'TIS A HARD LIFE FLOGGING AWAY AT DA BLOG. ONE DOEST ENCOUNTER A HOLE HOIST OF VARICATORY PHENOMENA & DUDES SO 'TIS WITH GREAT PER-LEISURE DAT WE SHARE SOME POSITIVE FEEDBAG WID Y'ALL. 2, 3, 4!
Dear Holey Ones,
Simon here. I just had to write. Your blog changed my life. I was in a dead-end job, in a dead-end life with no one to love when suddenly I found you.
I thought I would die laughing. Each entry funnier than the previous one. You guys are true whack jobs who can't resist an opportunity to play with your wangers but I love you both to bits!
Now everywhere I go I have a permanent smile on my face as I think of you. Thank you so much!
Love
Simon
PS I am now happily married with twins on the way and a house in the country bequeathed by my long-lost Aunty Rosie, who died under mysterious circumstances but she was still able to sign the will, hahaha.
PPS Bring back Dotty!
**********************
Dear Bird & Buff!
I read your blog piece You're Fired on a recommendation and I laughed so much, I was violently sick. I may have to have my gall bladder removed now. Whatever. Thanks, guys. Your humour is out there. Have you thought of writing an opera?
Reggie Bluetooth-Forsyth
*****************
Dear Funny Ones,
You have shown me the way. No longer will I waste my time surfing for porn and Britney memorabilia. I want to laugh and I want it now! You're bookmarked, dudes!
D2
******************
I stood on railing of bridge and had feelings for Pubistan and thought, no, life is worth as long as Turds (sic.) of Bird & Buffalo live. I start fan club for every fans in Xhong Donger.
Kim il XXX
*****************
Darling Birdy & Buffy, hello!
Greetings from Russia. We love you. You like women? Come.
Boris
xxx
****************
You give good blog!
A Non
x
****************
THANKS, DUDES. WE OBLIGE TO AIM. NEVER KNOWLINGLY REGRESSED. I'LL TAKE TWO. WHO'S YOUR BLOGGY? WHO'S YOUR BLOGGY?! ARF, ARF!
Showing posts with label Britney. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Britney. Show all posts
Monday, June 18, 2007
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
OF REAL MEN & QUICHE
BUFFALO: Never take a 54 mg time release Ritalin capsule at 3 in the afternoon, even if you ARE falling asleep at the wheel on I-94 driving to Detroit Metro Airport. You'd be better off to take the first exit, find a Starbuck's, and drink an entire pot of coffee so heavily caffeinated that it would bring Lazarus back to life. The caffeine will wear off in four or five hours but Ritalin is for-fooking-ever, sports fans. Nine hours and 21 minutes and I'm still totally stoked, and tempted to drive north all night to the bloody bridge just to see the sun rise behind the Grand Hotel on the off chance that Britney Spears might be there in a sheer negligee listening to variations on a theme by Paganini on a goddamned music box. What the HELL was I thinking?
BIRD: And you say that was the last you heard of him, Sparky?
SPARKY: That was the last telephone conversation we had, man.
BIRD: And that was 11 hours ago, and he never made it to the airport?
SPARKY: Exactamundo, man. That is way not groovy.
BIRD: And he didn't mention anything unusual before he left the Carfax Arms?
SPARKY: Nope. Only that "real men don't kill women, but I bet they eat quiche".
BIRD: Omigod!
SPARKY: It's the trank talking, man. It don't mean zebrashit.
BIRD: No, Sparky, you don't understand, the auld Buff LOVES quiche. Try him on his cellphone again. If you get thru, tell him... tell him... I was wrong, it was Jenny Agutter in Logan's Run, not Jane Seymour. The daft bugger hates to lose.
SPARKY: Come again, man?
BIRD: Just tell him. Lazarus, Britney, Paganini... The unholy trinity. Jeez, I hope we're not too late...
BIRD: And you say that was the last you heard of him, Sparky?
SPARKY: That was the last telephone conversation we had, man.
BIRD: And that was 11 hours ago, and he never made it to the airport?
SPARKY: Exactamundo, man. That is way not groovy.
BIRD: And he didn't mention anything unusual before he left the Carfax Arms?
SPARKY: Nope. Only that "real men don't kill women, but I bet they eat quiche".
BIRD: Omigod!
