TOADLY WHIMSY by Birdy
Whimsy is flimsy
Toadly
And if
Ya don't
Believe
Me
Just ask
Dave
***
AND IN UDDER SNOOZE...
A 60ft man was found cowered under gold leaf yesterday just outside Harrods. When asked by PC Plodder what he was up to, he replied, "Just call me Whimsy."
An outbreak of utterances was registered on the Whimsy Scale in the South Atlantic late last night as a wayward polar bear discovered a message in a bottle washed up on a plank which read. "I may be whimsy but I'm certainly not flimsy!"
The first single to be released by The Flimsy Whimsies generated even less interest than the latest U2 album, which has been universally condemned as "an insult to whimsy in the rear"'.
AND SPEAKING OF REAR...
One tried and trusted method of cleansing one's whimsies is 100 grams of vodka and a page 34 from Pride And Prejudice.
AND FINALLY...
If you feel the urge, then feel it some more. There's nothing worse than unfelt whimsy.
COMING SOON...
The flimsy whimsy that couldn't say no to the billy goat and the laughing Chihuahua.
Arf, arf!
“Eaten
away” doesn’t convey much by way of an explanation.
Eh?
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Monday, October 06, 2014
Monday, October 14, 2013
FROM DA ARCHIVE... BUFFTERS IN DA FIX
SOME TIME IN THE DISTENDED PAST...
DAT'S MAH BOY! COME BACK, BUFFTERS! WE LOVES YA! WE REALLY DO-O-O-O!
Arf, arf!
Just got
home and it is very fooking spooky here. There are like 14 cars parked
outside.... I have NEVER seen so many cars parked here. This building is only
about half occupied - and the whole building is eerily quiet. It is never
this quiet -- no traffic next door, no parties in progress, nothing - and
yet I can still smell smoke.
I have Old
Betsy loaded and by my side. I don't like this one bit and am of a mind
to call 911 and voice my suspicions. Sparky's apparently in bed, I hope,
not murdered in his sleep by the crack heads. So, did the raid take place?
Don't know. Who the fook belongs to all those cars out front? Undercover drug
agents? Crack heads? Drug dealers? Not a clue. I am afraid to go to bed,
seriously... and yet I don't want to call 911 and sound paranoid or nutters....
last thing I need is cops showing up here at my door tipping off the crack
heads that I blew the whistle on them. Also, it was like a bake oven when
I got here, had to turn the heat off.
Running on
fumes now, but still afraid to sack out in case the crack heads are planning to
break in and dust me.
Hunter S.
Gonzo
Fear and
Loathing, New Mexico
DAT'S MAH BOY! COME BACK, BUFFTERS! WE LOVES YA! WE REALLY DO-O-O-O!
Arf, arf!
Thursday, August 25, 2011
There Was A Young Man From Peru...
There Was A Young Man From Peru
by Marcel DeClercq
There was a young man from Peru
Who had nothing whatever to do
So he flew in the garret
And buggered the parrot
And sent the result to the zoo.
Winner of the Peruvian Golden Potty Award For Outstanding Fripperology, There Was A Young Man From Peru was perceived in desperation and became an instant hit with disaffected yoot worldwide, spawning thousands of copycat verses too lood to mention. All proceeds are donated to the Save The Parrot From Self-Immolation Fund. To donate, all you have to do is download the following book...
Arf, arf!
by Marcel DeClercq
There was a young man from Peru
Who had nothing whatever to do
So he flew in the garret
And buggered the parrot
And sent the result to the zoo.
Winner of the Peruvian Golden Potty Award For Outstanding Fripperology, There Was A Young Man From Peru was perceived in desperation and became an instant hit with disaffected yoot worldwide, spawning thousands of copycat verses too lood to mention. All proceeds are donated to the Save The Parrot From Self-Immolation Fund. To donate, all you have to do is download the following book...
Arf, arf!
Friday, August 05, 2011
WE WANT THE OCTOPIDDLES!!!
Soaring demand for The Octopiddles has meant that the Peeps are begging, nay, pleading even, with da Buff and Birdy for more Octopiddles. It would appear that the appetite for Doggy Brill is unquenchable, wot wot wot. You want Doggy Brill? You got it. AND don't furr get to tell yer friends bout da book, righty?
Doggy Brill
by Stewart Sumner
Half-munched cakes
and plates of
silence
on the
sidewalk
staring
Glaring
uncomfortably
at
trees and
things
postcards
on the
ledge
staring
Wag
your tale
as well
you must
be
weeping
not
staring
In a
trance
on a
barge
to
Doggy Brill
All
aboard
arf, arf!
Doggy Brill
by Stewart Sumner
Half-munched cakes
and plates of
silence
on the
sidewalk
staring
Glaring
uncomfortably
at
trees and
things
postcards
on the
ledge
staring
Wag
your tale
as well
you must
be
weeping
not
staring
In a
trance
on a
barge
to
Doggy Brill
All
aboard
arf, arf!
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
NED FOOKS UP
Pleased with what he's written, finishing his screenplay at 3 AM, having not slept for two days, Ned clicks on PRINT, but nothing happens. He sees the red LED on the printer blinking. He reaches for the RESET button, but instead knocks over a cup of coffee that spreads rapidly under the paper tray.
Ned leaps out of his chair, grabbing a wad of Puffs to soak up the coffee, but in doing so knocks over a water bottle that spills onto a stack of manuscripts lying on the floor, that were destined for the post office. He realizes that now he will miss all the deadlines for the screenplay competitions, as he's almost out of paper and Staples doesn't open for another 7 hours.
Cursing, he starts sopping up the coffee spill, splashing coffee onto the paper in the printer tray. Cursing vehemently now, he flings the coffee-soaked wad of tissues against the wall, ruining a brand-new calendar.
The coffee spill has now spread all the way under the printer. Fearing electrocution, Ned unplugs the printer, which causes his computer to crash. He realizes that he hasn't saved his work in over six hours.
"Sonofamotherfookingpissant!" he roars, kicking the trash can, which falls over, spilling its contents. In the beer-soaked trash, he sees an overdue bill and hones in on the words "A $35 fee will be charged for late payments." Ned realizes he's forgotten to pay his mother's electric bill.
"Shitpissfook****hoor!!" he screams, slamming his fist into the door, awakening his roommate who is recovering from a double hernia operation. Startled, the invalid falls out of bed, dislodging his catheter. He screams in agony, scaring the shit out of Ned, who is busy hopping from the pain of the now bleeding knuckles on his right hand.
Meanwhile, the coffee has flowed over the edge of Ned's worktable, spilling onto a power-strip, short-circuiting it. All the lights go out. Mindful of his roommate's continued screams, Ned rushes to his aid, in the dark, and trips over a bowling ball lying in the hallway.
Ned falls on his face, the bowling ball smacking him in the groin, causing him to go cross-eyed with pain as he gasps for air. At that moment, his telephone rings.
Ned drags himself to his feet, reeling with pain, disoriented in the dark. He stubs his toe on the bowling ball.
"Syphylliticafterbirthofagonarrheariddenhoorcow!!!" he screams. Furious, he kicks the bowling ball, breaking three toes, falling to the floor, with pain so intense he vomits all over himself.
Again dragging himself to his feet, Ned slips in his own vomit and falls on his back, on top of the bowling ball, fracturing three vetebrae. Adrenalin kicks in.
Ned leaps to his feet, grabs the phone, shouts "WHAT DA FOOK DO YOU WANT??" and hears his aged mother on the line, wheezing... "I... I... just wanted to know if your power is out, dear... ours is out here."
Ned rips the telephone from the wall and hurls it out the window. It falls on Mr. Kinderman, his 72 year old neighbor, who is out walking his dog, an asthmatic Cockapoodle named "Farley". Kinderman is knocked unconcious and falls into a cactus bed. Farley rushes to his aid, lapping Kinderman's bleeding scalp, the end result of being smacked in the head by Ned's telephone, and being impaled by a Barrel cactus.
Oblivious to the mayhem he has caused, Ned gropes around in the dark for a flashlight. He finds one, but the batteries are dead.
"Fook me," he murmurs, groping in the dark for a wall, to steady himself.
