BUFFALO: Birdy, you dare?
BIRD: Roger, old Fartful Dodger. So you survived the armpit invasion?
BUFFALO: Just barely. Sparky saved my bacon. He was awakened from his beauty sleep by the excruciating screams, which pissed him off no end.
BIRD: Blimey, what happened?
BUFFALO: He poked his head out of his bedroom door to see what all the hub-bub was about and said "What's with the decibels, man? I've got to get up in fourteen hours to go to work!"
BIRD: Sounds rather aggressive for the Sparkster.
BUFFALO: I'll say. You could've tickled my ass with a feather and bowled me over with a large grapefruit, not to mention that it scared the pudding out of those marauding celebs. Sparkers looks a perfect fright when he first regains consciousness - like the Crypt Keeper's doppelganger on angel dust. Causes pregnant women to spontaneously abort and grown men to faint in coils.
BIRD: Sacre bleu merde! So then what happened?
BUFFALO: One of the celebs had an acid flashback. Thought Sparky was the cadaverous incarnation of a VC he'd wasted in 'Nam - a fellow known to his comrades as "Good Time Charlie". Needles touché, he freaked out and tried to escape by crawling through an overhead heating duct, but got wedged in halfway, which pissed Sparky off no end. He was screaming "You've blocked off my heat, man! Now I'm going to freeze to death!"
BIRD: Sparkers lost it, did he?
BUFFALO: I'll say. Before I could intervene, he punched out the other celebs and then retrieved a large bucket of Sparky's Jalapeno-Flavored Toe Jam from the fridge.
BIRD: Oh, no, Gott in Himmel, he didn't. . . ?
BUFFALO: Jawohl, mein Herring, he most certainly did. First he pulled the hallucinating 'Nam vet out of the heating duct, ripping off his love handles in the process, and then he stripped the lot of them and slathered toe jam all over their perfectly tanned bodies, with lots of extra jam in the armpits.
BIRD: The mind boggles. Did it kill them outright?
BUFFALO: Not by a long shot. When they woke up the first thing they noticed was the incredible stench. Naturally they assumed they'd been coated with coyote poo. They were coughing and gagging a lot. Then the jalapeno kicked in, and they thought they were on fire. They were up and bouncing off the walls at that point, making one helluva mess. Then Sparky wheeled out a barrel of chicken feathers he'd been saving for just such an occasion and a minute later they were all toe-jammed and feathered. He chased them out of the apartment with an electric cattle prod he keeps for emergencies, and they tumbled down all three flights of stairs and out the front door.
BIRD: I can't imagine anything more horribly awful.
BUFFALO: Well, actually, it was raining.
BIRD: Zut alors!
BUFFALO: Indeed. As they ran for their car, they were pursued by a pack of feral dogs that lives in the wooded area out back. The hungry hounds were lapping up the rain-diluted toe jam that was running down the legs of the fleeing celebs. Meanwhile, Sparky was leaning out the upstairs window brandishing the bucket of toe jam, shouting "And don't come back, unless you'd like Habanera Toe Jam slathered all over your atrophied balls, you cowardly baskets!"
BIRD: This is amazing. How do you account for Sparky's unprecedented outburst?
BUFFALO: Oh, that's easy to explain. Like myself he was once gainfully employed by the United Snakes Post Orifice.
BIRD: Omigod, you mean. . . ?
BUFFALO: Right, he went postal.
BIRD: I sense that there's a great moral lesson inherent somewhere in this story.
BUFFALO: Aye, Don't Ever Antagonize The Horn.
BIRD: Say what? You lost me past the chemist's, Buff.
BUFFALO: Oh, sorry, "The Crying of Lot 49" and all that. D.E.A.T.H. - in udder wurds, don't fook with the Post Office, or the postal horn, for that matter. Fook with the horn and you get the bull.
BIRD: Or the toe jam.
BUFFALO: Exactamundo, my feathered chum.
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Monday, April 02, 2007
CHURLISH ARMPITS & THE FINAL CONVULSION
BIRD: You still there?
BUFFALO: Yep. Strapped up in the last wagon wheel to hell.