SPARKY: It's the trank talking, man. It don't mean zebrashit.
BIRD: No, Sparky, you don't understand, the auld Buff LOVES quiche. Try him on his cellphone again. If you get thru, tell him... tell him... I was wrong, it was Jenny Agutter in Logan's Run, not Jane Seymour. The daft bugger hates to lose.
SPARKY: Come again, man?
BIRD: Just tell him. Lazarus, Britney, Paganini... The unholy trinity. Jeez, I hope we're not too late...
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
ALL OUR SOMETHINGS
BIRD: Nothing comes from nothing. Nothing ever could. But somewhere...
FIFI: ...all the somethings you ever dreamed about are waiting--to get you!!!
BIRD: Yikes!
FIFI: ...all the somethings you ever dreamed about are waiting--to get you!!!
BIRD: Yikes!
Monday, February 26, 2007
AND THE OSCAR GOES TO...
BIRD: Britney Sp... HELEN MIRREN! Yay!
BUFFALO: Woo!
BIRD: Yippee!
BUFFALO: Foo-dook-a-rooooo!
BIRD: Ger-fum-a-ummm!
BUFFALO: Per-too-a-shooooo!
BIRD: (sighs deeply)
BUFFALO: (sighs deeply)
BIRD: Our Hels!
BUFFALO: Your Hels!
BIRD: The Long Good Friday, Piscali's Island...
BUFFALO: The Cook, The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover, The Madness Of King George...
BIRD: Last Orders, Gosford Park...
BUFFALO: Calendar Girls...
BIRD: And The Queen!
BUFFALO: Mah-vellous!
BIRD: Spiffing! Birth name Ilyena Vasilievna Mironov.
BUFFALO: 5ft 4 inches tall. Nickname Popper.
BIRD: Made a dame in 2003.
BUFFALO: 36-25-36...
BIRD: (sighs deeply)
BUFFALO: (sighs deeply)
BIRD: Sayonara, Britney?
BUFFALO: Do one, Spears!
BIRD: Helen at eleven!
BUFFALO: Ahhhhhf, ahhhhhf!
BUFFALO: Woo!
BIRD: Yippee!
BUFFALO: Foo-dook-a-rooooo!
BIRD: Ger-fum-a-ummm!
BUFFALO: Per-too-a-shooooo!
BIRD: (sighs deeply)
BUFFALO: (sighs deeply)
BIRD: Our Hels!
BUFFALO: Your Hels!
BIRD: The Long Good Friday, Piscali's Island...
BUFFALO: The Cook, The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover, The Madness Of King George...
BIRD: Last Orders, Gosford Park...
BUFFALO: Calendar Girls...
BIRD: And The Queen!
BUFFALO: Mah-vellous!
BIRD: Spiffing! Birth name Ilyena Vasilievna Mironov.
BUFFALO: 5ft 4 inches tall. Nickname Popper.
BIRD: Made a dame in 2003.
BUFFALO: 36-25-36...
BIRD: (sighs deeply)
BUFFALO: (sighs deeply)
BIRD: Sayonara, Britney?
BUFFALO: Do one, Spears!
BIRD: Helen at eleven!
BUFFALO: Ahhhhhf, ahhhhhf!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
FUBAR THE ROBOT
HOLMES: America? Surely you jest, Watters.
WATSON: God’s tooth, Holmes. I was there in the winter of ‘80.
HOLMES: Not in “Lost Wages” I trust?
WATSON: Good heavens, no, Holmes. I was summoned to the wilds of Pennsylvania. The capitol, no less. A rather prosaic burg. . . Harrisburg, to be precise. Not far from the fabled town of Hershey, where the street lamps are done up in the shape of the infamous Hershey Kisses. . . bizarre, that. They have a “theme park” dedicated to the proliferation of chocolate.
HOLMES: Milk?
WATSON: With Earl Grey? Gads, Holmes. . . no, thank you, just a spot of lemon and sugar, there’s a good fellow.
HOLMES: Harrisburg.
WATSON: Yes, indeed. . . it seems that a gaggle of writers were in need of a travelling physician.
HOLMES: Whatever for?
WATSON: Have you ever known any writers, Holmes?
HOLMES: Only Sir Arthur. . . and that eccentric chap, Wilde.
WATSON: Right. So you know of the proclivity of writers for the grape, shall we say?