In the adjoining bedroom, his Indian roommate, Rigveda, is moaning in agony. His bloody cathether has leaked urine all over the carpet. The smell of vomit makes him nauseous. He upchucks on the carpet.
Outside, a burglar has found the unconscious Mr. Kinderman lying in the cactus bed. He ransacks Kinderman's pockets and steals his wallet. Finding Kinderman's cellphone, he calls 911 to summon the paramedics before fleeing the scene. Feeling sorry for poor Farley, he reaches down to pat him. Farley bites him.
Furious, the burglar flings Farley through Ned's open bedroom window. The yelping dog scares the bejesus out of Ned, who imagines that he's being attacked by a rabid wolverine. He freezes like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights.
The lights come back on. Ned sees Farley lapping up a puddle of vomit, which causes him to throw up again. Farley seems to think this is for his benefit and wags his tail in appreciation.
Ned hears something behind him. He turns and sees Rigveda crawling toward him, his face contorted with pain, his torso soaked in blood, reeking of vomit and urine.
Ned suffers a brain embolism and keels over, dead. Farley licks his face in sympathy. The power goes off again.
Film at eleven!
AND DON'T FURRGET TO BUY DA BOOK:
SHORT POETRY IN BRIEF
A Propinquitous Retrospective Vision Of The Octopiddles Expired
Ned leaps out of his chair, grabbing a wad of Puffs to soak up the coffee, but in doing so knocks over a water bottle that spills onto a stack of manuscripts lying on the floor, that were destined for the post office. He realizes that now he will miss all the deadlines for the screenplay competitions, as he's almost out of paper and Staples doesn't open for another 7 hours.
Cursing, he starts sopping up the coffee spill, splashing coffee onto the paper in the printer tray. Cursing vehemently now, he flings the coffee-soaked wad of tissues against the wall, ruining a brand-new calendar.
The coffee spill has now spread all the way under the printer. Fearing electrocution, Ned unplugs the printer, which causes his computer to crash. He realizes that he hasn't saved his work in over six hours.
"Sonofamotherfookingpissant!" he roars, kicking the trash can, which falls over, spilling its contents. In the beer-soaked trash, he sees an overdue bill and hones in on the words "A $35 fee will be charged for late payments." Ned realizes he's forgotten to pay his mother's electric bill.
"Shitpissfook****hoor!!" he screams, slamming his fist into the door, awakening his roommate who is recovering from a double hernia operation. Startled, the invalid falls out of bed, dislodging his catheter. He screams in agony, scaring the shit out of Ned, who is busy hopping from the pain of the now bleeding knuckles on his right hand.
Meanwhile, the coffee has flowed over the edge of Ned's worktable, spilling onto a power-strip, short-circuiting it. All the lights go out. Mindful of his roommate's continued screams, Ned rushes to his aid, in the dark, and trips over a bowling ball lying in the hallway.
Ned falls on his face, the bowling ball smacking him in the groin, causing him to go cross-eyed with pain as he gasps for air. At that moment, his telephone rings.
Ned drags himself to his feet, reeling with pain, disoriented in the dark. He stubs his toe on the bowling ball.
"Syphylliticafterbirthofagonarrheariddenhoorcow!!!" he screams. Furious, he kicks the bowling ball, breaking three toes, falling to the floor, with pain so intense he vomits all over himself.
Again dragging himself to his feet, Ned slips in his own vomit and falls on his back, on top of the bowling ball, fracturing three vetebrae. Adrenalin kicks in.
Ned leaps to his feet, grabs the phone, shouts "WHAT DA FOOK DO YOU WANT??" and hears his aged mother on the line, wheezing... "I... I... just wanted to know if your power is out, dear... ours is out here."
Ned rips the telephone from the wall and hurls it out the window. It falls on Mr. Kinderman, his 72 year old neighbor, who is out walking his dog, an asthmatic Cockapoodle named "Farley". Kinderman is knocked unconcious and falls into a cactus bed. Farley rushes to his aid, lapping Kinderman's bleeding scalp, the end result of being smacked in the head by Ned's telephone, and being impaled by a Barrel cactus.
Oblivious to the mayhem he has caused, Ned gropes around in the dark for a flashlight. He finds one, but the batteries are dead.
"Fook me," he murmurs, groping in the dark for a wall, to steady himself.
In the adjoining bedroom, his Indian roommate, Rigveda, is moaning in agony. His bloody cathether has leaked urine all over the carpet. The smell of vomit makes him nauseous. He upchucks on the carpet.
Outside, a burglar has found the unconscious Mr. Kinderman lying in the cactus bed. He ransacks Kinderman's pockets and steals his wallet. Finding Kinderman's cellphone, he calls 911 to summon the paramedics before fleeing the scene. Feeling sorry for poor Farley, he reaches down to pat him. Farley bites him.
Furious, the burglar flings Farley through Ned's open bedroom window. The yelping dog scares the bejesus out of Ned, who imagines that he's being attacked by a rabid wolverine. He freezes like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights.
The lights come back on. Ned sees Farley lapping up a puddle of vomit, which causes him to throw up again. Farley seems to think this is for his benefit and wags his tail in appreciation.
Ned hears something behind him. He turns and sees Rigveda crawling toward him, his face contorted with pain, his torso soaked in blood, reeking of vomit and urine.
Ned suffers a brain embolism and keels over, dead. Farley licks his face in sympathy. The power goes off again.
Film at eleven!
AND DON'T FURRGET TO BUY DA BOOK:
SHORT POETRY IN BRIEF
A Propinquitous Retrospective Vision Of The Octopiddles Expired
Friday, February 06, 2009
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!
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!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
MEET ME LITTER RARE E AGENT - MR I CHING
BIRD: Strap yourself in, dude, and listen in to me chewin' da breeze wid mah homey litter rare E agent, like.
BUFFALO: Dude, wot the fook are you talking about?!
BIRD: You, me, the universe and uddery. We got an agent, innit. After all these years of obscurantory.
BUFFALO: Woo-hoo! Nice! What'shisname?
BIRD: Mr I Ching. Dunno wot the I stands for, but dude, we're in! Pour yerself a strong one, lean back and listen to the chat we had but one hour ago.
BUFFALO: Cracking open a bottle of Muscatel as I lower myself into the recliner...
BIRD: Here goes!
Um, er, is that Mr Ching?
I CHING: Ask I Ching.
BIRD: Mr I Ching. Excellent. I've been trying to reach you for some time.
I CHING: Perseverance furthers.
BIRD: Sure does. Da auld Buff and I have been looking for an agent to publish our book, Tails From The Bird And Buffalo: The Walrus Years, like.
I CHING: If someone is not as he should be, He has misfortune, And it does not further him, To undertake anything.
BIRD: Well, yeah, I used to think that but now I've finally got through to you, hopefully, all that is about to change.
I CHING: Under heaven thunder rolls, All things attain the natural state of innocence.
BIRD: My thoughts entirely. So you're happy to represent us?
I CHING: The great departs; the small approaches.
BIRD: Absolutely. I can't tell you how excited we are about this.
I CHING: The superior man falls back upon his inner worth, In order to escape the difficulties.
BIRD: Oh, wow! Hey, could you hang on? I need to grab a pen. Just to jot down the basic elements of the contract, like.
I CHING: He does not permit himself to be honoured with revenue.
BIRD: Yes, well... So you think you can place our book?
I CHING: The superior man keeps the inferior man at a distance, Not angrily but with reserve.
BIRD: A-ha. So how long do we have to wait before we hear something?
I CHING: In the midst of the greatest obstructions, Friends come.
BIRD: So, what are we talking, a few weeks?
I CHING: Joy comes softly, It furthers one to make offerings and libations.
BIRD: Brill! So I'll be waiting for your call. An email even.
I CHING: The light has sunk into the earth, The image of Darkening of the Light, He veils his light, yet still shines.
BIRD: Right O! It's been a pleasure talking to you, Mr Ching. Um, just curious. What does the I stand for?
I CHING: The Clinging, The Arousing.
BIRD: I see. Waiting for your call.
I CHING: Above the arousing, Below the Abysmal.
BIRD: Bye then.
I CHING: Oppression. Success. Perseverance.
BIRD: Right back at ya!
*****
BUFFALO: Wow! This I Ching dude is well cool. Well done, Birdy. You have done well.