BIRD: That good, eh? Maybe you should drop the meds.
BUFFALO: The last time I did that, Clare ambushed me in my Ford Mustang. Now the steering's gone to total bollaxery. And the eyesight ain't that good neither.
BIRD: Dude, it breaks my heart to see you like this. Is there nothing I can do to help?
BUFFALO: Dude, you've done more than enuff. Nope, this is my starring roll. The slow fadeout, the pulling of the plug on the longest pimple on the earth's bulging groin. Ain't nuffink but slowburn from now on.
BIRD: But if you hurry, maybe you can stop the article going to print.
BUFFALO: Too damned honest for my own goods. And now I shall leave this world the same way I entered it - with a sore ass in an arc of P.
BIRD: Dude, you can start again.
BUFFALO: Without mah kith and kin, universally hated throughout the Motown state and shunned in Florida?
BIRD: Screw the lot of 'em. You've still got Sparky.
BUFFALO: Dude, Sparky went over to the waxwork side, if ya get m'drift, long before he found salvation out on the ledge with a passing parakeet. No, dude. It's da end of da road for this auld Buff. And Frank Lee, I ain't got the energy to slide outta bed, never mind face the press.
BIRD: The press?
BUFFALO: And TV. Got a slot on the Jon Stewart Show tonite - because of the revelations.
BIRD: What revelations?
BUFFALO: The churlish armpits in high places! Don't you remember ANYTHING I tell you?
BIRD: Er, about 70%, which is quite high. I have no recollection whatsoever of what my parents have been babbling on about for the last ten years.
BUFFALO: Dude, armpits are big in the US of A. That's why I've been studying them for so long. That's why I'm in deep squid now. Fuggit the family woes. We're talking major celebs, Senators, academics, community leaders - they all have dark secrets when it comes to armpits. And fookwit here uncovered every last one of them. And now there's a hit out on me.
BIRD: Thou doth exaggerate, methinks.
BUFFALO: Birdman, in a matter of hours I shall be flat out on a slab as dead in body as I have been in the mind for most of my adult life. I should've known better than to mess with the armpit mafia. And now I must pay the price.
BIRD: Dude, you're infusional again. Put Sparky on. We'll get this sorted.
(LOUD BANG ON DOOR)
BUFFALO: It's happened, dude. They've come for me. Pray for my console!
BIRD: Yeah, right! Now stop mucking about!
(GUNSHOTS, RIMSHOTS, SCREAMS)
BIRD: Dude!
UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 1: Fry him, Joe!
UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 2: String him up by the armpits till he croaks!
UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 3: Ain't nuthin' wrong with my armpits a bit of surgery won't cure and he KNOWS THAT!
(MORE SCREAMS, GAGGING, SQUEALING LIKE A BOAR-PIG)
BIRD: Buff! Buff! What are you doing to him?!
UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 1: We'll give you churlish armpits, you sweat stirrer! That's it, boys, rip out the hairs ONE BY ONE!
(EXCRUTIATING SCREAMS)
UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 2: Say goodbye to Birdy now, Bison chops!
BUFFALO: Birdy! Argh!!!!! Don't give up, dude! Blog the good bloggggg...
BIRD: Dude!
BUFFALO: Argh-fff, argh-fff!
BUFFALO: Yep. Strapped up in the last wagon wheel to hell.
BIRD: That good, eh? Maybe you should drop the meds.
BUFFALO: The last time I did that, Clare ambushed me in my Ford Mustang. Now the steering's gone to total bollaxery. And the eyesight ain't that good neither.
BIRD: Dude, it breaks my heart to see you like this. Is there nothing I can do to help?
BUFFALO: Dude, you've done more than enuff. Nope, this is my starring roll. The slow fadeout, the pulling of the plug on the longest pimple on the earth's bulging groin. Ain't nuffink but slowburn from now on.
BIRD: But if you hurry, maybe you can stop the article going to print.
BUFFALO: Too damned honest for my own goods. And now I shall leave this world the same way I entered it - with a sore ass in an arc of P.
BIRD: Dude, you can start again.
