great
Gluttony
To eat
the world's jewel
On the blackboard
Of
Rhyme
Fate
Go
Fugg
Yerself!

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 1 - A CRITIQUE

Incredibly syllabic in its Haiku-like assertions, Fate Go Fugg Yerself Part 1 neither rhymes nor pertains to belong to that which we believe to be free verse. It dispenses with any pretensions to structure but to fully immerse yourself in the voice and intent of this piece you must seek out and absorb the pauses. What has popularly been known as detonator poetry by the great, very late Wilson Farting-Daily-Rarely-Cleering-Bowels, is nowhere more in evidence in Fate Go Fugg Yerself Part 1. When musing on the voice, one wonders if there is a person at all. The theme, whilst self-evident, is hidden in the mood. The author - and there is much speculation as to his or her true identity - clearly likes to gripe and moan his or her way through life. The meaning is underlying yet obvious and sometimes obverse or reverse, if you persevere. I made a note of the emotions I felt as I separated and determined everything which is consistent and obscure in what at first appears a slight murmur of a work. The symbolism, irony, metaphors and similes are sublime yet earthy to the point of moistened compost. Having put it all together the style and ebb and flow combines to provide a nature which speaks in every syllable of language and ultimately, even more language. Quite simple - staggering.

DR DAVID FEELGOOD-STANZASOVERHIEROFF

THE SHORT POETRY REVIEW

FATE GO FUGG YERSELF PART 1

Mine eyes
no longer see
that which
is before me
or behind me
but in front of me
I see
Only too clearly
and so wish
that I
did not
Fate
Go
Fugg
Yerself!

QUOTATION OF THE MEEK

When I offer it (Ed- literary criticism), I feel as though I've smeared shit on the rug.

Donia Carey

AH, DONIA, HOW SADLY MISSED YOU ARE. ONE DAY A BOOK WILL BE FILLED OF YOUR QUOTES AND YOU WILL BE AWARDED POSTHUMOUSLY THE HIGHEST ORDER OF ALL LANDS.

Arf, arf!

THE DREAM OF GALVESTON

THE DREAM OF GALVESTON by Donia Carey

I gallivanted
with a galoot
in Galveston...
A gaggle
of
gargling
Gargoyles
galumphed
by
ogled
my
globular
glutes
grabbed
my
girdle
grinned
gelatinous
grins--
I
giggled
wriggled
my groin.
My galoot
skedaddled
The
gloating
gargoyles
and
I
glut
- tonously
grunted
and
Googled.

DONIA CAREY - A TRIBUTE

ON JULY 11TH, DONIA CAREY LOST HER LONG FIGHT WITH CANCER. PEOPLE KNEW HER ON THIS BLOG AS FIFI LAMOUR. SHE WAS AN INSPIRATION TO EVERYONE WHO KNEW HER, DEEPLY LOVED AND RESPECTED BY ALL, AND HAS LEFT BEHIND A MASSIVE GAPING HOLE IN THE LIVES OF EVERYONE WHO HAD THE PRIVILEGE TO KNOW HER. WITHOUT DONIA THERE WOULDN'T BE A BIRD AND BUFFALO. SHE BROUGHT THE BIRD (AKA STEWART SUMNER) AND THE BUFFALO (AKA MARCEL DeCLERCQ) TOGETHER. SHE ALWAYS "GOT" WHAT WE WERE TRYING TO DO ON THIS BLOG AND WAS OUR BIGGEST FAN AND MUSE. LIFE WITHOUT HER WILL BE UNBEARABLE BUT WE INTEND TO CARRY ON AND GO ON TO BIGGER AND BETTER THINGS AS SHE ALWAYS HOPED WE WOULD.

LAST YEAR, THE THREE OF US EMBARKED UPON A PROJECT TO WRITE A BOOK OF SHORT POETRY. WE WROTE MANY A POEM AND IT WAS A LOT OF FUN. HOW WE WISH WE HAD FINISHED THAT PROJECT AND PUBLISHED THE ANTHOLOGY. DONIA WAS SUCH A TALENTED WRITER THAT IT IS A CRIME HER WORK IS NOT AVAILABLE IN BOOKSHOPS. ONE DAY IT WILL BE, OF THAT THERE IS NO DOUBT, AND THEN THE WORLD CAN ENJOY THE WONDERFUL CREATIONS SHE MADE UNDER ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES.

SO THANK YOU, DONIA, FOR BEING SUCH A SPECIAL, UNIQUE HUMAN BEING, WITH A HUMANITY AND SENSITIVITY NONE OF US COULD HOPE TO MATCH. WE HOPE YOU LIKE THE TRIBUTE. WE HAVE SELECTED FOUR PIECES WHICH IN OUR HUMBLE OPINION REFLECT THE DIVERSITY OF DONIA'S WORK. THE LAST PIECE, LOVE IS WHERE YOU FIND IT, IS POSSIBLY THE FINEST SHORT STORY DONIA WROTE. IT'S QUITE LONG SO YOU MAY WISH TO PRINT IT OUT. WE HAVE ALSO INCLUDED SOME OF THE TRIBUTES PEOPLE WHO KNEW HER HAVE POSTED ON THE ZOETROPE ONLINE WORKSHOP. BEFORE THAT, THOUGH, A BRIEF BIOGRAPHY PROVIDED BY DONIA HERSELF.

RIP, SWEETIE!

birdandbuffalissimo hugs
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx




"I sang for e.e.cummings. It was a private command performance of settings of his poems, and Mr. Cummings hummed some snatches of the songs as he left to bail a friend out of jail. Most of my life has been spent as a working musician, although I did a five-year stint as editor at a scholarly publication. In high school I was voted Class Poet, but since I was also voted Tallest Girl, though several others topped me by an inch, you might take the honor with a grain of salt. I am an editor at The Madhatters' Review and the Linnet's Wings, and have had stories published in a number of online publications."




Love on a Log by Donia Carey

The love of my life is a frog
Who lives in a slime-covered bog
Our noisy assignations
Cause public demonstrations--
We fancy a hump on a log.