BIRD: Tanks, Buff. Onwards and upwards.
BUFFALO: Success on a plate.
BIRD: Gotta run. The Orifice beckons.
BUFFALO: Watch out for low flying.
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
THE MISSING P-COCK
BUFFALO: Dude.
BIRD: Yes, dude?
BUFFALO: I've lost the fookin' peacock!
BIRD: Eh?
BUFFALO: The one we were gonna use for the pilot episode. Zip. Ka-kronken-ho! Vanished.
BIRD: Dude, you can't just lose a peacock without a trace. Try and think. When did you see it last?
BUFFALO: Well, I gave it a shower, like, after a hearty meal of Spam and sardines and a fossilized mouse I found behind the cupboard in Sparky's room, all washed down with a Bud, you understand.
BIRD: OK. Then what?
BUFFALO: Then I kicked that jerk-berk Sparky out of his room and put Ms Paycock to bed, tucked her in, an' all.
BIRD: A-ha. And in the morning?
BUFFALO: Da peacock was gone.
BIRD: Have you checked the balcony?
BUFFALO: Yep.
BIRD: The kiddies' playground?
BUFFALO: Yah-p.
BIRD: The shooting range.
BUFFALO: O fahhhh-k. The shooting range. Those guys, the ones with the fahhhh-k off Uzis... They like to take pot shots at things and animals... And in her burst for freedom... Wot time is it? There may still be hope. Pray for me birdy, Birdy!
BIRD: Crossing everything that doesn't snap here, dude!
SOME TIME LATER...
BUFFALO: Birdy, it's OK.
BIRD: Thank Gosh!
BUFFALO: Ms Paycock ain't at the shooting range. All I found were a coupla stray hogs and a trunk with a dozen dead parakeet in and a ransom note.
BIRD: Phew!
BUFFALO: But the range was sans peacock. Now wot?
BIRD: Gotta phone the cocks... I mean cops.
BUFFALO: Yeah, right. No, wait. It's just recurred to me that Sparky may have mistaken it for an ostrich, what with his lumbago an' all.
BIRD: An ostrich? Nice, lean meat. Very nutritious!
BUFFALO: I wondered what that was roasting on the spit while I was stirring me porridge. The stoopid bat-twat. The waxwork shagger's fookin' munched our peacock, dude.
BIRD: Omigosh! Fukkit! Where are we gonna get another peacock in time for the shoot this afternoon?
BUFFALO: I'm gonna kick that bastid's ass so hard, he'll wish he was born a nun.
BIRD: We're fooked. Finished before we started.
BUFFALO: No, no, no, no. Wait. For 50 clams we can have the perfect peacock that never was. If Sparky can mistake a peacock for an ostrich...
BIRD: Brillo, dude.
BUFFALO: And with a little make-up... We're gonna do this, dude. Nothing's gonna stop us now. Woo-hoo! Buff does it again.
BIRD: Great. Once you swish open that red curtain and...
BUFFALO: Red curtain...
BIRD: You have got the red curtain?
BUFFALO: Not egg sack Lee. Cindy's still working on it.
BIRD: Oh, for Freddy's sake. The best laid lambs an' all.
BUFFALO: Fukkit, dude. We'll go cgi. Nobody'll know. It's all cgi these days. Even the actors. I've got Photoshop and Adobe and shit, MS Word even. I'll do the whole thing on my laptop.
BIRD: Brilliant! Dude, you're a genius! Let's run thru the script one more time and then hit those pixels!
BUFFALO: Hmm. The script...
BIRD: You did save it?
BUFFALO: I er... it's nearly there, Birdy. I mean, it's so close I can lick it.
BIRD: How close?
BUFFALO: VERY close. Just needs tweaking.
BIRD: Out of a 30-minute pilot, how many minutes would you say are missing?
BUFFALO: Um... well... uh...
BIRD: How many?
BUFFALO: About 29.
BIRD: Ofukkit!
BUFFALO: But we can improvise. Some of the best comedy is improvised, innit. Look at Curb Your Enthusiasm. It's all spontaneous. It's great stuff. We can do this, dude. Just keep the faith.
BIRD: Dude, I'm going back to the Bore Fest now, the Orifice that must be obeyed, the place where I will eke out the rest of my days because you decided to fookup the only real chance we ever had of stardom. Thanks, dude. It was mammorable.
BUFFALO: Dude... Dude? You don't understand. Dude? So that's it. The only true friend I ever had. The one guy who stood by me no matter what. I haven't felt this bad since I had a "venous Doppler scan" done of my "lower extremities" including my Freddy. I'll talk him round. I know I will. Tomorrow's another day, right? Arf, arf!
TO BE CONTINUED...
BIRD:
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
DICK VON FUXX REVELS ALL
FROM THE SECRET BLOG OF DICK VON FUXX, THE PREMIUM ADULT ENTERTAINMENT DIRECTOR
They say all the talent is deserting Limehouse for LA. But as everybody knows, with the spiralling production costs in the States, the industry is unsustainable in LA and once the great studios of Muffdom and Anal Sis are crippled by debt and thrown into receivership the doors will be thrown open to all sorts of amateur sickos waiting to flood the market with cgi-enhanced faked orgasm bullshit. So all I have to do is play the waiting game. In a matter of months, weeks even Limehouse will be the buzz on everyone’s lips and I, Dick von Fuxx III, shall assume my rightful place in filthy old pervs’ history.
After the years in the wilderness of sweat and toil, trying to turn seedy adult films into an art form, the world is about to acknowledge me for the outstanding auteur that I am. No more shall I have to endure the demeaning label of porn peddlar. My films shall stand alongside the truly filthy stuff of Bertolucci and others as unforgettable, groundbreaking works of art. The public shall come to see that the on screen gang bang is no more than a cinematic means to a spiritual enlightenment end that is not possible in blockbuster action films and soppy romcoms. “From the collective orgasm to universal freedom!” as Big Cock Drummond utters in the inimitable The Importance Of Being An Onanist, based on Oscar Wilde’s marvellous play. But I must admit, my shaggy poodle Paint Pot, keeps me sane. And having unlimited totty on tap helps keep my Freddy off the ground. Blimey! Is that the time? Time for a spot of champers. Cheers, everyone!
DICK VON FUXX WILL RETURN IN
THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN WANGER
STARRING ERIC LANGENSCHLONGENHOSER & TINA TITFEST
They say all the talent is deserting Limehouse for LA. But as everybody knows, with the spiralling production costs in the States, the industry is unsustainable in LA and once the great studios of Muffdom and Anal Sis are crippled by debt and thrown into receivership the doors will be thrown open to all sorts of amateur sickos waiting to flood the market with cgi-enhanced faked orgasm bullshit. So all I have to do is play the waiting game. In a matter of months, weeks even Limehouse will be the buzz on everyone’s lips and I, Dick von Fuxx III, shall assume my rightful place in filthy old pervs’ history.
After the years in the wilderness of sweat and toil, trying to turn seedy adult films into an art form, the world is about to acknowledge me for the outstanding auteur that I am. No more shall I have to endure the demeaning label of porn peddlar. My films shall stand alongside the truly filthy stuff of Bertolucci and others as unforgettable, groundbreaking works of art. The public shall come to see that the on screen gang bang is no more than a cinematic means to a spiritual enlightenment end that is not possible in blockbuster action films and soppy romcoms. “From the collective orgasm to universal freedom!” as Big Cock Drummond utters in the inimitable The Importance Of Being An Onanist, based on Oscar Wilde’s marvellous play. But I must admit, my shaggy poodle Paint Pot, keeps me sane. And having unlimited totty on tap helps keep my Freddy off the ground. Blimey! Is that the time? Time for a spot of champers. Cheers, everyone!
DICK VON FUXX WILL RETURN IN
THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN WANGER
STARRING ERIC LANGENSCHLONGENHOSER & TINA TITFEST
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
FIVE THINGS NOT TO SAY AFORE YE CROAK
IF YOUSE THINKING 'BOUT KICKING DA BUCKET & WANT TO BE WELL REMEMBERED, LIKE, DON'T SAY NONE O' DESE:
1. DAVE (HALIFAX, ENGLAND) TO HIS BELOVED NANCY: "At least I won't have to fake my orgasms any more!"
2. BERYL (SOMEWHERE IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE) TO HER HUBBY OF 60 YEARS, NIGEL: "How I've put up with your ugly mug and farting for England all these years I'll never know."
