THE BIRD & BUFFALO HUMBLY APOLOGIZE FOR THEIR ABSENCE. PLIZ, NO MORE ABUSIVE EMAILS, K? WE FEEL YER FRUSTRATION BUT HEAVY CACKOW IS GOIN' DOWN & WE GOTTA DEAL WID IT, INNIT. ANYHOO... BACK IN DA LAND OF DA RELIVING...
BUFFALO: Birdy, you der?
BIRD: Freshly flocked and feathered, Buff.
BUFFALO: Remember my asshole buddy G-Force?
BIRD: The Mesomorph beefcake chap with OCD? The one who's always full mast?
BUFFALO: Yeah. He’s been gainfully unemployed for a while, but still working part-time as a weekend bouncer at some trendy singles bar in the upscale burbs. They let him flex his biceps in tight black t-shirts to lure in flocks of vacuous birds who get blind pissed drunk and rogered in the back seats of Camaros in the parking lot at closing time. Anyhoo, he's finally landed another gig in his chosen career field.
BIRD: Professional muff-diving?
BUFFALO: No, something to do with computers. “IT” or “ID” or some damn Freudian thing. He’s tried to explain it to me but it makes my head hurt. Ah, speak of the Devil. . .
G-FORCE: Dude, thanks for helping me find a job. You’re a real friend.
BUFFALO: So, you're gainfully employed for another 90 days, is it?
BIRD: Ninety days? What’s that about, then?
BUFFALO: Mandatory probation period. G-Hole invariably gets released on the 90th day, like Swiss clockwork, as he suffers from chronic hoof-and-mouth disease.
BIRD: Is that like a permanent yeast infection?
BUFFALO: No, it's much worse. He can’t keep either his trousers or his pie hole zipped, and every time he opens his gob he puts his foot in it. So, after three moons, the boss puts his boot up G-Hole's bleedin' ass.
G-FORCE: (sighs) Yeah, I’m my own worst enema. Hey, dude, can you spot me a Finn until payday?
BUFFALO: Yeah, Huck Finn. I thought I warned you about Finns. Find yourself a nice girl with bipolar disorder instead. Much safer. And try to save some jack this time instead of blowing it all on she-male hookers. No offense, Birdy.
BIRD: None taken, you great shaggy, nappy-headed drunken horny brute.
BUFFALO: Look, G-Plug, buy yourself a case of Vaseline Intensive Hand Care Lotion and a twelve pack of Puffs. Use your imagination to fuel your sexual fantasies instead of employing it to work yourself into a suicidal lather, you maniacal bugger.
G-FORCE: (sighs) Yeah, I know, I've got to cut back on watching Internet porn on the job, and stop thinking about pussy all the time.
BIRD: Good Lord. Is it true what Buff says, that you work with a perpetually throbbing woody?
G-FORCE: It comes and goes. Speaking of which, I’ve got to get to my bouncing job.
BIRD: Tell me, Geefours, do you literally bounce rowdies out of the bar?
G-FORCE: Depends on how rowdy they are, and how big. The little squirts bounce real good. The big galoots don't bounce very well, unless you fling them off the roof.
BIRD: Ah, yes, I see. What about the birds then?
G-FORCE: Oh, hell, anybody can bounce a girl, but we hardly ever do, except for the biker chicks. Of course it takes three or four of us to toss one of them bull dykes into the alley.
BIRD: Why the alley?
G-FORCE: It pisses 'em off no end if we toss ‘em out the front door, and then they beat the shit out of our customers in the parking lot.
BUFFALO: So when does the new gig start?
G-FORCE: Monday morning. I’m dreading it. I have to be there at 8 AM and I usually don’t get to bed until around 4 AM.
BIRD: Blimey, how do you do it?
BUFFALO: G-Plug swills Red Bull like you and me drink Hobgoblin Ale, Birdy.
BIRD: But wouldn’t that cause your heart to explode after a while?
G-FORCE: Not if you know how to pace yourself.
BUFFALO: Right. . . when did you ever pace yourself?
G-FORCE: So, Buff, ya got any advice for me, for the new gig, like?