***


Fifi Lamour's Limerick by Donia Carey

Travel East or travel West
Sparky's Toe Jam is the best
Oh, how I love to lick each piggy
When we do the friggy-wiggy
Helping all that jam digest

***


Rooftop in August by Donia Carey

The roof of a 4-stack tenement on an August night. Nighthawks squawking, wheeling like children’s spin toys. Churches on both sides, steeples, bells. Men on the roofs, jumping from one to the next, six feet in between. Showing off before their women, practicing their skills. Women watching, hearts in throats, admiring their prowess. Or envying it. Feet tingling, wanting to jump too. What stops them?

Later, on the roof again, just two people, the man, the woman. Secrets whispered into bosoms where hearts pound to the white heat of banked desires.

Kisses. More kisses, mere kisses, no more, not yet. Promises. Then the one promise, the binding one.

The globe revolves; the spinning gyre the scent of flowers the ratcheting birds humming cicadas the heat from the white streets all rise up and whirl in a cyclone of possibility, and they are at the vortex, this man, this woman. A couple, the sacred unit. The bells sanctify them and the world smiles upon them: it stamps its approval.

Yet the feet insist on tingling, and the soul struggles to fly.



****


Love Is Where You Find It by Donia Carey

The soldier arrived at our house on Thursday afternoon the way they usually did, in the big woven basket shaped like a mummy’s coffin. My brother helped my father carry him in. I heard my parents talking.

“Such a shame. So young,” my mother was saying. “And the war nearly over.”

He was only nineteen, accidentally shot in training camp by one of his buddies. Why did God allow such things to happen? I shivered, and felt a sudden tenderness for this unknown, now dead, soldier. What had he dreamed of doing, and had he been happy? Did he love someone and had he been loved in return...Or had he been lonely, too?

He was almost thirteen then--a dangerous age. A fleeting innocence, the false angel wings of the shoulder blades; petty secret guilts, never quite absolved in confession. I was waiting for my real life to begin.

We were a mother, a father, an uncle, an older brother, and I. We lived in the funeral parlor. It was a crenellated castle, a Victorian monstrosity that seemed to have spent its life awaiting this final, perfect metamorphosis. We had no separate apartment. If we had a death at Christmastime, the angel atop our Christmas tree might poke up over the funeral draperies. The rare times that my father had an extra “case" or two, a “body” (we never said “corpse”), he had to find a place for them upstairs. Arriving home from school one afternoon when I was about eight, I entered my room to find all my things gone and a stranger in a coffin where my dollhouse usually stood. My shock was immediate and overwhelming. Still, I was more outraged because nobody had warned me about it than because of the presence of the dead person. I was trained to do my part; after all, weren't we soldiers in a continuous battle, not for hearts and minds, but for bodies?

Business was slow. The whole house came alive when someone died. A great excitement overtook us; we leapt into our roles like actors.
Our father did the dirty work. He chewed his cigar, resting it between drags on the rim of the embalming table as he wielded his terrible trochar. My brother, being a boy, was allowed to watch, even the worst ones: the crushed, the drowned, the wasted. Out of morbid curiosity and because I wasn’t supposed to, I was drawn to the place as the tongue is to a broken tooth. “Not nice for a lady,” daddy said. I felt jealous of my brother and seethed at the unfairness of being left out. Secretly, though, I was relieved. I was as repulsed by what went on in that small basement room with the painted windows as I was fascinated by the idea of death at its purest, the final paring down and dissolution--what I saw as the liberation of the immortal soul.

“Who does she think she is? Somebody special?” my Uncle John had asked the night before at the supper table. He'd caught my frown and barely suppressed sigh as I took my seat next to the wall. “How’d she get into this family, anyway?”

A familiar wave of nausea swept over me. Our suppertime theater had begun.

They were all--my uncle, my mother and father–grabbing at the front page of “The Evening Clarion.” That’s where the death notices were listed. My father was blowing on his soup, having lost the battle for the paper to his more aggressive wife and brother-in-law. “Anybody new today?” he asked.

“Agnes Nowak, she was a Piwinski from up the River Road...”

“Yeah, I heard she was in the hospital...who got her?”

“Who else but The Vulture!”

“Danny Flaherty? Damn that man! That makes three this week.”

“How does he do it? We’ve buried in that family before. Agnes Nowak should’ve been ours.”

“Oh, there’s some connection there. Wasn’t her sister’s husband a cousin of Flaherty’s wife?”

“Second cousin, now you mention it. Still, I’m surprised. You’d think the Nowak daughter would have had more influence. After all, didn’t Marta sing at her wedding?”

Uncle John threw me a dirty look, as though the loss of business was my fault. It was so unfair. My uncle couldn’t stand me or my singing and let everyone know it, running up to his room on the third floor and slamming the door to shut out the sound when I practiced my scales.

I had a high, breathy voice, the kind people describe as “angelic.” Since I was ten, I’d been an unwilling part of our funeral package, excused from morning classes at St. Michael's School so I could get to the church next door before the funeral cortege arrived.

We had one funeral the next morning: an old man, a veteran of World War I, "the war to end all wars." As I waited in the choir loft for Professor Karski, the organist, my stomach growled and gurgled nervously. I hoped today the Professor would be nice to me. It used to be his daughter who sang the funerals; she wore showy black picture hats and had a loud voice that went flat. Now I, a mere child, supplanted her, and her father resented it.

The Professor coughed his way up the stairs, ignored me, walked straight up to the organ bench and pulled out some music. The sexton came and began to swing on the ropes, the clanging bells so raucous that all the cells of my body vibrated and I had to put my hands over my ears.

I peered through the stained glass to watch the procession. The stone steps were long and steep, the coffin heavy, and the pallbearers spindly. They strained under their burden and the group wobbled forward under the direction of my father. In his funeral outfit: derby hat, striped pants, and the coat with a beetle’s-wing tail--his mouth naked and vulnerable without its cigar--he at once became someone I didn’t know.

Professor Karski revved the organ and it whooshed like a deflating cushion. He cleared his throat, spat into his handkerchief, pulled out the tremolo stop, thrust out his jaw and launched right into a Polish dirge, “In the Dark Tomb You Will Sleep Forever.” He embellished his playing with rolling diminished sevenths and sour notes that enhanced the awfulness of the music. Adam's apple bobbing merrily, he whinnied the lyrics; they depicted a dreadful judgment and left us comfortless: "After a short while you and I won't be around, either."