HOLMES: Ah, I appertain your meaning. . . scribblers do have a certain reputation for imbibing like fish, is it not?
WATSON: To put it mildly, Holmes. You may recall the last words of the nefarious Welsh writer Dylan Thomas: “I had eighteen Scotch and sodas. I think that’s the record.”
HOLMES: Ended badly, did it?
WATSON: The coroner listed the cause of death as “An alcoholic insult to the brain.”
HOLMES: I believe I see where this is going, Watters. This pride of itinerant wordsmiths, fearing untimely demise from spiritus frumenti, elected to employ a doctor as a traveling companion, lest they overindulge?
WATSON: Precisely, Holmes. That and the odd short-arm inspection, seeing as how one of them was a rather vivacious young woman who lost most of her inhibitions and her lingerie when she’d had a drop too many, something that happened with fearful regularity about two hours into Happy Hour every evening.
HOLMES: Ah, the prod thickens. . .
WATSON: Pluralize that and you’ve got it, Holmes.
HOLMES: I say, Watney, just out of professional curiosity, you being a man of the world and all, did you perchance happen to. . .
WATSON: Say no more, Holmes. We were still obliged to take the Hippocratic Oath when I became an intern. I never laid a hand on her. Well, discounting the daily examinations to ensure that she hadn’t been contaminated by the virtual non-stop rutting, of course.
HOLMES: Of course. I would expect no less of you, Watters. Carry on.
WATSON: Where was I? Let’s see. . . it was Christmas Day and we were making our way over the Dawson trail. . . no, no, dash it all, that was another winter expedition. Ah, I have it. . . it was a Saturday morning, hence a rest day, and we were enroute to the local shopping mall to find an establishment known as “Victoria’s Secret”. . .
HOLMES: “Victoria’s Secret”? I say, Watson, is that some devilish slur on our beloved sovereign?
WATSON: No, not at all, Holmes. It’s merely a popular panty emporium that panders to svelte young women and middle-aged chaps of the lecherous stripe.
HOLMES: Ah, I see. Just curious, do they publish a catalogue, perchance?
WATSON: Yes. I’m on the subscription list, actually. . . would you like an application? For your “files” of course.
HOLMES: Most thoughtful of you, Watson. More tea?
WATSON: Yes, thank you. Another wedge of lemon, if you don’t mind. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. . . there were seven of us crammed into a Land Rover, on hire from a local garage.
HOLMES: And the young lady? Where was she seated?
WATSON: On my lap. Out of pure necessity, I assure you, Holmes. Otherwise she would’ve been scrunched in between myself and that damned randy Buffalo chap, you know the one – consorts with that cross-dressing cinematic captionist from East Fenwick?
HOLMES: Ah, Le Folle. . .
WATSON: The very one. Well, professional ethics dictated that I couldn’t allow poor Marsha to come into intimate contact with the most infamous muff-diver east of the Mississippi, so I insisted that she ensconce herself on the old lappers, like.
HOLMES: “Ensconce?” I say, Watters, are you implying that….
WATSON: Allow me to say merely that it was not necessary for us to share a seat belt, if you catch my lunch box.
HOLMES: Smashing bird, you say?
WATSON: Of the first water, Holmes. Tantalizing, to say the least. Of course everything was strictly on the up and up.
HOLMES: (dryly) Yes, I have no doubt. Pray, continue.
WATSON: Well, then, as we came over a small rise in the ice-covered highway, we saw the sprawling mall laid out before us, an ostentatious monument to vanity and avarice, and at the entrance to this modern day bazaar, there was a towering marquee, upon which, in bright red block letters three feet high, was spelled out the cryptic message “KIDS! TODAY AT 10 AM – SEE FUBAR THE ROBOT!”
HOLMES: Fubar?
WATSON: Precisely. Fubar.
HOLMES: An odd name, even for a robot. What is the language of origin, do you know?
WATSON: English, Holmes.
HOLMES: I think not, Watson. Let me consult the works of Dr. Johnson…
WATSON: No need, Holmes. All will be explained momentarily.
HOLMES: Very well. What happened next?
WATSON: My travelling companions, without exception, broke into riotous laughter, and our driver, who was drinking Bloody Maries from a thermos, drove our vehicle into a rather precipitous ditch, rolling the Rover in the process. Had we not all been securely fastened in place, I would most likely not be here telling the tale.