BUFFALO: Yeah. Keep your ears open, your mouth shut, your nose to the grindstone, don't be dealing women on the clock, and for God's sake don't tell them about the alien abductions, the cattle mutilations, or that secret deal with the Venusians. I'd leave out the chicken sodomy, too.
G-FORCE: Wait, I wanna write that down. Got a scratch pad and a pencil?
BUFFALO: Here’s a ballpoint pen. Write it on your Freddy so you won’t lose it.
BIRD: Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: X-rated film at eleven.
G-FORCE: This isn’t working, dude. I keep puncturing myself. You got a magic marker?
FOR ANYONE WHO WISHES TO PROVIDE G-FORCE WITH A MAGIC MARKER, PLEASE CONTACT HIM AT THE FOLLOWING WATERING HOLE: G-forcegagsonmagicmarkers@mutilatenow.com
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Saturday, March 03, 2007
DIPPIN' INTO DA ARCHIVE OF LIFE, PART 3: GOODBYE, CRUEL WORLD
BIRD: "I am home now. At least I think it's home. I don't recognise my room and the people claiming to be my parents haven't yet told me what they've done with my real parents. I buried Bud this morning in a simple yet deeply moving ceremony. I have just watched the video of it, so I know what I'm talking about. RIP Bud, we love you. Well, I do, anyway. I am still afraid. In 19 days time I shall be nine."
BUFFALO: (sighs) I'm touched, dude. Rewinds me of when my dear old Goldfish Fred bit the bullet, like.
BIRD: "I have just been told that my brother has found a new girlfriend and won't be coming home any more. As a parting present, he gave me a copy of Playboy and told me to 'toss myself silly' over it. I really have no idea what he's talking about. It isn't Pancake Day and I'm rubbish at cooking, anyway. This evening, Fatty Rupert came round and asked me for money. 'That fiver you owe me, I want it back,' he said. I told him I didn't know anything about a fiver and after he shook me a few times and threatened to rearrange my face, I ran to my room and locked myself in. Fatty Rupert is banging on the door as I write. And now he's shouting, 'I'm gonna shove your head up your arse and make you swallow your own poo!' I am still afraid. In 18 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Gawd, is that all? I woz expecting much worse.
BIRD: "After school today, Fatty Rupert and his chums were waiting for me at the bus stop. He personally stamped on my testicles and made a determined effort to shove my head up my bottom. When he failed, he broke some of my limbs instead. I am now back in hospital, sitting on the toilet with serious diarrhoea. I am still afraid. In 17 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Broke your limbs, you say? How fooked is that! I hope you got yer own back on him, like.
BIRD: "The man in the next bed is incontinent. I think it means he travels a lot. He is very smelly and miserable. I requested to be moved to another ward. The nurse told me to show some compassion. So I decided to talk to him. He told me he wanted to die, because 'My grandparents are dead, my parents are dead, my wife hates me, I've lost my job, my house, my friends and I owe the bank £70,000'. I agreed to put a pillow over his face and press hard after everyone else was asleep. 'But the worst thing,' he said, 'is knowing that when you're dead you're gone forever - you'll never laugh, cry, love again. And eventually even the ashes will disappear. So what's the point of living, anyway?' I decided to put the pillow over my own face and press hard instead. Goodbye, cruel world. In 16 days time I would have been nine years old."
BUFFALO: Omigod! What did you do then?
(AGONIZING SILENCE)
BUFFALO: Speak to me, dude. Ya didn't try to lop yerself, did ya? Dude?
BIRD: (softly) They're known as The Lost Years: 9-17. Available at amazon.com. "A harrowing read" - The Litter Hairy Gazette. "A journey to hell and back with lots of chocolate and tight trousers" - Profanity Fair. "A roller coaster ride with your cock stuck in the wheels" - Wonkers Weekly.
BUFFALO: Ordering 50, no, 100 copies right now!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: (sighs) I'm touched, dude. Rewinds me of when my dear old Goldfish Fred bit the bullet, like.