BUFFALO: Without mah kith and kin, universally hated throughout the Motown state and shunned in Florida?
BIRD: Screw the lot of 'em. You've still got Sparky.
BUFFALO: Dude, Sparky went over to the waxwork side, if ya get m'drift, long before he found salvation out on the ledge with a passing parakeet. No, dude. It's da end of da road for this auld Buff. And Frank Lee, I ain't got the energy to slide outta bed, never mind face the press.
BIRD: The press?
BUFFALO: And TV. Got a slot on the Jon Stewart Show tonite - because of the revelations.
BIRD: What revelations?
BUFFALO: The churlish armpits in high places! Don't you remember ANYTHING I tell you?
BIRD: Er, about 70%, which is quite high. I have no recollection whatsoever of what my parents have been babbling on about for the last ten years.
BUFFALO: Dude, armpits are big in the US of A. That's why I've been studying them for so long. That's why I'm in deep squid now. Fuggit the family woes. We're talking major celebs, Senators, academics, community leaders - they all have dark secrets when it comes to armpits. And fookwit here uncovered every last one of them. And now there's a hit out on me.
BIRD: Thou doth exaggerate, methinks.
BUFFALO: Birdman, in a matter of hours I shall be flat out on a slab as dead in body as I have been in the mind for most of my adult life. I should've known better than to mess with the armpit mafia. And now I must pay the price.
BIRD: Dude, you're infusional again. Put Sparky on. We'll get this sorted.
(LOUD BANG ON DOOR)
BUFFALO: It's happened, dude. They've come for me. Pray for my console!
BIRD: Yeah, right! Now stop mucking about!
(GUNSHOTS, RIMSHOTS, SCREAMS)
BIRD: Dude!
UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 1: Fry him, Joe!
UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 2: String him up by the armpits till he croaks!
UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 3: Ain't nuthin' wrong with my armpits a bit of surgery won't cure and he KNOWS THAT!
(MORE SCREAMS, GAGGING, SQUEALING LIKE A BOAR-PIG)
BIRD: Buff! Buff! What are you doing to him?!
UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 1: We'll give you churlish armpits, you sweat stirrer! That's it, boys, rip out the hairs ONE BY ONE!
(EXCRUTIATING SCREAMS)
UNIDENTIFIED CELEB # 2: Say goodbye to Birdy now, Bison chops!
BUFFALO: Birdy! Argh!!!!! Don't give up, dude! Blog the good bloggggg...
BIRD: Dude!
BUFFALO: Argh-fff, argh-fff!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
THE GREATEST JOKE NEVER TOLD
WATSON: I say, Holmes...
HOLMES: What now, Watson?
WATSON: Says here the greatest joke never told has just been found in the vault at the Bank of England.
HOLMES: Oh, really. And you're telling me this because...
WATSON: Look, I'm sorry, old man, that you lost your life savings on that damnable pyramid scheme that came highly recommended by Patrick Shortfartering, who happens to be a long-running associate and croquet buddy of mine, but well, past is past. A fool and his money are easily parted what what what.
HOLMES: Don't speak too soon, you abominable quack. You lost all YOUR life savings too AND Hudders' inheritance from her great-great grandmother's beauty salon.
WATSON: Indeed. Which is why I think we are all in need of a jolly good belly laugh.
HOLMES: Get to the point, will you, before I get to YOUR point.
WATSON: Well, I was thinking why don't we all take a stroll down to the Bank and er... have a peep. I'm sure it will do us all the world of good.
HOLMES: Firstly, who says it's the greatest joke never told? Secondly, how can a joke be funny if it's never been told? Thirdly, who says it's in the vault at the Bank of England? Fourthly, who says that you and I and sweet Hudders share the same sense of humour? Fifthly, what guarantee is there that even if it does make us all laugh that it won't merely provide a temporary respite from this unending gloom? Sixthly... well, I'm sure five considerations are more than enough for your less than satisfactory bonce.
WATSON: I say, Holmes, I take exception to that last remark. If you are hoping to incur my wrath, I can tell you I shall not give you the satisfaction.