3. JEAN-JEAN (BELIZE) TO HIS EGYPTIAN POODLE: "Zis is le end, mon pooch. After toi, non?"
4. BORIS KOKBLOWNOFF (KRASNODAR, SIBERIA) TO TWIN BROTHER ALF: "Tell Lenin I miss him and don't forget to feed the swans on the lake, twin comrade of mine!"
5. WALKING TEPID (SOMEWHERE ON LAKE MICHIGAN) TO WAVING BULL IN SKY: "Rising Turd has come for me, I go now to Universal Flush. Geronimo!"
1. DAVE (HALIFAX, ENGLAND) TO HIS BELOVED NANCY: "At least I won't have to fake my orgasms any more!"
2. BERYL (SOMEWHERE IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE) TO HER HUBBY OF 60 YEARS, NIGEL: "How I've put up with your ugly mug and farting for England all these years I'll never know."
3. JEAN-JEAN (BELIZE) TO HIS EGYPTIAN POODLE: "Zis is le end, mon pooch. After toi, non?"
4. BORIS KOKBLOWNOFF (KRASNODAR, SIBERIA) TO TWIN BROTHER ALF: "Tell Lenin I miss him and don't forget to feed the swans on the lake, twin comrade of mine!"
5. WALKING TEPID (SOMEWHERE ON LAKE MICHIGAN) TO WAVING BULL IN SKY: "Rising Turd has come for me, I go now to Universal Flush. Geronimo!"
Thursday, April 03, 2008
THE PROUST OUTSIDE WITHIN
BIRD MET MARCEL PROUST LAST NIGHT WHILST WALKING THE MIND. HE REMINDED HIM OF A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER AND...
BIRD: In the mirror every reader finds herself in him.
PROUST: Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.
BIRD: Regress. Regress. To recreate second nature composed of masterpieces and neurotics is merely an instrument of the mind that is not going to last, right?
PROUST: Wow. But I don't understand.
BIRD: Habit is happiness, don’t you know?
PROUST: You mean we become moral when we are unhappy.
BIRD: Of course not, you wombat. You know, I really do think final decisions communicate strength within the cruelties of enchantments and powers which serve unhappiness and other inedible delights, don’t you?
PROUST: Didn’t I say something like that once?
BIRD: Don't be silly, what I said was profound. How vain you are!
PROUST: It’s just we do not succeed in changing things according to our desire, but gradually our desire changes.
BIRD: Pardon my French, but that's just bollocks. But grief has not been quite himself of late.
PROUST: You've gone too far now. What the hell do you mean by that?
BIRD: Nothing. Keep your toupee on. It's just you are not the person I saw a moment ago. In fact, I do believe you’re not a person. You don’t look like a person and with all those words shrouding you I fail to see how you could possibly inhabit your person in any other way but as a non-person.
PROUST: If you're referring to the past…
BIRD: It's painful to the end. Yes, I know. When did you become the non-entity you were yesterday, today, forever, hm? Never wavering.
PROUST: You know what, Birdy? F**K YOU!
(telephone rings)
BIRD: Yes, Audrey, I know. Touchy fooker, innie? Put Dale on, would ya? Cheers!
THE PROUST OUTSIDE WITHIN by The Bird & Buffalo is now available in all disreputable bookshops and massage parlours.
COMING SOON - PROUST IN HIS OWN WURST: A MAN ON THE EDGE OF XYLOPHILIA by The Bird & Buffalo (XXX + 1 rated)
BIRD: In the mirror every reader finds herself in him.
PROUST: Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.
BIRD: Regress. Regress. To recreate second nature composed of masterpieces and neurotics is merely an instrument of the mind that is not going to last, right?
PROUST: Wow. But I don't understand.
BIRD: Habit is happiness, don’t you know?
PROUST: You mean we become moral when we are unhappy.
BIRD: Of course not, you wombat. You know, I really do think final decisions communicate strength within the cruelties of enchantments and powers which serve unhappiness and other inedible delights, don’t you?
PROUST: Didn’t I say something like that once?
BIRD: Don't be silly, what I said was profound. How vain you are!
PROUST: It’s just we do not succeed in changing things according to our desire, but gradually our desire changes.
BIRD: Pardon my French, but that's just bollocks. But grief has not been quite himself of late.
PROUST: You've gone too far now. What the hell do you mean by that?
BIRD: Nothing. Keep your toupee on. It's just you are not the person I saw a moment ago. In fact, I do believe you’re not a person. You don’t look like a person and with all those words shrouding you I fail to see how you could possibly inhabit your person in any other way but as a non-person.
PROUST: If you're referring to the past…
BIRD: It's painful to the end. Yes, I know. When did you become the non-entity you were yesterday, today, forever, hm? Never wavering.
PROUST: You know what, Birdy? F**K YOU!
(telephone rings)
BIRD: Yes, Audrey, I know. Touchy fooker, innie? Put Dale on, would ya? Cheers!
THE PROUST OUTSIDE WITHIN by The Bird & Buffalo is now available in all disreputable bookshops and massage parlours.
COMING SOON - PROUST IN HIS OWN WURST: A MAN ON THE EDGE OF XYLOPHILIA by The Bird & Buffalo (XXX + 1 rated)
Thursday, February 07, 2008
THE GREATEST SENTENCE EVER WRITTEN Q BUFFTERS
AS VOTED FOR BY THE WORLD FORUM FOR PHILOLOGICAL UNIVERSALITY IN THE ORIFICIAL MIND
I might as well stick a Roman candle up me ass and expect to speak fluent Latin.
BUFFALUS INTELLIGENTUS
I might as well stick a Roman candle up me ass and expect to speak fluent Latin.
BUFFALUS INTELLIGENTUS
Monday, January 28, 2008
BANGED! AN INSERT @
FROM THE SHORTLY TO BE PUBLISHED AND ENDOWED WITH MANY ACCOLADES NOVEL BANGED! ANOTHER IRRESISTIBLE BIRD & BUFFALO ARSE***K LITERARY REVULSION.
Chapter 14a Section 7
Airports. F***ing airports. Can’t escape them. Tedium city. But this was the only way she’d unscramble her head. Once she was safe in the Village, with the Reconfigurator, everything would go back to the way it had been only a few months ago – boring and predictable but somehow far more desirable than this aimless rampage of crime and mind f***s. The Village. Five hours by air, then a short trek in the desert. Flo had often talked about it. Said it would be their little secret. Said if things ever got really f****ed up, she had to make her way there and ask for Viscount Framlingham.
And now there were two hours to kill before the flight that would bring her back to dear old safe sanity in suburbia. How she wished Bo was still around. She fancied a Bo bang. One of those really filthy, disgusting no-holes-barred ones that drained every last juice from her body. She wasn’t so keen on the sheep heads and stuff, but wow, a Bo bang, preferably in a public place, was the one thing that made all the suffering and crazy shit worthwhile.
“Carla, isn’t it?” the guy at the check-in whispered.
She let out a yawn. “Er, yeah. That’s what it says on the passport, right?”
He smiled. “No, no, I mean, well, look it’s Chuck. I used to work with Clifford.”
She looked him up and down. He even looked a little like Clifford. Only slimmer, darker eyes, a better tan, a better odour. “Sorry, uh, Chuck, but I don’t remember you. I never mixed with Clifford’s work stiffs. Oh, and just for your information, Clifford doesn’t live here anymore.”
He shrugged. “Oh, sorry to hear that. Actually, truth be told, he was a bit of a boring jerkoff. So, good for you, sister, striking out on your own. No prizes for settling for second best, huh?”
She knitted her eyebrows. “Hold on, Chuck, let’s just get one thing straight. Clifford wasn’t second best. A jerkoff, yeah, but not second best. And right now, I’ve got a plane to catch so I ain’t got time for no small talk. I’ll see you in the restroom over there in five.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Just cut the bullshit, OK?”
Probably married with two kids. With all the daring of a mouse. Whatever. If he didn’t turn up, she’d manage without him. What a selfish bitch she’d become. Me, me, f***ing me. The sooner she got to the Village, the better.