BIRD: "I have just been told that my brother has found a new girlfriend and won't be coming home any more. As a parting present, he gave me a copy of Playboy and told me to 'toss myself silly' over it. I really have no idea what he's talking about. It isn't Pancake Day and I'm rubbish at cooking, anyway. This evening, Fatty Rupert came round and asked me for money. 'That fiver you owe me, I want it back,' he said. I told him I didn't know anything about a fiver and after he shook me a few times and threatened to rearrange my face, I ran to my room and locked myself in. Fatty Rupert is banging on the door as I write. And now he's shouting, 'I'm gonna shove your head up your arse and make you swallow your own poo!' I am still afraid. In 18 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Gawd, is that all? I woz expecting much worse.
BIRD: "After school today, Fatty Rupert and his chums were waiting for me at the bus stop. He personally stamped on my testicles and made a determined effort to shove my head up my bottom. When he failed, he broke some of my limbs instead. I am now back in hospital, sitting on the toilet with serious diarrhoea. I am still afraid. In 17 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Broke your limbs, you say? How fooked is that! I hope you got yer own back on him, like.
BIRD: "The man in the next bed is incontinent. I think it means he travels a lot. He is very smelly and miserable. I requested to be moved to another ward. The nurse told me to show some compassion. So I decided to talk to him. He told me he wanted to die, because 'My grandparents are dead, my parents are dead, my wife hates me, I've lost my job, my house, my friends and I owe the bank £70,000'. I agreed to put a pillow over his face and press hard after everyone else was asleep. 'But the worst thing,' he said, 'is knowing that when you're dead you're gone forever - you'll never laugh, cry, love again. And eventually even the ashes will disappear. So what's the point of living, anyway?' I decided to put the pillow over my own face and press hard instead. Goodbye, cruel world. In 16 days time I would have been nine years old."
BUFFALO: Omigod! What did you do then?
(AGONIZING SILENCE)
BUFFALO: Speak to me, dude. Ya didn't try to lop yerself, did ya? Dude?
BIRD: (softly) They're known as The Lost Years: 9-17. Available at amazon.com. "A harrowing read" - The Litter Hairy Gazette. "A journey to hell and back with lots of chocolate and tight trousers" - Profanity Fair. "A roller coaster ride with your cock stuck in the wheels" - Wonkers Weekly.
BUFFALO: Ordering 50, no, 100 copies right now!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Sunday, February 18, 2007
CRASH & BURN AT DOMINOES
WATSON: Holmes?
HOLMES: Watson?
WATSON: Holmes?
HOLMES: Watson?
(TOBY WOOFS AS HE TRIES TO PRISE OPEN BICCIE TIN)
It is the 20th of February. Holmes is in a sulk because I beat him, nay thrashed him at dominoes. And he is envious, methinks, of my brand-new slippers. The slippers are blue with a dash of white down the sides. They are profoundly comfortable and warm and have aided considerably the aching corn on my big toe on my left foot. We have sat here, exchanging glances, for the best part of the morning. Confound it all, one could drown in such a silence. No doctor hath greater patience than Dr Watson. It may take an hour, a day, a week even, but Holmes WILL apologise for his unbecoming behaviour and WILL forgive me and Mrs Hudson for smashing his beloved Ming vase whilst we enjoyed some hot crumpet by the fire late last night. He needs to get out more. Everybody says so. Holmes, you infuriatingly superannuated anorak, GET A LIFE!
HOLMES: Watson?
WATSON: Holmes?
HOLMES: Watson?
(TOBY WOOFS AS HE TRIES TO PRISE OPEN BICCIE TIN)
It is the 20th of February. Holmes is in a sulk because I beat him, nay thrashed him at dominoes. And he is envious, methinks, of my brand-new slippers. The slippers are blue with a dash of white down the sides. They are profoundly comfortable and warm and have aided considerably the aching corn on my big toe on my left foot. We have sat here, exchanging glances, for the best part of the morning. Confound it all, one could drown in such a silence. No doctor hath greater patience than Dr Watson. It may take an hour, a day, a week even, but Holmes WILL apologise for his unbecoming behaviour and WILL forgive me and Mrs Hudson for smashing his beloved Ming vase whilst we enjoyed some hot crumpet by the fire late last night. He needs to get out more. Everybody says so. Holmes, you infuriatingly superannuated anorak, GET A LIFE!
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