With the final chord came the altar boy, recklessly swinging a censer as he led the pastor up the aisle to meet the flag-draped catafalque. Incense rose up. Its acrid scent settled in clouds around the organ console. I bent my head and slipped a Smith Brothers cough drop into my mouth; both the incense and the thought of my oncoming Ave Maria were making my throat dry.

Down by the altar, Uncle John fussed with a flower stand. He glanced up at me and scowled, the mole on his cheek in high relief, and my stomach gurgled again. He was right, my uncle. I’d beem born into the wrong family. I was squeamish and sentimental. I was too sensitive. It took all my restraint to keep singing and not burst into tears with the mourners. Maybe I was switched as an infant; how could I fit in so badly otherwise? I held onto this fantasy, even though I knew I'd been born at home rather than in a hospital.

During Communion, I surveyed the people below. It was not a big crowd; the old man had outlived most of his peers. Nobody was crying. The Mass ended. Actions happened in reverse, with even more incense. The pallbearers lurched down the church steps, self-sure veterans now, and soon the sparse cortege shoved off toward the cemetery, a pretty place on a hill outside of town. I wished I could have gone there that morning, but I had to return to class.

When I got home from school that afternoon, my father was in the wake room setting up the soldier’s coffin. Cigar smoke wafted through the closed double doors. After my father completed the finishing touches, he called us in to admire his work.

We were his final critics. “How does she look?” he would ask us. We’d give suggestions, such as “Too much rouge.” My mother was a nurse, and she couldn't stop herself from plumping up the pillows behind their heads, saying, "There! That's more comfortable, isn't it?" She arranged their stiff hands around prayer books or rosary beads in a mimicry of piety. We'd agree that now everything looked natural.

But this time I went into the wake room where the soldier lay ready and couldn’t speak. The breath died in me, and I wanted to back out the door. My father had done too good a job. The soldier really looked as though he was sleeping. Mostly they didn’t. Mostly they looked like something from a waxworks.

He looked more glorious than the statue of St. Michael in our church, except that he had a buzz cut. It had been growing out and you could see his hair had been beautiful, dark and thick. He was so different from the silly pimply boys at school, the ones who chased me and called me skinny-bones, who asked, “What does your old man do with the blood?”

I did not want to stay there in the room with my whole family, desecrating--that was what it was--our love. Finally I had found the person of my dreams: someone I had been expecting all my life, someone who would understand me. I knew the moment I saw him lying in that casket that there was something powerful between us. Just as I knew his eyes were brown.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I crept past my parents’ room and down the stairs. In the wake room a few dim torchieres illuminated the maroon velvet draperies, the coffin open like a big lacy candy box. Someone had placed a small heart of carnations in its open lid, a heart bandaged with a white ribbon on which “Uncle Stephen” was spelled out in letters red as blood.

I knelt at the prie-dieux and looked at Stephen. He smiled at me, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe it was one of those terrible mistakes, some kind of suspended animation, and if I prayed he would wake up. So I began to pray really hard, screwing up my eyes. Through the shimmer of my tears I thought I saw him move a little.” Oh please, God,” I begged. “Let him wake up!” I stared at Stephen, watchful for another movement. None came. I touched his sleeve. Even through the wool of his uniform tunic, I felt the cold stiffness.

I was not an ignorant girl. I had more than an inkling of what happened in that embalming room. Didn’t I filch my father’s morticians’ magazines just to shock myself with “The Case of the Month”--and then smuggle them into school to gain what I realized would be a spurious popularity with my classmates? Yet those physical facts were less real to me than the underlying reality of dreams. So I denied the material world and cast my lot with miracles that transcended physical laws.

It was late. I was cold and the muscles in my whole body had grown stiff from the strain of praying so hard. I murmured goodnight to Stephen and went back to bed. I felt I had made a good start. It was Friday night and the funeral was not until Monday morning, so we still had some time.

The rest of my sleep was full of dreams. I was in a cave flooded with golden light. I tried to find where the light was coming from, but saw no source and no openings in the walls of the cave. I felt hungry and thirsty, and immediately food and drink appeared: great jars of golden liquid and enormous loaves of golden bread. I bit into the bread and spat it out: it had no real substance, just the taste of a cloying perfume. I tipped the jar to my mouth so I could wash it out. The liquid instantly evaporated, leaving the taste of incense and decaying flowers inside my mouth.

Morning arrived. I was exhausted and queasy, but my mother insisted that I eat something. With some trepidation, I bit into a hard roll, and was reassured by its familiar taste. I yearned to look in on Stephen but my mother enlisted me in Saturday chores. By the time I was finished it was 3 p.m., and Stephen’s family had arrived for the initial viewing.

I looked down over the upstairs railing and watched as they came through the door. His parents clung to each other in a way that was both loving and brave. A young woman who must have been his sister walked behind them, leaning on her husband's arm. He held the hand of a small, dark-haired child. Stephen’s nephew, I supposed, and felt a pang in my heart.

A young blonde wearing a black-veiled hat walked importantly behind the family. She was weeping aloud and mascara was oozing down her face. She began to moan Stephen’s name, and his sister put an arm around her. Who was she? She probably thought of herself as Stephen’s girl friend, but she couldn’t have been. She was all wrong for him, her black dress too tight and her lipstick too bright. I knew she couldn’t understand him the way I did.

I was impatient to be with Stephen again, and there was no chance until late that night. It was ironic that I could not be with him now. I told myself that it didn’t matter, he and I transcended time and space.

Again, after my parents went to bed, I made my way downstairs. I felt happy as I entered the wake room. I walked over to the coffin and said a little prayer. A spray of orchids lay next to the little red heart. I thought they were vulgar and had no illusions as to who had sent them. I would have sent violets.

I knelt and buried my face in my hands to pray, and peeped through the tent of my fingers to watch Stephen. He looked so handsome in his uniform. His hair seemed longer. This night he did not move. Was it my imagination, or did he look a little tired? I remained kneeling for a while, but heard a noise. Someone was coming down the stairs, probably my father. “I’ll be back tomorrow, my darling,” I whispered in a voice like a woman in a movie, Bette Davis perhaps. Then I tiptoed out the side door and waited until the coast was clear to go back up to bed. I meant to pray some more in bed, but fell asleep during the first Hail Mary. That night I did not dream.

