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.
