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!
Showing posts with label ground hogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ground hogs. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
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?
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!
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
WATSON IN LOVE
WATSON: Dash it, Holmes. Snap out of it what what what.
HOLMES: Every year, it's the same, Watson. February 14th comes and goes without so much as a flutter of the letter box.
WATSON: Oh, come now, old boy, it is but a bit of harmless piffle. You and I know it doesn't mean a thing.
HOLMES: That's easy for you to say. You got a card.
WATSON: Yes. So I did.
HOLMES: You'd better read it out. Maybe it will alleviate my descending gloom.
WATSON: Oh, righty-ho. Let me see. "Dear Hotty Watty! I have been besotted by you for decades now. Will this be the year you and I finally form an honest union before the Good Lord? Just thinking about your stethoscope on my soft, yielding flesh gives me goose bumps all over. My bosom yearns for your full examination. I would dearly love to have your babies. So whaddya say?"
HOLMES: (chuckles) Oh, dear, Watson. Perhaps it is better not to receive these abominable things after all.
WATSON: But what can it mean, Holmes? And who could possibly have sent such a thing?
HOLMES: The meaning is self-elementary, my dear Watson. As to the sender's identity, one can but speculate that it is either a patient or someone who knows you very well.
WATSON: But but but... Holmes...
HOLMES: Yes, Hotty Watty?
WATSON: Now stop that. I'm flustered enough as it is. Be serious for a moment, will you?
HOLMES: But of course. What did you want to ask me?
WATSON: The sender of this lewd love letter... it wasn't, by any chance,... you, was it?
HOLMES: (guffaws sharply, catches pipe before it burns a hole in trousers) My dear quack, I can assure you that the great Sherlock Holmes does not indulge in such frivolous activities, but you may be getting warmer in your search for the culprit.
WATSON: Eh? What's that?
MRS HUDSON: Will that be all, Mr Sherlock?
HOLMES: Yes, thank you, Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: Then I shall retire to continue my duties.
(HOLMES SPORTS A WRY SMILE)
WATSON: What... you don't think...
HOLMES: Indeed I do, old chum.
WATSON: But that's preposterous! Mrs Hudson? Wanting my babies? Wanting a full examination? Why, she must have taken leave of her senses.
HOLMES: Not really, Watson. I have observed the way she becomes extremely coy in your presence.
WATSON: Crikey! You mean it's not a prank?
HOLMES: Far from it, Watson. The poor deluded maid is totally bewitched by your being.
WATSON: But Holmes, I mean... surely... indefatigably... well, obviously... I say, you know I think I may have to um... ask Mrs Hudson a few things about provisions for next week what what what.
HOLMES: Good for you, Watson. Time waits for no man. Indeed such an occasion merely proves to rub that fact in. You know, I have this mental image of a dog chasing its own tail, happy as a lark, until he gets lucky and bites himself and then runs off howling in agony, and the next day he's chasing his tail again. So maybe ignorance truly is bliss.
WATSON: What's that, Holmes?
HOLMES: Nothing. Now run along and make hay while the sun shines for it is my destiny, today at least, to ponder the emptiness of our existence.
WATSON: Ah, yes. Good. Spiffing. Um... well, see you later, then.
HOLMES: Of that you can be sure, Watson. Fare ye well in the path of Cupid's arrow and may it land in its intended place. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!
HOLMES: Every year, it's the same, Watson. February 14th comes and goes without so much as a flutter of the letter box.
WATSON: Oh, come now, old boy, it is but a bit of harmless piffle. You and I know it doesn't mean a thing.
HOLMES: That's easy for you to say. You got a card.
WATSON: Yes. So I did.
HOLMES: You'd better read it out. Maybe it will alleviate my descending gloom.
WATSON: Oh, righty-ho. Let me see. "Dear Hotty Watty! I have been besotted by you for decades now. Will this be the year you and I finally form an honest union before the Good Lord? Just thinking about your stethoscope on my soft, yielding flesh gives me goose bumps all over. My bosom yearns for your full examination. I would dearly love to have your babies. So whaddya say?"
HOLMES: (chuckles) Oh, dear, Watson. Perhaps it is better not to receive these abominable things after all.
WATSON: But what can it mean, Holmes? And who could possibly have sent such a thing?
HOLMES: The meaning is self-elementary, my dear Watson. As to the sender's identity, one can but speculate that it is either a patient or someone who knows you very well.
WATSON: But but but... Holmes...
HOLMES: Yes, Hotty Watty?
WATSON: Now stop that. I'm flustered enough as it is. Be serious for a moment, will you?
HOLMES: But of course. What did you want to ask me?
WATSON: The sender of this lewd love letter... it wasn't, by any chance,... you, was it?
HOLMES: (guffaws sharply, catches pipe before it burns a hole in trousers) My dear quack, I can assure you that the great Sherlock Holmes does not indulge in such frivolous activities, but you may be getting warmer in your search for the culprit.
WATSON: Eh? What's that?
MRS HUDSON: Will that be all, Mr Sherlock?
HOLMES: Yes, thank you, Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: Then I shall retire to continue my duties.