Sunday in church I tried to pray but it was hard to concentrate, surrounded by coughing, fidgeting people, and the strictures of the Mass with the constant jumping up and down, the guilt-provoking sermon, the collection basket coming round twice–not to mention the background music, if you could call it that, raining down from the choir loft. I felt my prayers were of an inferior variety, certainly not strong enough to provoke miracles.

The rest of Sunday was unbearable for me. People arrived all afternoon, many from out-of-state. Cigarette smoke inundated our kitchen, scrubbed pristine after our noon dinner, and spiraled upstairs, invading our bedrooms. The initial hush of the afternoon had expanded to lively talk and laughter, as the men retreated to the smoking room where, from the sound of it, someone had produced a bottle. I felt outraged. There were still stragglers downstairs until after ten, even though the wake was officially over at nine.

Everything was ready for tonight. I’d put my hair up in rags and spirited my mother’s black lace mantilla from her cedar chest. I didn’t think we’d need a suitcase but had put my birthday and Christmas money into my straw pocketbook, along with the mother-of-pearl rosary beads and lace handkerchief. We had no violets, though earlier that day I’d gone out back and picked some lily-of-the-valley, tied them with a hair-ribbon and wrapped them in some wet tissue paper. I lay in my bed, nerves jumping, whispering frantic prayers.

To calm myself, I imagined exactly how it would happen. Stephen would awaken slowly, stretch and yawn. Then he’d open his eyes. He’d look at me and smile. We wouldn’t need to speak–our eyes would meet and say everything. Then I’d take his hand and help him out of his coffin, like helping him out of a boat. We would run away together, I would be free of this depressing house, these tiresome people, this life.

At last I heard my father lock the front door. I waited for everyone to go to bed, hoping my mother’s nightly game of solitaire would be over by midnight. By the time the lights were dimmed and quiet settled on the house, it was a quarter to one.

When I removed the rags from my hair, it bounced out in corkscrew curls that I tried to smooth out with my hairbrush. I took some bobby pins and created an updo, leaving a Veronica Lake effect over one eye. The only dress I had that was remotely sophisticated was getting too short, but it would have to do. I put a dab of apple-blossom cologne behind my ears and looked at myself in the mirror. I draped the mantilla around my shoulders. I was ready.

Stephen was waiting for me. A flower petal had settled in his hair and I brushed it off. His buzz cut felt spiky and stiff under my hand. “Don’t worry, dearest,” I whispered, “it will soon grow out.”

The orchids were wilting, and I threw them under the coffin, behind the velvet, and replaced them with my sweet-smelling bouquet. I began to pray in earnest, with all my heart and being, eyes closed, opening them occasionally to see if there was any progress. Hours seemed to pass. Still nothing. I was getting sleepy and my head began to droop. Something murmured and revived my hope, until it happened again and I realized it was my own stomach.

“Oh, God,” I prayed, “please, please, wake him up. If you do this one thing, I promise I’ll never ask you for anything ever again...Stephen,” I pleaded,” you must help, too. I don’t think you’re really trying.”

It was getting chilly. I spread the mantilla over Stephen’s chest; maybe it would warm him up. The night was passing slowly and yet too quickly–I could see the sky lightening. I was so tired that I began to drift off mid-prayer. But I mustn’t give in to sleep. If I couldn’t even manage to stay awake at such a crucial time, how could God take me seriously?

I stood up and staggered around the room, bumping into a folding chair and almost knocking over a flower stand, giving me a little adrenalin. All quiet upstairs, no one had heard. Returning to Stephen, I knelt down, but my knees began to hurt so I pulled one of the chairs up to the coffin and thought I’d sit for a while. When the miracle happened, I’d be ready.

Settling into the chair, I closed my eyes just for a moment. Stephen was stirring. He flexed his arms, unclasped his hands and spread his fingers, closing them into fists. I knew Stephen too well, knew this couldn’t be happening. It was a dream, I knew I was dreaming, and I had to stop. I scrabbled to crawl back into reality, and yet the dream progressed. Now Stephen’s eyes popped open, bloodshot brown eyes that looked angry. In one sudden movement he had climbed out of his coffin and was looking menacingly at me. “What are you doing here?” he shouted, waving the lily-of--the-valley bouquet in my face. “What are these? What have you done with my orchids?”

I shook myself out of the nightmare. Why were my prayers rewarded with such ugliness? The sun was up and dust motes were dancing in the window. My dress was wrinkled and there was a scratch on my leg where I had barked my shin on the flower stand. The pins had fallen out of my hair.

Stephen lay as still as before, his face gentle and good. I felt his spirit around me. How could I doubt him, even in dreams? I bent and kissed his forehead. It was cold.

Upstairs an alarm was ringing, and there were sounds of people getting up. With shaking hands I reached down and retrieved the orchids. They were barely crumpled. I brushed them off and put them back inside the coffin.

Stephen was still wrapped in the mantilla. My tears dropped down onto the black lace as I gently pulled it away from his shoulders. Through blurred eyes I saw a shimmer of something white on his breast, almost like a luminous flower. The image lasted a moment and faded, leaving behind the faint scent of lily-of-the-valley.

I left the room without looking back. It was getting late and I had to be on time for the music.




***

THE TRIBUTES...

Donia's daughter, Diana, called me just now. Donia died last Saturday, July 11. She'd been unconscious for about 24 hours when she stopped breathing. Diana is having a memorial for her on August 8th, in Cambridge. If anyone wants to send her something for the service, zmail it to me and I'll forward it to her. Sorry to have sad news to share-but I'm glad Donia went softly in the end. xxoononnie

Nonnie Augustine


She reviewed a flash of mine in February. "Mr. Smith, you've done it again. Answered the question everyone thinks about but dares not ask. Adult content, indeed. Your writing is simple but elegant and to the point. You have an excellent control of the dialect (as far as I can tell), and have a knack for using the right word at the right time..I like the way the fellow conducted his research all over the land of the thistle and kilt (am I right about the thistle or did I mean whistle?). He found his answer from a humble farmer, who was not afraid to divulge age-old secrets to a seeker. Fine tale. Made me laugh, as always." The always gracious Donia.