HOLMES: Thank heavens. Now, Watson, enlighten me about the aforementioned laughter.
WATSON: The local constabulary arrived on the scene minutes later, accompanied by the Fire department and the paramedics. We were expertly extracted from the flaming wreckage in the nick of time. Marsha and I were separated with the “jaws of life”. I was then obliged to fashion a makeshift splint from the whalebone stays of Marsha’s exquisite corset, alas, only recently purchased from Victoria’s Secret. Damned shame, that. . . but I digress. We were covered with blankets and given mugs of steaming black coffee, and when the writers stopped chuckling long enough to be somewhat coherent, they explained the cause of their un-premeditated mirth.
HOLMES: Confound it, Watson. Get to the punch-line, man!
WATSON: Patience, Holmes. . . more tea, please. Turns out that “Fubar” is an acronym – one, I might add, that is hardly suitable for children. Putting it euphemistically, it stands for “F**ked Up Beyond All Recognition.”
HOLMES: Good Lord! And were you able to see Fubar in person?
WATSON: Indeed, we were, Holmes. . . but I’m much too famished to go into THAT at the moment.
HOLMES: Savoy Grill? My treat?
WATSON: Capital, Holmes!
HOLMES: Harrisburg, I believe you said. I say, Mrs. Hudson, would you fetch our rubbers?
MRS. HUDSON: I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Mr. Holmes!
WATSON: Crumpet at eleven, Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: Dr Watson, please. You'll wake the dead.
HOLMES: Curious species, these Yanks. Got an acronym for everything. Well, see if you can fathom this one, Uncle Sam. TFBTEBSNTV. OK?
WATSON: God’s tooth, Holmes. I was there in the winter of ‘80.
HOLMES: Not in “Lost Wages” I trust?
WATSON: Good heavens, no, Holmes. I was summoned to the wilds of Pennsylvania. The capitol, no less. A rather prosaic burg. . . Harrisburg, to be precise. Not far from the fabled town of Hershey, where the street lamps are done up in the shape of the infamous Hershey Kisses. . . bizarre, that. They have a “theme park” dedicated to the proliferation of chocolate.
HOLMES: Milk?
WATSON: With Earl Grey? Gads, Holmes. . . no, thank you, just a spot of lemon and sugar, there’s a good fellow.
HOLMES: Harrisburg.
WATSON: Yes, indeed. . . it seems that a gaggle of writers were in need of a travelling physician.
HOLMES: Whatever for?
WATSON: Have you ever known any writers, Holmes?
HOLMES: Only Sir Arthur. . . and that eccentric chap, Wilde.
WATSON: Right. So you know of the proclivity of writers for the grape, shall we say?
HOLMES: Ah, I appertain your meaning. . . scribblers do have a certain reputation for imbibing like fish, is it not?
WATSON: To put it mildly, Holmes. You may recall the last words of the nefarious Welsh writer Dylan Thomas: “I had eighteen Scotch and sodas. I think that’s the record.”
HOLMES: Ended badly, did it?
WATSON: The coroner listed the cause of death as “An alcoholic insult to the brain.”
HOLMES: I believe I see where this is going, Watters. This pride of itinerant wordsmiths, fearing untimely demise from spiritus frumenti, elected to employ a doctor as a traveling companion, lest they overindulge?
WATSON: Precisely, Holmes. That and the odd short-arm inspection, seeing as how one of them was a rather vivacious young woman who lost most of her inhibitions and her lingerie when she’d had a drop too many, something that happened with fearful regularity about two hours into Happy Hour every evening.
HOLMES: Ah, the prod thickens. . .
WATSON: Pluralize that and you’ve got it, Holmes.
HOLMES: I say, Watney, just out of professional curiosity, you being a man of the world and all, did you perchance happen to. . .
WATSON: Say no more, Holmes. We were still obliged to take the Hippocratic Oath when I became an intern. I never laid a hand on her. Well, discounting the daily examinations to ensure that she hadn’t been contaminated by the virtual non-stop rutting, of course.
HOLMES: Of course. I would expect no less of you, Watters. Carry on.
WATSON: Where was I? Let’s see. . . it was Christmas Day and we were making our way over the Dawson trail. . . no, no, dash it all, that was another winter expedition. Ah, I have it. . . it was a Saturday morning, hence a rest day, and we were enroute to the local shopping mall to find an establishment known as “Victoria’s Secret”. . .