(HOLMES SPORTS A WRY SMILE)
WATSON: What... you don't think...
HOLMES: Indeed I do, old chum.
WATSON: But that's preposterous! Mrs Hudson? Wanting my babies? Wanting a full examination? Why, she must have taken leave of her senses.
HOLMES: Not really, Watson. I have observed the way she becomes extremely coy in your presence.
WATSON: Crikey! You mean it's not a prank?
HOLMES: Far from it, Watson. The poor deluded maid is totally bewitched by your being.
WATSON: But Holmes, I mean... surely... indefatigably... well, obviously... I say, you know I think I may have to um... ask Mrs Hudson a few things about provisions for next week what what what.
HOLMES: Good for you, Watson. Time waits for no man. Indeed such an occasion merely proves to rub that fact in. You know, I have this mental image of a dog chasing its own tail, happy as a lark, until he gets lucky and bites himself and then runs off howling in agony, and the next day he's chasing his tail again. So maybe ignorance truly is bliss.
WATSON: What's that, Holmes?
HOLMES: Nothing. Now run along and make hay while the sun shines for it is my destiny, today at least, to ponder the emptiness of our existence.
WATSON: Ah, yes. Good. Spiffing. Um... well, see you later, then.
HOLMES: Of that you can be sure, Watson. Fare ye well in the path of Cupid's arrow and may it land in its intended place. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
GROUND HOG DAY IN EXORIUM
BIRD: You OK, dude?
BUFFALO: You seen "Ground Hog Day", Birdy?
BIRD: Nope.
BUFFALO: Dude, get it. It's seminal.
BIRD: Okey-dokes.
BUFFALO: Woke up this morning with that "Ground Hog Day" feeling.
BIRD: Xplain, pliz, Lucy.
BUFFALO: The lesson of "Ground Hog Day" is that every day presents a unique opportunity to turn your life around and make something of yourself. . . But come to think of it, the whole idea of one "making something" of oneself is totally absurd, for we are already something, even if that something is no more clearly articulated than the incoherent ramblings of a semi-literate world leader. Ground Hog Day is an opportunity for all of us to get in touch with the Cosmos, to look inwardly and find the spark of divinity that lives within us, hiding like a. . . well, like a groundhog. . . just waiting for its cue to slither out of its hole like a disenchanted trouser snake, hell-bent on catching a glimpse of its own wee shadow. . . a shadow that indicates the presence of the Sun. It's never been clear to me why the groundhog's shadow is not regarded as an harbinger of Spring instead of an ill omen dictating that we must endure another six weeks of winter. Baffling. Still there, Birdman?
BIRD: Riveted to me seat. Opening up the popcorn... now!
BUFFALO: There is it, a half-witted tradition that goes on and on and on, like "Ground Hog Day" itself, operating on sheer inertia. And yet, as crazy and tedious as it might seem, there is a kind of wisdom in it. Bill Murray's caught in a time warp of his own making. His incredible arrogance, vanity, and insensitivity have twisted the space around him so severely that it results in a distortion of the Time-Space Continuum itself. By his own unwitting design, Phil Connors, a.k.a. Punxsutawney Phil, creates a time loop from which he cannot escape – or so he believes. At first Phil is as stunned as a fish that has encountered an M-80 tossed into its pond by a sadistic angler that is eight sheets to the wind, tanked out on Bud Lite and Jack Daniels. He seeks psychiatric help. A clueless therapist asks him to come back "tomorrow". He buries his throbbing head in a pillow and slam dunks it with his fist, over and over again, much like Ground Hog Day itself. Ah, but then Phil sees the light. . . well, more like a night-light. . . he uses the time loop to seduce various local ladies of easy virtue, until he tires of this pajama game, for it is Andie who’s captured his crooked heart. But when he tries to seduce her, he has no more success than Richard Benjamin in “Portnoy’s Complaint” when John Carradine (as God) looks down upon him from a lofty podium and bellows, “Don’t try to bullshit ME, Portnoy!” But, I disinvest. Still there?
BIRD: Yep. Could you speak a wincy bincy quincy bit louder, for posterity, like?
BUFFALO: Sure. Well, when Phil finally convinces Andie that he’s trapped in a chronological Moebius strip, her take is “Gee, Phil, I don’t know. . . maybe it’s not a curse, maybe it’s a blessing.” And of course, it is. A chance to relive one day over and over again until you perfect it, and yourself as well. I have donated my alarm clock to the Department of Homeland Insecurity and in its stead I’ve placed my portable DVD player, in which I’ve inserted a copy of “Ground Hog Day” – cued up to the scene where Phil’s clock radio flips to 6:00 AM for the first time and he is awakened by Sonny and Cher singing “I’ve Got You, Babe.” From this day forward, I shall make every day Ground Hog Day, and I suggest that we all do the same. So, when I found Sparky in the shower this morning...
BIRD: Sparky?