GC Smith

Donia was gracious, lovely, spirited--in spite of wheelchair bound--including cursing the lazy bastards who failed to shovel snow from sidewalk ramps, or if they did shovel from the sidewalk, piled the snow on the wheelchair ramps. We were ever going around them, into the street, in order to cross. She wanted to get out of her house, so we walked a number of blocks to a Thai restaurant, during which we came to know the woman we loved so much. She is truly missed. You all should know that she told me over and over again how much she looked forward to the sunday 5 to 50's. Here are her latest entries, the first being her last, posted May 24, 2009 (I don't mind telling you, it brought me to tears).

IS IT TRUE WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT CATS?(55W)

O, my pansy-faced love. I found you today motionless on our chianti-stained couch, playground of our fatiguing games. I closed your eyes and held your soft body. Then, as tradition dictated, I dug a deep hole and laid you to rest in a weedy vacant lot. A muffled meow resounded beneath my feet.

THE VOICES

Timorous? Yes, I am timorous. I fear a relapse and have put on my magic apron, but the first voice has already begun its soft taunting and mimics my breathing. More voices join in snickering unison and repeat,"You are a nothing. A cypher.” I pull the apron over my head but its magic fails.

A Silent Tragedy (55 words)

I sat by the river, a ribbon that wound along the edge of the city. In dusk’s lavender glow, a man in drag crouched on the other bank, head in hands. I saw the spark of a match and the man went up in flames. I turned away. He was of no import to me.

(no title)

A red-faced street person stood on a soapbox under a mulberry tree in our town's scenic main square. The man was bombastic and very drunk, and he was offering people "a new leash on life." A young scamp began to bark, soon joined by a pack of stray dogs, adding a stirring musical background. 55w

Beach Varmints

The sun sets on the Côte d’Azure, but I’m reluctant to leave my comforting burrow in the warm sand. The slap of footsteps; the spark of a lighter: Noel d’Entrechat, notorious rogue who fritters his time on the plage, has found me. Lasciviously beaming his lemon eyes at me, he says, “Care for some nookie?”

Compromise (55 words)

Bedraggled Bobolink collapsed near a windmill, a hermit’s home. Chased there by farmers shouting, "Begone, bad bird, eater of wheat and depriver of kiddies’ hot farina!” Gunshots rang, staccato, staccato. Bobolink high-tailed it to the windmill. "Got room for me? We can hermit together.” "Okay," replied the hermit. "But none of your goddamn singing!"

Richard Osgood

Bye bye, Donia - now you can fly. Nevertheless, I'll miss you. Donia and I corresponded so frequently that we laughed about it - about why we didn't move close enough so we could just go knock on each other's door when we wanted to talk. Here's an example - a recent note from Donia about health ... ###

----- Original Message ----- From: Donia Carey To: David Coyote

Dear Scruffy,

Our wonderful bodies that carry on a busy life of their own, taking care of us, begin to have problems, like old cars. I think of old novels where someone breaks a hip, catches a chill, develops pneumonia, and doesn't survive the winter. Strange, isn't it, how quickly things begin to go wrong; why just a little while ago, I was fit as a fiddle.

Frank died of prostate cancer at age sixty, having been diagnosed eight years before and then gone into a sort of remission for over seven years. He was treated at Mass General with radiation, taking the bus to Boston at dawn and returning afterward to work in his lab. He died in his own home, his friends gathered in the next room. "Sounds like a wonderful party" he said. "Wish I could join them."

Like you, he would not be hospitalized in spite of his pain and weakness. He had hospice nurses that he called "the fat ladies who take care of me."

Everyone in my family went in their own beds, without tubes and iv's. I wish that I could die here at my new home, but it may not be possible. Because the state pays for nursing 'homes' and hospitals but not for home care, it's a problem. Crazy, isn't it?

I read a little about PVCs, and it seems the medical community is divided about their possible danger. You probably know more about it. I have a heart murmur that my mother discovered when I was eight, but so do many people. And sometimes I feel my heart do flip-flops, like a little fish in my chest, but I think that's not unusual.

Earlier this evening, I was speaking with my cousin John in Connecticut. He is one month older than I, and we've been friends and grammatical adversaries since high school, trying to one-up each other. He never married and has been very kind to his sister and her children, and to me. Over a year ago he had a stroke. He always goes on about how close to death we are.

"John," I tell him, "you've been saying that for years."

His father, my father's brother, died at fifty-six of a heart attack; my dad died of the same thing at fifty-seven. Of the five siblings, they all succumbed that way; three in their fifties, one in her sixties; and Josephine the meanest and most guilt-free, in her eighties. My dad's two brothers were alcoholics: John, an ill-tempered drunk and Joe, the jolly type. I'd never seen him sober.

I do digress. But cousin John, brought up in his dad's funeral home, ended up with a different attitude from mine. Although both of us, seeing death around us all the time, were affected.

Funny about the belly-button, David. I was on Prednisone for several years but it didn't affect the cute little thing. My grandmother cut the cord herself and made sure it was nice. Since my kidney operation and loss of weight, my bellybutton almost disappeared. I looked down at my belly and saw something unrecognizable--a mosquito bite maybe? Realized it was my missing bb. When I read about your own bb problems, I took a look at mine and saw that with some weight gain, it has gone back to its former self. Oh, waiting for the results of tests is nerve-wracking. I hope you pass with flying colors, as you did with your driver's license.

I had my own visit on Tuesday. The cancer is returning--my white cells went up a bit, and forty percent of them are lymphocytes--not good. But my neutrophils went up, so I can again eat fresh fruit and vegetables. I was told that it's too early to begin treatment again (my god, I just finished the last one in January!), and that I should be able to enjoy the summer. That made me feel happy, because the two summers before I was back in treatment and they were hideous.

My main problem now is still my eyes. I am due for another appointment to check on the macular degeneration. I wonder if that is what's causing my fast-deteriorating vision. And i'm violating doctor's orders and wearing my glasses; otherwise I can't see at all. Ah, well.

Good luck on your exams--sorry about all my dismal talk. Maybe we'll be those people who persist to their nineties, creaking along and shaking up the young 'uns.

love always, Donia

David Coyote

This is sad news, indeed. RIP, Donia. What a wonderful person she was.

Marc Lowe

A sad day.

Mark Hubbard

Shit. At least she is out of pain but... shit.

Steve Kane

Truly, truly a sweet & honorable lady. we love you, donia. we bless you.

Donna D Vitucci

I am so sorry to hear this. Donia always knows how to get to the exact heart, the essence of it. It's a sad day.