She splashed some water over her face, dabbed herself with a towel and waited by the first cubicle. She slid a finger down her panties and began to stroke herself lovingly. Her breathing quickened. Slow down, she told herself, this is just the warm-up act. But her finger was joined by another finger and then another and then a really weird thing happened. She felt something emerging from her ****, something fleshy, solid. A gynormous erect Freddy, in fact. She went to the mirror. Facial hair was sprouting up everywhere. A beard and moustache were taking shape, her shoulders were broadening.
“Stop this mind bang right now!” she screamed. “I don’t want to be a man. I’m a woman! I want to stay a woman. Get this Freddy off me! Bo, help!”
Chapter 14a Section 7
Airports. F***ing airports. Can’t escape them. Tedium city. But this was the only way she’d unscramble her head. Once she was safe in the Village, with the Reconfigurator, everything would go back to the way it had been only a few months ago – boring and predictable but somehow far more desirable than this aimless rampage of crime and mind f***s. The Village. Five hours by air, then a short trek in the desert. Flo had often talked about it. Said it would be their little secret. Said if things ever got really f****ed up, she had to make her way there and ask for Viscount Framlingham.
And now there were two hours to kill before the flight that would bring her back to dear old safe sanity in suburbia. How she wished Bo was still around. She fancied a Bo bang. One of those really filthy, disgusting no-holes-barred ones that drained every last juice from her body. She wasn’t so keen on the sheep heads and stuff, but wow, a Bo bang, preferably in a public place, was the one thing that made all the suffering and crazy shit worthwhile.
“Carla, isn’t it?” the guy at the check-in whispered.
She let out a yawn. “Er, yeah. That’s what it says on the passport, right?”
He smiled. “No, no, I mean, well, look it’s Chuck. I used to work with Clifford.”
She looked him up and down. He even looked a little like Clifford. Only slimmer, darker eyes, a better tan, a better odour. “Sorry, uh, Chuck, but I don’t remember you. I never mixed with Clifford’s work stiffs. Oh, and just for your information, Clifford doesn’t live here anymore.”
He shrugged. “Oh, sorry to hear that. Actually, truth be told, he was a bit of a boring jerkoff. So, good for you, sister, striking out on your own. No prizes for settling for second best, huh?”
She knitted her eyebrows. “Hold on, Chuck, let’s just get one thing straight. Clifford wasn’t second best. A jerkoff, yeah, but not second best. And right now, I’ve got a plane to catch so I ain’t got time for no small talk. I’ll see you in the restroom over there in five.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Just cut the bullshit, OK?”
Probably married with two kids. With all the daring of a mouse. Whatever. If he didn’t turn up, she’d manage without him. What a selfish bitch she’d become. Me, me, f***ing me. The sooner she got to the Village, the better.
She splashed some water over her face, dabbed herself with a towel and waited by the first cubicle. She slid a finger down her panties and began to stroke herself lovingly. Her breathing quickened. Slow down, she told herself, this is just the warm-up act. But her finger was joined by another finger and then another and then a really weird thing happened. She felt something emerging from her ****, something fleshy, solid. A gynormous erect Freddy, in fact. She went to the mirror. Facial hair was sprouting up everywhere. A beard and moustache were taking shape, her shoulders were broadening.
“Stop this mind bang right now!” she screamed. “I don’t want to be a man. I’m a woman! I want to stay a woman. Get this Freddy off me! Bo, help!”
Sunday, December 09, 2007
NetFlix Fix Q Sparky Nooks
BIRD: Buff, what's Sparky been up to lately?
BUFFALO: Fookin' up, as usual.
BIRD: What's he done now?
BUFFALO: I've been waiting all week for my first DVD from NetFlix. It finally occurred to me that bonehead might've intercepted it. Sure enough. The flaming twit didn't even bother to read the address label. He sent it back, because HE hadn't ordered it.
BIRD: Have you properly chastised him, then?
BUFFALO: No, it does no good. He just stands like a plank, inscrutable as a bleedin' Buddha. Doesn't matter if you praise him and give him a dog biscuit or smack him upside the head with a snow shovel. No reaction. It's inhuman, like.
BIRD: What about his cooking? Has it improved at all?
BUFFALO: Not a bit. Every day when he returns from work he nooks some kind of vile concoction in the nooker. No idea what it is, but it smells like the toxic residue from the horse-knacking factory. I have to fumigate the oven before I can use it, and I'm spending a small fortune on room deodorizers. It's a wonder the silly twit isn't glowing in the dark.
BIRD: Has his smeller gone tits up, then?
BUFFALO: Apparently so. I doubt if he can taste anything, either. He spent 22 years pickling his tongue with vodka, y'know.
BIRD: Ah, right, he was the original old booze machine, innit? He's still on the wagon, though?
BUFFALO: Yeah, but he was a lot more fun when he was on the sauce. Now he has the sense of humor of a Catholic missionary, which is to say, nun at all.
BIRD: Blimey. Has he no hobbies?
BUFFALO: Well, there's a persistent rumor that he weaves macramé key chains from his own ass hairs, but personally I doubt if he has that much ambition.
BIRD: Do the two of you ever just sit around and chew the fat?
BUFFALO: No, even when he was still putting away a quart of shellac a day, it was like trying to talk to your big toe, only to find out that it had become anti-social, like. The attention span of a two year old when he was in his cups.
BIRD: So, what exactly is the glue that keeps this relationship together?
BUFFALO: He pays half the rent and keeps a low profile. It's a lot like being married, with only half the inconvenience.
BIRD: You two are the contemporary Odd Couple, fur shore, Buffers.
BUFFALO: True. I could write a book.
BIRD: Or a blog.
BUFFALO: There's an idea.
BIRD: Well, have to go now. Time to wax the oven.
BUFFALO: Same here. I have an appointment to have my bowling ball redrilled.
BIRD: Good luck with that.
BUFFALO: Righto, and by the by, tanks for da mammaries.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf.
BUFFALO: Fookin' up, as usual.
BIRD: What's he done now?
BUFFALO: I've been waiting all week for my first DVD from NetFlix. It finally occurred to me that bonehead might've intercepted it. Sure enough. The flaming twit didn't even bother to read the address label. He sent it back, because HE hadn't ordered it.
BIRD: Have you properly chastised him, then?
BUFFALO: No, it does no good. He just stands like a plank, inscrutable as a bleedin' Buddha. Doesn't matter if you praise him and give him a dog biscuit or smack him upside the head with a snow shovel. No reaction. It's inhuman, like.
BIRD: What about his cooking? Has it improved at all?
BUFFALO: Not a bit. Every day when he returns from work he nooks some kind of vile concoction in the nooker. No idea what it is, but it smells like the toxic residue from the horse-knacking factory. I have to fumigate the oven before I can use it, and I'm spending a small fortune on room deodorizers. It's a wonder the silly twit isn't glowing in the dark.
BIRD: Has his smeller gone tits up, then?
BUFFALO: Apparently so. I doubt if he can taste anything, either. He spent 22 years pickling his tongue with vodka, y'know.
BIRD: Ah, right, he was the original old booze machine, innit? He's still on the wagon, though?
BUFFALO: Yeah, but he was a lot more fun when he was on the sauce. Now he has the sense of humor of a Catholic missionary, which is to say, nun at all.
BIRD: Blimey. Has he no hobbies?
BUFFALO: Well, there's a persistent rumor that he weaves macramé key chains from his own ass hairs, but personally I doubt if he has that much ambition.
BIRD: Do the two of you ever just sit around and chew the fat?
BUFFALO: No, even when he was still putting away a quart of shellac a day, it was like trying to talk to your big toe, only to find out that it had become anti-social, like. The attention span of a two year old when he was in his cups.
BIRD: So, what exactly is the glue that keeps this relationship together?
BUFFALO: He pays half the rent and keeps a low profile. It's a lot like being married, with only half the inconvenience.
BIRD: You two are the contemporary Odd Couple, fur shore, Buffers.
BUFFALO: True. I could write a book.
BIRD: Or a blog.
BUFFALO: There's an idea.
BIRD: Well, have to go now. Time to wax the oven.