BUFFALO: Yeah, Sparky. When I found him in the shower practising moves a contortionist would baulk at, I came straight out and told him:
"For the love of God, man, extract your cranial appendage from your rectal orifice, unhand that defenseless rodent, flush those useless meds down the toilet and go out and find yourself a new girlfriend before you go blind or have to start shaving your palms. Self-abuse is not only useless, amigo, but unnecessary. You can get all the abuse you want, with little effort on your part." Here endeth the sermon.
BIRD: Amen.
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: What on earth are those two good for nothings going on about now?
HOLMES: Haven't the foggiest... yet! But it's all going down in my little blue book. Now get down to Blockbusters and rent out that confounded film, will you, old chap? I believe it holds the key to the auld Buffalo's salivation. Chop, chop. We haven't got all day.
MRS HUDSON: A Mr Sparky to see you, Mr Sherlock.
HOLMES: Oh, goody Woody. Send him in.
BUFFALO: You seen "Ground Hog Day", Birdy?
BIRD: Nope.
BUFFALO: Dude, get it. It's seminal.
BIRD: Okey-dokes.
BUFFALO: Woke up this morning with that "Ground Hog Day" feeling.
BIRD: Xplain, pliz, Lucy.
BUFFALO: The lesson of "Ground Hog Day" is that every day presents a unique opportunity to turn your life around and make something of yourself. . . But come to think of it, the whole idea of one "making something" of oneself is totally absurd, for we are already something, even if that something is no more clearly articulated than the incoherent ramblings of a semi-literate world leader. Ground Hog Day is an opportunity for all of us to get in touch with the Cosmos, to look inwardly and find the spark of divinity that lives within us, hiding like a. . . well, like a groundhog. . . just waiting for its cue to slither out of its hole like a disenchanted trouser snake, hell-bent on catching a glimpse of its own wee shadow. . . a shadow that indicates the presence of the Sun. It's never been clear to me why the groundhog's shadow is not regarded as an harbinger of Spring instead of an ill omen dictating that we must endure another six weeks of winter. Baffling. Still there, Birdman?
BIRD: Riveted to me seat. Opening up the popcorn... now!
BUFFALO: There is it, a half-witted tradition that goes on and on and on, like "Ground Hog Day" itself, operating on sheer inertia. And yet, as crazy and tedious as it might seem, there is a kind of wisdom in it. Bill Murray's caught in a time warp of his own making. His incredible arrogance, vanity, and insensitivity have twisted the space around him so severely that it results in a distortion of the Time-Space Continuum itself. By his own unwitting design, Phil Connors, a.k.a. Punxsutawney Phil, creates a time loop from which he cannot escape – or so he believes. At first Phil is as stunned as a fish that has encountered an M-80 tossed into its pond by a sadistic angler that is eight sheets to the wind, tanked out on Bud Lite and Jack Daniels. He seeks psychiatric help. A clueless therapist asks him to come back "tomorrow". He buries his throbbing head in a pillow and slam dunks it with his fist, over and over again, much like Ground Hog Day itself. Ah, but then Phil sees the light. . . well, more like a night-light. . . he uses the time loop to seduce various local ladies of easy virtue, until he tires of this pajama game, for it is Andie who’s captured his crooked heart. But when he tries to seduce her, he has no more success than Richard Benjamin in “Portnoy’s Complaint” when John Carradine (as God) looks down upon him from a lofty podium and bellows, “Don’t try to bullshit ME, Portnoy!” But, I disinvest. Still there?
BIRD: Yep. Could you speak a wincy bincy quincy bit louder, for posterity, like?
BUFFALO: Sure. Well, when Phil finally convinces Andie that he’s trapped in a chronological Moebius strip, her take is “Gee, Phil, I don’t know. . . maybe it’s not a curse, maybe it’s a blessing.” And of course, it is. A chance to relive one day over and over again until you perfect it, and yourself as well. I have donated my alarm clock to the Department of Homeland Insecurity and in its stead I’ve placed my portable DVD player, in which I’ve inserted a copy of “Ground Hog Day” – cued up to the scene where Phil’s clock radio flips to 6:00 AM for the first time and he is awakened by Sonny and Cher singing “I’ve Got You, Babe.” From this day forward, I shall make every day Ground Hog Day, and I suggest that we all do the same. So, when I found Sparky in the shower this morning...
BIRD: Sparky?
BUFFALO: Yeah, Sparky. When I found him in the shower practising moves a contortionist would baulk at, I came straight out and told him:
"For the love of God, man, extract your cranial appendage from your rectal orifice, unhand that defenseless rodent, flush those useless meds down the toilet and go out and find yourself a new girlfriend before you go blind or have to start shaving your palms. Self-abuse is not only useless, amigo, but unnecessary. You can get all the abuse you want, with little effort on your part." Here endeth the sermon.
BIRD: Amen.
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: What on earth are those two good for nothings going on about now?
HOLMES: Haven't the foggiest... yet! But it's all going down in my little blue book. Now get down to Blockbusters and rent out that confounded film, will you, old chap? I believe it holds the key to the auld Buffalo's salivation. Chop, chop. We haven't got all day.
MRS HUDSON: A Mr Sparky to see you, Mr Sherlock.
HOLMES: Oh, goody Woody. Send him in.
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