HOLMES: “Victoria’s Secret”? I say, Watson, is that some devilish slur on our beloved sovereign?
WATSON: No, not at all, Holmes. It’s merely a popular panty emporium that panders to svelte young women and middle-aged chaps of the lecherous stripe.
HOLMES: Ah, I see. Just curious, do they publish a catalogue, perchance?
WATSON: Yes. I’m on the subscription list, actually. . . would you like an application? For your “files” of course.
HOLMES: Most thoughtful of you, Watson. More tea?
WATSON: Yes, thank you. Another wedge of lemon, if you don’t mind. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. . . there were seven of us crammed into a Land Rover, on hire from a local garage.
HOLMES: And the young lady? Where was she seated?
WATSON: On my lap. Out of pure necessity, I assure you, Holmes. Otherwise she would’ve been scrunched in between myself and that damned randy Buffalo chap, you know the one – consorts with that cross-dressing cinematic captionist from East Fenwick?
HOLMES: Ah, Le Folle. . .
WATSON: The very one. Well, professional ethics dictated that I couldn’t allow poor Marsha to come into intimate contact with the most infamous muff-diver east of the Mississippi, so I insisted that she ensconce herself on the old lappers, like.
HOLMES: “Ensconce?” I say, Watters, are you implying that….
WATSON: Allow me to say merely that it was not necessary for us to share a seat belt, if you catch my lunch box.
HOLMES: Smashing bird, you say?
WATSON: Of the first water, Holmes. Tantalizing, to say the least. Of course everything was strictly on the up and up.
HOLMES: (dryly) Yes, I have no doubt. Pray, continue.
WATSON: Well, then, as we came over a small rise in the ice-covered highway, we saw the sprawling mall laid out before us, an ostentatious monument to vanity and avarice, and at the entrance to this modern day bazaar, there was a towering marquee, upon which, in bright red block letters three feet high, was spelled out the cryptic message “KIDS! TODAY AT 10 AM – SEE FUBAR THE ROBOT!”
HOLMES: Fubar?
WATSON: Precisely. Fubar.
HOLMES: An odd name, even for a robot. What is the language of origin, do you know?
WATSON: English, Holmes.
HOLMES: I think not, Watson. Let me consult the works of Dr. Johnson…
WATSON: No need, Holmes. All will be explained momentarily.
HOLMES: Very well. What happened next?
WATSON: My travelling companions, without exception, broke into riotous laughter, and our driver, who was drinking Bloody Maries from a thermos, drove our vehicle into a rather precipitous ditch, rolling the Rover in the process. Had we not all been securely fastened in place, I would most likely not be here telling the tale.
HOLMES: Thank heavens. Now, Watson, enlighten me about the aforementioned laughter.
WATSON: The local constabulary arrived on the scene minutes later, accompanied by the Fire department and the paramedics. We were expertly extracted from the flaming wreckage in the nick of time. Marsha and I were separated with the “jaws of life”. I was then obliged to fashion a makeshift splint from the whalebone stays of Marsha’s exquisite corset, alas, only recently purchased from Victoria’s Secret. Damned shame, that. . . but I digress. We were covered with blankets and given mugs of steaming black coffee, and when the writers stopped chuckling long enough to be somewhat coherent, they explained the cause of their un-premeditated mirth.
HOLMES: Confound it, Watson. Get to the punch-line, man!
WATSON: Patience, Holmes. . . more tea, please. Turns out that “Fubar” is an acronym – one, I might add, that is hardly suitable for children. Putting it euphemistically, it stands for “F**ked Up Beyond All Recognition.”
HOLMES: Good Lord! And were you able to see Fubar in person?
WATSON: Indeed, we were, Holmes. . . but I’m much too famished to go into THAT at the moment.
HOLMES: Savoy Grill? My treat?
WATSON: Capital, Holmes!
HOLMES: Harrisburg, I believe you said. I say, Mrs. Hudson, would you fetch our rubbers?
MRS. HUDSON: I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Mr. Holmes!
WATSON: Crumpet at eleven, Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: Dr Watson, please. You'll wake the dead.
HOLMES: Curious species, these Yanks. Got an acronym for everything. Well, see if you can fathom this one, Uncle Sam. TFBTEBSNTV. OK?