BUFFALO: Same here. I have an appointment to have my bowling ball redrilled.
BIRD: Good luck with that.
BUFFALO: Righto, and by the by, tanks for da mammaries.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
HOT GROG SAVE ME Q 911
BUFFALO: Damn, nose stuffed up, head throbbing, muscles aching, eyes burning... and no lemons or whisky to make hot toddies with. Sonofabitch. No choice but to make a lemon and likker run, I guess. Hmmm. Let's see... there's some gin, but no whisky... blackberry brandy; God no, if I start on that, I'll do the whole pint and then I'm screwed, blue, er, black... black and blue. No, what I need is hot buttered rum - fookin' GROG! Yes, that's the ticket, hot grog with butter and biscuits. I can drink it and bathe in it. Okay, shower, fook the shave, off to Kroger's and the likker store. If that turd calls me "Boss" again I'm decking him. I don't know what's worse, "My friend" or "Boss". On second thoughts, maybe I'll just hang myself from the highest beam. But I can't find the rope I'm looking for, a classic Sacre Bleu Velveeta Rope (in Latin, an SPQR). All the others are much too scratchy (and tacky). When I finally do hang myself, it will be with the utmost style and decorum. Onwards and downwards. Birdy, you dere? Birdy! Dammit! Better phone 911 for a crane!
Monday, November 19, 2007
WOT THE FREDDY: DIMINISHING ASSETS
FROM PUB SPLASHER'S WEEKLY:
New research carried out by the Fecundatory Futures Movement has revealed that, as feared, men's testicles are shrinking at an alarming rate. The study, entitled The Lost Testicle In The Modern Era, measured over two million testicles worldwide. It finds that the average size of testicles in males is 7.5mm in diameter LESS than the average size of testicles of shrimp farmers in Wisconsin and potato growers in Patagonia.
Scientists predict that at the current rate of shrinkage, by 2021 testicles may disappear altogether. World leaders will be gathering at an extraordinary meeting of the Intergovernmental Welfare For Gonads Forum in Lucerne in December to discuss what can be done to halt the deflationary tendencies of the appendages sometimes referred to as "love sacs" or "balls" in more polite circles, and "bollocks" and "nuts" in less polite circles.
Males are being advised that if they are having trouble finding their testicles, they should consult their doctor and think about purchasing a bicycle pump which has been proven in laboratory conditions to temporarily halt the decline of testicular recidivism as the condition has been labelled by leading testes scientist Igor Jerkmybollokov. Yesterday, Mr Jerkmybollokov was unavailable for interview, having been delayed at Speedo's Bicycle Shop attempting to buy the most economically efficient and aesthetically pleasing bicycle pump.
New research carried out by the Fecundatory Futures Movement has revealed that, as feared, men's testicles are shrinking at an alarming rate. The study, entitled The Lost Testicle In The Modern Era, measured over two million testicles worldwide. It finds that the average size of testicles in males is 7.5mm in diameter LESS than the average size of testicles of shrimp farmers in Wisconsin and potato growers in Patagonia.
Scientists predict that at the current rate of shrinkage, by 2021 testicles may disappear altogether. World leaders will be gathering at an extraordinary meeting of the Intergovernmental Welfare For Gonads Forum in Lucerne in December to discuss what can be done to halt the deflationary tendencies of the appendages sometimes referred to as "love sacs" or "balls" in more polite circles, and "bollocks" and "nuts" in less polite circles.
Males are being advised that if they are having trouble finding their testicles, they should consult their doctor and think about purchasing a bicycle pump which has been proven in laboratory conditions to temporarily halt the decline of testicular recidivism as the condition has been labelled by leading testes scientist Igor Jerkmybollokov. Yesterday, Mr Jerkmybollokov was unavailable for interview, having been delayed at Speedo's Bicycle Shop attempting to buy the most economically efficient and aesthetically pleasing bicycle pump.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
ANGRY DUCKS, POTTY RUSKIES & FICKLEHOLES
BIRD: You sound pretty wasted, Buffters. What was you up to last nite?
BUFFALO: Alligators, Birdy. Up to my ass in 'em. Sometimes I get a break, though, and then it feels like I'm being eaten alive by ducks.
BIRD: Any particular kind of ducks?
BUFFALO: Very angry ducks, ducky.
BIRD: Bordering on mad?
BUFFALO: Yes, pre-size-lee. Mad ducks.
BIRD: Are they are bad as mad dogs?
BUFFALO: Wurse. They don't foam at the mouth, so by the time you've figgered out they're mad, you've already been bitten.
BIRD:And danger of infection? Contamination even?
BUFFALO: No, fortunately I've been quite mad for most of my life, so I'm immune. I think my current de-lemo can best be summed up in the dire log between our two most favorite Russian scallywags.
BIRD: Blimey, you mean the Russian virgin of Laurel and Hardy?
BUFFALO: The very ones. I've been eavesdropping on them. It appears that they've gotten themselves into a mighty pickle.
BIRD: Turn up the watts, Buff, so we can all have a listen, innit.
BUFFALO: Hang on, here they come.
BORODNY: Well, Pushkin, here is other fine mess you got me into.
PUSHKIN: It's not my fault! She said she will be doing both of us, on back seat of Trabant!
BORODNY: And you believed her? Are you not learning anything from last six times she duped us, turnip dick?
PUSHKIN: But she was so sincere, and eloquent, regular Daughter of the Revolution, already!
BORDONY: Da, and now here we are, hanging upside by our ankles, in Durance Vile, waiting for bloodsucking attorney to skewer us like couple of shish ka-knobs. Pushkin, you truly are idiot of distinction of former Soviet Mother's Union.
PUSHKIN: But it is not my fault! Mama dropped me on head as baby.
BORODNY: Is great shame she did not flush you down toilet, instead, already.
PUSHKIN: What toilet? We had bucket, like all citizens of revolution. Mama make many smellies. Wooo! We relieve ourselves once a year in correct procedure, on annual visit to Moscow.
BORODNY: What in name of pregnant goat with inflated udders you was doing in Moscow?
PUSHKIN: Visiting papa, in Lubayanka. We save money for him, so he bribe guards to give him cabbage to eat, but he was lunatic out of hungry and eat the money, already.
BORODNY: Da, suspicion confirmed. You come from long line of idiots.
PUSHKIN: Is not true! But we must stand in long line of idiots to use bathroom.
BORODNY: So is why you have shit for brains.
PUSHKIN: Excuse me, please. but I am hanging here in company, you know.
BORODNY: But of course. I am idiot to listen to you. I am telling myself you so potty that you are banging wet dream, already. Once again you hear Sirens drawing you to rocks, and like complete ficklehole I give you helm. For this, I deserve Order of Lennon, winter vacation in Siberia, and nice red hot poker up ficklehole.
PUSHKIN: I am sorry, already! You know how it happens when she flashes headlights at me and gives me come on, already. No man who is not prancing nancy boy is resisting it. I am just human, you know!
BORODNY: You are human turd, is what, you fooked idiot. If we get out of mess, I kick your sorry ficklehole from one end of Red Square to other, then I drown you in vat of vodka.
PUSHKIN: Drowned in vat of vodka? "Death, where is thy sting?"
BORODNY: You will see, if we survive. I put pitchfork so far up your ficklehole when you walk in room, everyone is saying, "Look, here comes Pushkin, who speaks with forked tongue." Enough of crying, already, die like man!
BUFFALO: And dat's where we must relieve it.
BIRD: Thank the Freddy. It's getting a bit tacky, innit? Funny how there seems to be a parallel between our current situations.
BUFFALO: There are parallels going all the way back to Eden, Birdy. Forbidden fruit, and all that.
BIRD: Beware of Greeks bearing gifts, is it?
BUFFALO: More like, beware of Vikings bearing melons, I think.
BIRD: I see what you mean, Buffers.
BUFFALO: Next time, do me a favor, Birdy. Shoot me in the fookin' head, willya?
BIRD: Or the Freddy.
BUFFALO: That, too. I should have the damned thing amputated, for all the good it does me.
BIRD: Live and learn, Buff.
BUFFALO: I think I have a learning disability, Birdy.
BIRD: No one's purr-fect.
BUFFALO: You can say that again.