Maggie Shearon

PLEASE POST YOUR TRIBUTES TO DONIA IN THE COMMENTS SECTION.

CAMELIAN URGES

The amorous urge of the camel
Is greater than anyone thinks
After many long months in the desert
He yearns to make love to the Sphinx

But the Sphinx's capacious vagina
Is clogged with the sands of the Nile
Which accounts for the hump on the camel
And the Sphinx's inscrutable smile

Fifi Lamour

THE BLOGETH LIVETH WOTDAFUKK..ITH AND DA FACHENBACHS

BUFFALO: Wotdafukk...ith?

BIRD: Wot are we gonna do?

BUFFALO: You mean about Scrunched, like?

BIRD: Scrunched? Oh, yeah. The next big blockbuster. Howzit going, the adaptation, like?

BUFFALO: Slowly, Birdy. So many rejects, so little time.

BIRD: Feels like the music just died.

BUFFALO: It didn't die, dude, it just got quieter.

BIRD: Deep, dude, deep.

BUFFALO: Deeper than the ocean. By da whey...

BIRD: Yes, dude?

BUFFALO: Where da fukk...ith have you been all this time? The public want to blow!

BIRD: Oh, nowhere, really. Just dealing wid issues.

BUFFALO: OK. Wot? And keep it clean.

BIRD: This, dude. Da surfway. I mean... you spend years "meeting" hundreds, thousands of people online but end up meeting no-one. We've got how many virtual friends? But they never ring. Fachenbach, they don't even know where we live.

BUFFALO: Dude, that's a good thing. There are some VERY WEIRD Fachenbachs out dere, believe me.

BIRD: Then wot's da point? Of all this?

BUFFALO: Dude, if you're looking for a point, stoke up the hot poker and sitonit!

BIRD: Dat's overbelated and you know it. Hundreds of thousands of turds, I mean words splodged into cyberspace for VERY WEIRD Fachenbachs. And in the blink of a cosmic interplanetary eye, we are nothing.

BUFFALO: OmyFachenbachonatwistedstickinMay! Do you have to be so depressing in our first communique for many morons? The fans have been waiting with bated breath for this one.

BIRD: Honesty, dude. Everyone appreciates that. Even people who don't give a rat's arse.

BUFFALO: Dude, here's a little something to cheer ya up. http://vimeo.com/5315696


BIRD: Wow. Dat's good.

BUFFALO: Dude, we gotta get in toonbots. All we gotta do is gin up some good short animation scripts we can animate. SNAP! Animations of the Bird & Buff, or Holmes and Watters or summat outta Scrunched. We could become regular characters in our cartoons. Give it some thought, you lazy winker.

BIRD: Sure will. Maybe animation is da future, like. Or maybe... Just maybe... it is time to reveal our TRUE IDENTITIES...

BUFFALO: Wot, and scare da hoor-Cs?

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

OFOOKIT, WATTERS, NOW WHAT WHAT WHAT?*&!

D-D-D-D-D-DEATH AND THE SPIDER

BIRD: Awfully quiet in here, Buffers, what's going on in the old melon, like?

BUFF: Thinking about D-D-D-D-D-Death, Birdy.

BIRD: Blimey, bit gruesome, innit?

BUFF: Not at all. We don't think about it enough. It's always out there, y'know, lurking about, waiting.

BIRD: Maybe so, but why dwell on it?

BUFF: Don't you ever feel it? Creeping around you, waiting to tap you on the shoulder?

BIRD: Fook no, you morbid sod. You've not gone off your sweeties again, have you?

BUFF: No. It's just that there's been a lot of shit and death around here lately, as Bukowski would say.

BIRD: Spiders in the tub again? Screaming girlfriends? Overflowing bog? Broken broomsticks and all?

BUFF: Eggs Zacklee. It wears on the nerves, like. Don't like killing spiders, but when they're in your face, what can a bloke do?

BIRD: In your face? Not literally?

BUFF: Well, I woke up the other night with a big fat one dangling right over me honker.

BIRD: Holy shit, Batman, did you soil yourself?

BUFF: Close, but no cigar. I swatted the bugger as hard as I could. Slam-dunked his ass against the TV screen. It knocked him silly, but he still managed to crawl behind some file boxes. So he's still there somewhere... lurking.

BIRD: Like D-D-D-D-D-Death.

BUFF: Precisely. Makes me wonder if Death isn't a big fat spider that hangs around waiting for an opportunity to dangle over your proboscis and crawl up inside and suck your brains out.

BIRD: Sacre bleu, Buff! What a revolting image. Why would you imagine such an horrible thing?

BUFF: Woke up this morning with a nosebleed.

BIRD: And you think the spider was responsible for THAT?

BUFF: Well, why else would my fookin' hooter be bleeding, like?

BIRD: Uh, cos Osbee's whacked up your blood pressure again?

BUFF: Good point. She's been a screeching pain in the ass lately.

BIRD: Time to change your phone number again?

BUFF: Possibly, witch rewinds me. . . the Coyote is seriously pissed off at me.

BIRD: Eh? The Coyote NEVER gets pissed off, innit?

BUFF: True, but I outdid myself this time. An act of incredible stupidity, for which I may have to hire someone to put a boot up me arse in order to kick-start my brain.

BIRD: Hors alors! What the heck did you DO?

BUFF: I was indiscreet, like - and as a result he is being pestered by one of my lunatic friends.

BIRD: You filthy auld Buff, what the hell were you thinking?

BUFF: I wasn't thinking, that's the whole point, innit, you plank.

BIRD: Er, right. . . so how do you intend to make amends?

BUFF: I'm giving serious thought to Seppuku.

BIRD: You're going to disembowel yourself? Do you have the proper tools?

BUFF: No, but my brother-in-law has offered to loan me his chainsaw.

BIRD: Sounds messy, Buff. Sparky will be upset, won't he?

BUFF: I plan to do it out in the woods, about a mile in. With any luck the critters will have picked my bones cleaned and scattered them before anyone knows I'm missing.

BIRD: Surely you're not really planning to discorporate, like?

BUFF: I don't know, Birdy, it alla depends onna da weather, as Father Guido Sarducci says.

BIRD: What's the weather got to do wiffit?

BUFF: If the weather stays nice, as it is now, I may postpone it.