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
THE BRITNEY HAT ACCORDING TO JOYCE & EINSTEIN
BIRD: Dude, Frank Lee, you look like a total fookwit with a tea cosy on.
BUFFALO: Dude, it's warm, OK. I call it the Britney Hat.
BIRD: Dude, if Britney sees you like this...
BUFFALO: Britney, Paris, Helen, Jenny, Betty, Daisy, Carmen fecking Miranda. It don't make no difference. As Joyce once said, "His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
BIRD: Wot the fook's THAT supposed to mean?
BUFFALO: The drugs don't work.
BIRD: Eh?
BUFFALO: I used to imagine that I would be more happy at this stage of my life, living in the bosom of my family and all, growing old gracefully with a woman who loved and understood me...
BIRD: And?
BUFFALO: That I'd be more relaxed and mellow, and a bit wiser and more philosophical about life and so on.
BIRD: What's brought all this on?
BUFFALO: The hat. The "I Am A Fookwit Ha Ha Ha I Shall Now Go And Blow My Brains Out When The Laughter Subsides Big Girl's Blouse" woolly hat!
BIRD: Hey, it don't look so bad.
BUFFALO: Then why are you soiling yerself, dude. Why is EVERYONE I know laffing their buttholes off?
BIRD: Hey, get over it, dude. They're not laffing at you, they're laughing WITH you.
BUFFALO: But I'm not laffing.
BIRD: Light a candle for peace or some Finn. Always works for me.
BUFFALO: Birdy, I have a jar of nitrous oxide in my pocket and I'm gonna use it.
BIRD: Haven't we been here before?
BUFFALO: Yeah, every fooking Friday nite, only this is different, this time I mean it.
BIRD: The final frontier?
BUFFALO: That's right.
BIRD: No more Mr Bare Yer Fooking Soul To The World then?
BUFFALO: No. The lunatic is really me, holding myself hostage. It's time to release the hostage.
BIRD: Dude, it's time you got laid.
BUFFALO: Huh?
BIRD: Wot's Clare doin' tonite?
BUFFALO: Clare? Jeez, I forgot to call her. Wot day is it? She's got meditation at three, dream interpretation at four, scriptwriting at five, manicure at six... and Buffo at seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven and twelve!
BIRD: Dat's my boy! And remember, however bad it gets, as Einstein says "Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile."
BUFFALO: Tanks, Birdy! I'll tell her that. Laters.
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Monday, February 19, 2007
BRITNEY & BUFFTERS UNITED AT LAST
BIRD: Wot the Freddy, dude? Wot ya done?!
BUFFALO: Nuffink much. Just shaved me gulliver, like.
BIRD: Yeah, but why?
BUFFALO: Solidarity with Britney, like.
BIRD: Eh?
BUFFALO: She's going through a tough time. She needs to know that I'm there for her.
BIRD: Dude, you look like a victim of a failed lobotomy.
BUFFALO: Dude, it's not how I feel, it's how Britney feels, and I know that my action has made her feel oh SO much better.
BIRD: And if she shaved her nipples off?
BUFFALO: Well, then I'd...
BIRD: And her Shepherd's Bush?
BUFFALO: Well, I'd... I'll do whatever it takes to heal that sweet misunderstood angel. The world's a wikkid place, dude. Britney's a little ray of sunshine glimmering in the fires of Hades.
BIRD: She's a big slapper with the intellectual capacity and sensibilities of a frozen pea.
BUFFALO: If this is a Britney versus Paris thang, don't go there, dude. The wound's still a-hurtin', if ya get m'drift.
BIRD: Dude, I thought you had the hots for Helen Mirren! Not some juvenile mutant on the road to McDummyanddummerville.
BUFFALO: (strokes photo) It's OK, Britters, he don't mean nothing by it. He's jealous. That's all. Note that I ain't demanding an apology from ya for those most hurtful of remarks of yours.
BIRD: Buffters, I'm outta here. Just one thing. If you decide to shave your Freddy, don't post a photo here, OK?
BUFFALO: As if! Don't worry, Britters, all this is temporary. When they realise the error of their ways, they'll BEG for your forgiveness and then you'll be right back at the top where you belong. So there, Birdman. Oo er, I suddenly feel kinda whoopy-loopy. Now where's my trank?
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