BIRD: No one's purr-fect.
BUFFALO: Put a lid on it, Birdman, before I am throttling you, already.
BIRD: Whimper, whimper.
BUFFALO: Ditto that, Birdy, ditto that.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Yeah, "The Battleship Potemkin" - uncut, uncensored, un-fookin'-believable. Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: Alligators, Birdy. Up to my ass in 'em. Sometimes I get a break, though, and then it feels like I'm being eaten alive by ducks.
BIRD: Any particular kind of ducks?
BUFFALO: Very angry ducks, ducky.
BIRD: Bordering on mad?
BUFFALO: Yes, pre-size-lee. Mad ducks.
BIRD: Are they are bad as mad dogs?
BUFFALO: Wurse. They don't foam at the mouth, so by the time you've figgered out they're mad, you've already been bitten.
BIRD:And danger of infection? Contamination even?
BUFFALO: No, fortunately I've been quite mad for most of my life, so I'm immune. I think my current de-lemo can best be summed up in the dire log between our two most favorite Russian scallywags.
BIRD: Blimey, you mean the Russian virgin of Laurel and Hardy?
BUFFALO: The very ones. I've been eavesdropping on them. It appears that they've gotten themselves into a mighty pickle.
BIRD: Turn up the watts, Buff, so we can all have a listen, innit.
BUFFALO: Hang on, here they come.
BORODNY: Well, Pushkin, here is other fine mess you got me into.
PUSHKIN: It's not my fault! She said she will be doing both of us, on back seat of Trabant!
BORODNY: And you believed her? Are you not learning anything from last six times she duped us, turnip dick?
PUSHKIN: But she was so sincere, and eloquent, regular Daughter of the Revolution, already!
BORDONY: Da, and now here we are, hanging upside by our ankles, in Durance Vile, waiting for bloodsucking attorney to skewer us like couple of shish ka-knobs. Pushkin, you truly are idiot of distinction of former Soviet Mother's Union.
PUSHKIN: But it is not my fault! Mama dropped me on head as baby.
BORODNY: Is great shame she did not flush you down toilet, instead, already.
PUSHKIN: What toilet? We had bucket, like all citizens of revolution. Mama make many smellies. Wooo! We relieve ourselves once a year in correct procedure, on annual visit to Moscow.
BORODNY: What in name of pregnant goat with inflated udders you was doing in Moscow?
PUSHKIN: Visiting papa, in Lubayanka. We save money for him, so he bribe guards to give him cabbage to eat, but he was lunatic out of hungry and eat the money, already.
BORODNY: Da, suspicion confirmed. You come from long line of idiots.
PUSHKIN: Is not true! But we must stand in long line of idiots to use bathroom.
BORODNY: So is why you have shit for brains.
PUSHKIN: Excuse me, please. but I am hanging here in company, you know.
BORODNY: But of course. I am idiot to listen to you. I am telling myself you so potty that you are banging wet dream, already. Once again you hear Sirens drawing you to rocks, and like complete ficklehole I give you helm. For this, I deserve Order of Lennon, winter vacation in Siberia, and nice red hot poker up ficklehole.
PUSHKIN: I am sorry, already! You know how it happens when she flashes headlights at me and gives me come on, already. No man who is not prancing nancy boy is resisting it. I am just human, you know!
BORODNY: You are human turd, is what, you fooked idiot. If we get out of mess, I kick your sorry ficklehole from one end of Red Square to other, then I drown you in vat of vodka.
PUSHKIN: Drowned in vat of vodka? "Death, where is thy sting?"
BORODNY: You will see, if we survive. I put pitchfork so far up your ficklehole when you walk in room, everyone is saying, "Look, here comes Pushkin, who speaks with forked tongue." Enough of crying, already, die like man!
BUFFALO: And dat's where we must relieve it.
BIRD: Thank the Freddy. It's getting a bit tacky, innit? Funny how there seems to be a parallel between our current situations.
BUFFALO: There are parallels going all the way back to Eden, Birdy. Forbidden fruit, and all that.
BIRD: Beware of Greeks bearing gifts, is it?
BUFFALO: More like, beware of Vikings bearing melons, I think.
BIRD: I see what you mean, Buffers.
BUFFALO: Next time, do me a favor, Birdy. Shoot me in the fookin' head, willya?
BIRD: Or the Freddy.
BUFFALO: That, too. I should have the damned thing amputated, for all the good it does me.
BIRD: Live and learn, Buff.
BUFFALO: I think I have a learning disability, Birdy.
BIRD: No one's purr-fect.
BUFFALO: You can say that again.
BIRD: No one's purr-fect.
BUFFALO: Put a lid on it, Birdman, before I am throttling you, already.
BIRD: Whimper, whimper.
BUFFALO: Ditto that, Birdy, ditto that.
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Yeah, "The Battleship Potemkin" - uncut, uncensored, un-fookin'-believable. Arf, arf!
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
VERITABLE CATS AND DOGS AGAIN
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Is it still raining?
HOLMES: Veritable cats and dogs.
WATSON: Oh, dear. So it's not the smog.
HOLMES: Alas, no, old chum. I blame the gherkins. Repeats on me every time.
WATSON: I'm worried about the roof what what what. What if it leaks again?
HOLMES: It's all right, old bean. We've got a big bucket up there. It'll have to rain for 40 days and 40 nights to fill that blighter up.
WATSON: Why, Holmes, you almost sound biblical.
HOLMES: Why 40, I ask myself? There really is no logic to it.
WATSON: Do you think this sort of thing's going to get worse? I mean as the earth warms up. More floods and storms and heatwaves?
HOLMES: Hard to tell, old fruit. Our pal Charlie, he of the Darwinian fame, predicts that we're all going to hell on an asteroid when the King abdicates.
WATSON: It would appear that everything we hold most dear is illusory, fragmentary and inherently self-implosive. It's a brave new world out there, Holmes.
HOLMES: It's as they say in cricket, 22 players and a catch. Or the animal farmyard. Nineteen hundred and eight, or is it four?
WATSON: What's that, Holmes? You lost me past the tram stop.
HOLMES: Ways of looking at our predicament.
WATSON: You mean theories of what awaits our civilisation?
HOLMES: Precisely, old wacky quacky. Let's say, oh, I don't know, to make it snappier, instead of cricket and suchlike, Catch 22.
WATSON: Very CATCHY. A-ho-ho.
HOLMES: And instead of the farmyard thingie, maybe Animal Farm.
WATSON: Oh, OINK-cellent! A-tee-hee-hee.
HOLMES: And instead of nineteen hundred and eight or four, possibly, um, well, 1984!
WATSON: Good Lord! I'm in AWE...well... You know, Holmes, if you ever tire of sleuthing you could do a lot worse than become a novelist.
HOLMES: Oh, don't be so silly, you old pooper. Who would possibly want to read a book called Catch 22, Animal Farm or 1984? Now you're dancing with the fairies and tickling La-La.
WATSON: Incredible. In just one morning of sustained rain and crushing dankness you've laid the foundations for the next 100 years of literature. People shall look back on this day and wonder what might have been had it not been for these confounded downpours.
HOLMES: Oh, I don't know. I've had a few thoughts about where Mozart's been going wrong too. You see, it's my belief that the beat is all wrong, and there needs to be a more prominent role for the bass, and these two are, after all, the foundations on which everything else is built.
WATSON: You mean the drum and bass. How extraordinary. Let me write this down.
HOLMES: Look.
WATSON: What?
HOLMES: The rain, it's stopped.
WATSON: Good Lord! Toby, walkies!
HOLMES: About time too! Now what was it we were talking about?
WATSON: Talking, Holmes? We weren't talking about anything. We were sitting here in splendid, oppressive silence, wishing we could be elsewhere.
HOLMES: That's strange. I could have sworn we were talking about something.
WATSON: Well, whatever it was, it couldn't have been of any great import, or we'd remember it.
HOLMES: I suppose so.
WATSON: Walkies at eleven?
HOLMES: Not half! And yet totalitarian rule is not so utterly unthinkable, is it?
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Is it still raining?
HOLMES: Veritable cats and dogs.
WATSON: Oh, dear. So it's not the smog.
HOLMES: Alas, no, old chum. I blame the gherkins. Repeats on me every time.