BIRD: You auld lunatic. You've gone flippin' wonkers, Buff. You realize that you probably just need to get laid, innit?

BUFF: Yes, probably, but there's not a bird in sight, lad.

BIRD: But what about the birds at Borders, Buff?

BUFF: Good point, but I can't go there with a bloody nose bleed, can I?

BIRD: Your still dribbling from the facial pecker like?

BUFF: Jawohl, mein herring.

BIRD: Shouldn't you be seeing a doctor, then?

BUFF: Probably, but Osbee will have a shit fit if I make another doc appointment. She's worried about losing her health insurance.

BIRD: Well, fooker, Buff. Can't you go on Medicare or some damn thing?

BUFF: Yeah, but it would mean giving up my beer money, Berky. It ain't fookin' free, y'know.

BIRD: Much as I'd love to hear more of your horrible fookin' life, I have to wax the oven now then say adieu to D-D-D-D-D-Death in the shower, like.

BUFF: Truly creepy. Squelching at eleven.

BIRD: Arf, arf!

PROFESSOR BUFFTAMELLA AND THE OFFER YOU CAN'T INFUSE!

PROFESSOR BUFFTAMELLA NOW OFFERS YOU LIVE FROM HIS PSYCHIC PSEUDIO A PALM, CRYSTAL BALL AND LOVE BALL READING. NOW THERE IS MORE BUFF POWER AVAILABLE TO YOU THAN EVER HOSE-ABLE WITH GROG'S GREAT WITS-DOM AND INCREDIBLE PUMPING POWER.

THE PROFESSOR CAN DESTROY LIGHT, DARKNESS, SORROW, AND EVIL WAITRESSES WITH GROG'S AMAZING ALNIGHTLY POWER. HE CAN TELL YOU ABOUT YOUR PALS' AND ENEMIES' DONGERS BY NAME. HE CAN ENRICH YOU WITH EXCESS, ECSTATICNESS, LURVE, STEALTH, AND PEACE OF ASS.

THE PROFESSOR HAS SUCCEEDED WHERE ALL OTHER DRUGS HAVE FAILED AND HAS WITNESSED MANY MIRACLES WHILST IN THE CLOSE PROXIMITY OF UDDERS. AND NOW YOU...

1.1% GUARANTEED SATISFACTION OR YOUR LIFE MADE NO WORSE THAN THE RAT'S ASS FOR A DOG'S DINNER THAN IT IS AT PRESENT. WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO LOSE? TO MAKE YOURSELF DINNER AND OTHER INTERDIMENSIONAL BAGS OF LOWLIFES, E-MAIL NOW!

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Arf, arf!

MORE PROBLEMS WITH DA REAR THAN YOU CAN WAVE A STICK AT

Woke up this morning to find... a wrinkled bottom. Now how did THAT get there? So I googled it. And that's when I realised... there are a lot of people who let their arse go. Or is it ass? I'm never sure. Except I know I have one and I know it's wrinkled. And it wasn't the last time I looked. But one interesting fact I did pick up from an online message board - or is it forum? - is that it is a common complaint among nuns. And chief executives. Wrinkled bottom. Not even Wikipedia dares to include an entry but on present estimates 1.2 BILLION... let me say that again, 1.2 BILLION people worldwide suffer from it and the medical profession hasn't got a fecking clue where it comes from or what to do about it. Try all the creams you like. Consult your local plastic surgeon. See a faith healer even. Nothing but nothing works. And here's the worst thing about it. It gets worse. Yes. That's right. It doesn't stay a little wrinkled. It gets more and more wrinkled until you find your grandparents have pitched up on your derriere. Oh, shit, feck, foch even, you've just noticed you've got a wrinkled bottom too, right? Help! You say? OK, well, I don't know if this works, but I have devised a series of exercises to try to unwrinkle the butt based on old Sanskrit texts and ancient recipes for toejam brulee. Bear with me on this, I think we might have cracked it. Geddit? There's only five of them so even a cretinous single-celled swamp dweller - yeah, just like your next door neighbour - will be able to follow them and get some sort of relief.

1. Raise your left arm in the air, spread your legs as wide as they will go, then bounce up and down off a bed of approximately ten nails for a minute.

2. Attach a clothes line peg to each cheek, then attack one peg by using a strong piece of cord to the nearest locked door and pull hard for 3o seconds, and/or until you feel a burning sensation.

3. Rub your arse/ass/butt hard along the nearest cobbled surface for five minutes or until you feel faint and smell blood or pus.

4. Lower and raise your arse/ass/butt onto the side of a bath 5o times then grab the nearest hairbrush and scrape any residue or dead skin away and check on the results.

5. Get someone who's very special to you and will do literally anything for you without asking questions or worrying about medical bills to suck hard on each cheek for five minutes at a time every hour on the hour for seven days.

And if that doesn't work, try shoving a cigar up the crack and lighting it. Cigar smoke contains a chemical known in the hairdresser's profession as ZLT16 which is proven in laboratory tests to relax hair follicles and smooth out dermatological deluvial cavities. If blistering occurs, consult your doctor, lawyer, teacher, cleaner, butcher, baker, banker, dentist, economist, agent, priest, local bystander. Or better still, buy a dog.

OR... contact wrinkledbottomsputtothetest@weirdbuttdiseases.com

Arf, arf!

WHEN ORANGE JUICE JUST AIN'T ENUFF

I WOKE UP IN A COLD SWEAT. SOMETHING INSIDE ME WAS DYING.

I wrote that in a more lucid moment as I recalled the last bath I had. Baths are no longer in fashion.

I WROTE THAT AS I GAZED AT MY NAVEL WHILST WAITING FOR MY LUNCH TO GET NUKED IN THE MICROWAVE

But orange juice. Be it thick or thin. Or a smoothie even. It's never enough for a growing boy.

THERE'S AN ACHE IN MY HEART. THAT CERTAIN SOMETHING IS STILL DYING.

Now I wrote THAT this afternoon. And then only because the tulips downstairs popped their heads out to say hello.

DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY GERMS ARE OUT THERE MOUNTING ATTACKS ON THIS THING WE CALL A BODY?

Well, that's pretty obvious. I wrote that just now as I scratched another festering boil.

WHERE'S THIS ALL LEADING TO? GIMME SOME GAGS. DON'T FECK ME OFF WITH YOUR INNERMOST REFLECTIONS ON TIME PAST AND EXPERIENCE DISSECTED

OK, well, if you come across a man with a gay dog on cocaine, think yourself lucky.

WHAT THE FECK DOES THAT MEAN? IS IT SOME SORT OF CODE?

Just so, grasshopper. Funny too. If you think about it. If you really think about it. But if you really, really, really think about it you might go blind. Remember, it's not that everything is so far away now, it's that you're too close.

OH, I GET IT. WORDPLAY AGAIN. BUT TELL ME, WHAT IS THE TRUE MEANING OF VENETO?

Don't ask me, just book today, tasting is good. Which brings me to the title of this here muse. Orange juice. A life saver but bland, bland, bland. Boysenberry juice. Now you're talking. A wine moment. And now it's gone. Did you know that claret was the Brits' way of... Oh, never mind. See that? It just slipped through my fingers. Again.

WHAT ABOUT A LIST? PEOPLE LOVE LISTS. THE TOP FIVE THINGS TO DO WITH ORANGE JUICE WHEN YOU'RE NEKKID WITH SOME HOT TOTTY?

It slid down my throat. I don't know where it's gone. But it left behind a bad taste. Like melted polystyrene with horseshit mixed in. Did you know that I know a man who can eat a whole horse? Yep. I mean, not straightaway. You have to sit him down at noon and leave him for the rest of the day. But he won't eat the nostrils. He's funny that way. But honestly, what IS a national treasure?

OFUKKIT. I'M THRU. ENUFF ALREADY!

And I wrote that, well, yesterday actually, as the next door neighbour pleaded for more. One can only give so much of a stale loaf. Which rewinds me...

Stale loaf
Stale loaf
You're such an oaf
Stale loaf
So hard
Yet dry

PRESIDENT OBAMA'S MESSAGE TO THE B&B

LAST NITE, THE RIGHT VENERABLE PREZ BARRY OBAMA SENT A POISONAL MESSAGE TO DA BIRD & BUFF & ALL WHO SAIL IN DIS EAR BLOG. HE BROKE OFF FROM A HIGHLY IMPORTANT BREKKIE WID DA TONY BLAIR DUDE TO DELIVER THIS HEARTFELT TRIBUTE TO THE GREATEST COMEDY DOUBLE ACT TO NEVER BREAK WIND AFTER A TIN OF BUFFALO ROAD APPLES:

CITIZENS OF THE WORLD, CAN WE GIVE THE BIRD & BUFFALO THE RECOGNITION THEY TRULY DESERVE FOR EVERYTHING THEY HAVE DONE TO MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE TRULY APPRECIATE THE SACRIFICES THE BIRD & BUFFALO HAVE MADE AND CONTINUE TO MAKE IN THE SERVICES OF GLOBAL HUMOUR AND CONSENSUAL HUMILIATION? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE LOOK THEM BOTH HUMBLY IN THE EYE AND APOLOGISE FOR ALL OUR SHORTCOMINGS WHEN WE FAIL TO UNDERSTAND THE SUBTLE GENIUS OF THEIR GOLDEN UTTERANCES ON THE GREATEST BLOG THAT EVER LIVED? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE, AS NATIONS, REGIONS, CITIES, TOWNS, RURAL AREAS, RAMSHACKLE SHEDS AND INDIVIDUALS WORK TOGETHER WITH THE BIRD & BUFFALO, IN SPITE OF OUR DIFFERENCES, AND INFERIOR INTELLIGENCE, CHARISMA AND SEX APPEAL, TO ALLEVIATE THE SUFFERING OF THOSE WHO WOULD RATHER LAUGH AT OLD BOB HOPE JOKES THAN FACE THE FUTURE WITH EYES WIDE OPEN, LEGS APART AND JAWS WIRED TO METAL POSTS? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE OPEN OUR HEARTS, AND OUR WALLETS, AND DONATE OUR MORE FANCIFUL DAUGHTERS TO THE BIRD & BUFFALO FOR ALL THE GOOD THAT THEY HAVE DONE AND SHALL CONTINUE TO DO UNTIL THEY RUN OUT OF CASH OR ARE CAUGHT FOR PREVIOUS MISDEMEANOURS AND INDISCRETIONS IN FAR OFF LANDS THAT HAVE NO NAME BUT A DEEP THIRST FOR VENGEANCE AND BRUCE WILLIS FILMS WITH LOTS OF BLURWURST? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE GIVE THE BIRD & BUFFALO JUST ABOUT ANYTHING THEY WANT WHEN THEY WANT IT AND HOW THEY WANT IT AND KEEP A STRAIGHT FACE WHILST ALL OTHERS ARE LOSING THEIRS? WELL... YES, WE CAN.

AND WHERE THE BIRD & BUFFALO ARE MET WITH CYNICISM AND DOUBT AND FEAR AND THOSE WHO TELL US THAT WE CAN'T, WE WILL RESPOND WITH THAT TIMELESS CREED THAT SUMS UP THE SPIRIT OF THE BIRD & BUFFALO'S AMAZING COMEDIC GIFT IN THREE SIMPLE WORDS: YES, WE CAN.

ARF, ARF!

WITTER TWITTER & BUFFALO APPLES

YOU MAY HAVE BEEN WONDERING WHERE WE'VE BEEN ALL THIS TIME. WELL, TO FESS UP, WE'VE BEEN ON DA TWITTER, LIKE. BUT FRANK LEE, WE'VE HAD ALL THE IN-UR-EN-DO A BIRD & BUFF CAN TAKE. "AND I THOUGHT DOGGING WAS TEACHING YER DOG NEW TRICKS!" AND ALL THAT BLA.

WELL, FECKS, WE MEAN FOLKS, WE'RE BACK, BLEANER THAN EVER. AND WE'VE GOT SUMFINK TO GET YER TEETH INTO... AT A PRICE.

BUFFALO APPLES IZ DA BEST, WITH ADDED INGRATIENTS FOR XTRA FIZZ WHILE YA WHIZZ.

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BUFFALO APPLES - WHEN A STROLL AND A ROLL JUST AIN'T ENUFF!

COMING SOON... BUFFALO BING CHERRIES TO ADORN ANY SUMPTUOUS BALCONY!

ARF, ARF!