WATSON: I'm worried about the roof what what what. What if it leaks again?
HOLMES: It's all right, old bean. We've got a big bucket up there. It'll have to rain for 40 days and 40 nights to fill that blighter up.
WATSON: Why, Holmes, you almost sound biblical.
HOLMES: Why 40, I ask myself? There really is no logic to it.
WATSON: Do you think this sort of thing's going to get worse? I mean as the earth warms up. More floods and storms and heatwaves?
HOLMES: Hard to tell, old fruit. Our pal Charlie, he of the Darwinian fame, predicts that we're all going to hell on an asteroid when the King abdicates.
WATSON: It would appear that everything we hold most dear is illusory, fragmentary and inherently self-implosive. It's a brave new world out there, Holmes.
HOLMES: It's as they say in cricket, 22 players and a catch. Or the animal farmyard. Nineteen hundred and eight, or is it four?
WATSON: What's that, Holmes? You lost me past the tram stop.
HOLMES: Ways of looking at our predicament.
WATSON: You mean theories of what awaits our civilisation?
HOLMES: Precisely, old wacky quacky. Let's say, oh, I don't know, to make it snappier, instead of cricket and suchlike, Catch 22.
WATSON: Very CATCHY. A-ho-ho.
HOLMES: And instead of the farmyard thingie, maybe Animal Farm.
WATSON: Oh, OINK-cellent! A-tee-hee-hee.
HOLMES: And instead of nineteen hundred and eight or four, possibly, um, well, 1984!
WATSON: Good Lord! I'm in AWE...well... You know, Holmes, if you ever tire of sleuthing you could do a lot worse than become a novelist.
HOLMES: Oh, don't be so silly, you old pooper. Who would possibly want to read a book called Catch 22, Animal Farm or 1984? Now you're dancing with the fairies and tickling La-La.
WATSON: Incredible. In just one morning of sustained rain and crushing dankness you've laid the foundations for the next 100 years of literature. People shall look back on this day and wonder what might have been had it not been for these confounded downpours.
HOLMES: Oh, I don't know. I've had a few thoughts about where Mozart's been going wrong too. You see, it's my belief that the beat is all wrong, and there needs to be a more prominent role for the bass, and these two are, after all, the foundations on which everything else is built.
WATSON: You mean the drum and bass. How extraordinary. Let me write this down.
HOLMES: Look.
WATSON: What?
HOLMES: The rain, it's stopped.
WATSON: Good Lord! Toby, walkies!
HOLMES: About time too! Now what was it we were talking about?
WATSON: Talking, Holmes? We weren't talking about anything. We were sitting here in splendid, oppressive silence, wishing we could be elsewhere.
HOLMES: That's strange. I could have sworn we were talking about something.
WATSON: Well, whatever it was, it couldn't have been of any great import, or we'd remember it.
HOLMES: I suppose so.
WATSON: Walkies at eleven?
HOLMES: Not half! And yet totalitarian rule is not so utterly unthinkable, is it?
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
THE REVENGE OF THE FILTHY MUTTS
HOLMES: Watson!
WATSON: (panting) Yes, Holmes?
HOLMES: I draw your attention to exhibit F by the pantry.
WATSON: It's a canine deposit what what what.
HOLMES: I know what it is, you quirky quack. I want to know what you're going to do about it and exhibits A-E.
WATSON: It's Jemima, Holmes. She's away from home, in our safe keeping I might add, whilst her master embarks on a most important errand for Our Majesty. She's experiencing deep stress at being in strange surroundings.
HOLMES: Watson, the perpetrator of exhibit F is not Jemima the Alsatian, but that filthy bloodhound Toby, who really has no excuse.
WATSON: He's excited, Holmes. I think he's taken quite a shine to our Jemima.
HOLMES: And he displays his amorous interest in her by fouling up the place? Pull the other one, it's got church bells on it.
WATSON: It's only for a few more days, old boy. Perhaps if you were more playful with them, they'd relax more.
(loud parp in distance)
HOLMES: Watson, there goes another. It's got to stop, I tell you, or I shall drag both of those sorry mutts down Baker Street into Regent's Park and deposit the finest buckshot right up their derrieres.
WATSON: I say, there's no need for that language, old chum. They're only a pair of defenceless, vulnerable pups in need of a hug and a stroke.
(another loud parp, this time in parlour)
HOLMES: Toby! If that's you, I shall blow your little furry brains out and sell you for soap! Do you hear?! And then I shall shoot that namby pamby fawning Jemima to buggery!
WATSON: Confound it, man, you've got to calm down. You'll have a cardiac.
HOLMES: And then I shall turn the shotgun on myself and leave you to clear up all the mess, you Hippocratic buffoon!
(a further parp resounds on the landing)
HOLMES: That's it! I warned you! (grabs shotgun and loads barrels)
WATSON: Holmes! Have you taken leave of your senses?! Put that gun down.
HOLMES: Get out of my way, Watson.
WATSON: I'm not moving. You'll have to shoot me first before you get to the pups.
HOLMES: I'm warning you, old chum.
WATSON: Holmes, no!
(bang!)
WATSON: Holmes, you're hit!
(Holmes slumps to the ground, Toby and Jemima come scampering into parlour, hurl themselves at Holmes and lick either cheek profusely)
WATSON: Ahhh, that's nice. A more touching scene of canine outpouring have I not seen since the Baskervilles.
HOLMES: An ambulance, Watson. Get me an ambulance! I'm dying!
WATSON: Just so, old boy. An ambulance, you say? Right you are. An ambulance...
HOLMES: (rolls eyes) What a terrible way to go. I hope mummy doesn't see me like this. Ohhhh...
WATSON: (panting) Yes, Holmes?
HOLMES: I draw your attention to exhibit F by the pantry.
WATSON: It's a canine deposit what what what.
HOLMES: I know what it is, you quirky quack. I want to know what you're going to do about it and exhibits A-E.
WATSON: It's Jemima, Holmes. She's away from home, in our safe keeping I might add, whilst her master embarks on a most important errand for Our Majesty. She's experiencing deep stress at being in strange surroundings.
HOLMES: Watson, the perpetrator of exhibit F is not Jemima the Alsatian, but that filthy bloodhound Toby, who really has no excuse.
WATSON: He's excited, Holmes. I think he's taken quite a shine to our Jemima.
HOLMES: And he displays his amorous interest in her by fouling up the place? Pull the other one, it's got church bells on it.
WATSON: It's only for a few more days, old boy. Perhaps if you were more playful with them, they'd relax more.
(loud parp in distance)
HOLMES: Watson, there goes another. It's got to stop, I tell you, or I shall drag both of those sorry mutts down Baker Street into Regent's Park and deposit the finest buckshot right up their derrieres.
WATSON: I say, there's no need for that language, old chum. They're only a pair of defenceless, vulnerable pups in need of a hug and a stroke.
(another loud parp, this time in parlour)
HOLMES: Toby! If that's you, I shall blow your little furry brains out and sell you for soap! Do you hear?! And then I shall shoot that namby pamby fawning Jemima to buggery!
WATSON: Confound it, man, you've got to calm down. You'll have a cardiac.
HOLMES: And then I shall turn the shotgun on myself and leave you to clear up all the mess, you Hippocratic buffoon!
(a further parp resounds on the landing)
HOLMES: That's it! I warned you! (grabs shotgun and loads barrels)
WATSON: Holmes! Have you taken leave of your senses?! Put that gun down.
HOLMES: Get out of my way, Watson.
WATSON: I'm not moving. You'll have to shoot me first before you get to the pups.
HOLMES: I'm warning you, old chum.
WATSON: Holmes, no!
(bang!)
WATSON: Holmes, you're hit!
(Holmes slumps to the ground, Toby and Jemima come scampering into parlour, hurl themselves at Holmes and lick either cheek profusely)
WATSON: Ahhh, that's nice. A more touching scene of canine outpouring have I not seen since the Baskervilles.
HOLMES: An ambulance, Watson. Get me an ambulance! I'm dying!
WATSON: Just so, old boy. An ambulance, you say? Right you are. An ambulance...
HOLMES: (rolls eyes) What a terrible way to go. I hope mummy doesn't see me like this. Ohhhh...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)