HOLMES: My dear Watson, it is quite clear to me that you and I do not share the same sense of humour. Indeed, your sense of humour is so coarse that one wonders that if baked beans and flatulence were banned whether you would ever laugh again.
WATSON: Confound it, Holmes. You're pushing my ire here. I'm warning you! Anyway, aren't you curious to know what the greatest joke never told is?
HOLMES: Why should I be when I already know it?
WATSON: What?
HOLMES: Yes, it is true. It is no mystery to the great Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, because I penned it.
WATSON: You? But that's preposterous! You've never told a joke in your life.
HOLMES: On the contrary, Watty Botty. Under my pseudonym, I have penned the top 300 greatest jokes ever!
WATSON: But but but but... and more buts.
HOLMES: It is a welcome distraction from the chemistry set and wayward waifs on Hampstead Heath.
WATSON: It's not April 1st, this isn't a dream and you are Holmes. I don't believe you.
HOLMES: That is y0ur prerogative.
WATSON: Prove it.
HOLMES: Ricky Gervais, Larry Sanders, Billy Crystal, John Cleese & co, they all come to me. Why do you think the greatest joke never told is under lock and key at the Bank of England?
WATSON: I haven't the foggiest.
HOLMES: To prove that it was I that was the funniest comedian of them all. Because I am weary of propping up the careers of these comedians that in modern parlance have been "milking me for all they can get". And also because I've just signed an exclusive multi-million-squillion deal with National Lampoon.
WATSON: But that's insatiable.
HOLMES: Quite.
WATSON: What about the detective work? What about making old Albion a safer place for people to live in?
HOLMES: There won't be any time for that, old chum. That's why I'm handing the reins over to you.
WATSON: To me?! But... we're a team, a double act. Without you...
HOLMES: You'll be fine. Stiff upper lip, walk tall and proud, God save the Empire.
WATSON: Oh, well, I suppose I could possibly surely definitely keep fighting the good fight what what what.
HOLMES: That's the spirit!
WATSON: Just one last thing, Holmes.
HOLMES: Certainly.
WATSON: What is the greatest joke never told?
HOLMES: You'll soon find out, old chap. Suffice it to say that it involves a cabbage, a vestal virgin and a fishing rod.
WATSON: (chuckles) But Holmes... that's... a cabbage... a vestal... virgin... and a fishing rod... (guffaws, farts loudly before falling off armchair and rolling around on floor)
HOLMES: That is precisely why I didn't want to say anything to you. Hudders!
MRS HUDSON: Yes, Mr Sherlock?
HOLMES: The lavender and aloe vera spray, quick!
MRS HUDSON: Coming right up, sir. Filter at eleven!
HOLMES: Oh, I do hope so!
HOLMES: What now, Watson?
WATSON: Says here the greatest joke never told has just been found in the vault at the Bank of England.
HOLMES: Oh, really. And you're telling me this because...
WATSON: Look, I'm sorry, old man, that you lost your life savings on that damnable pyramid scheme that came highly recommended by Patrick Shortfartering, who happens to be a long-running associate and croquet buddy of mine, but well, past is past. A fool and his money are easily parted what what what.
HOLMES: Don't speak too soon, you abominable quack. You lost all YOUR life savings too AND Hudders' inheritance from her great-great grandmother's beauty salon.
WATSON: Indeed. Which is why I think we are all in need of a jolly good belly laugh.
HOLMES: Get to the point, will you, before I get to YOUR point.
WATSON: Well, I was thinking why don't we all take a stroll down to the Bank and er... have a peep. I'm sure it will do us all the world of good.
HOLMES: Firstly, who says it's the greatest joke never told? Secondly, how can a joke be funny if it's never been told? Thirdly, who says it's in the vault at the Bank of England? Fourthly, who says that you and I and sweet Hudders share the same sense of humour? Fifthly, what guarantee is there that even if it does make us all laugh that it won't merely provide a temporary respite from this unending gloom? Sixthly... well, I'm sure five considerations are more than enough for your less than satisfactory bonce.
WATSON: I say, Holmes, I take exception to that last remark. If you are hoping to incur my wrath, I can tell you I shall not give you the satisfaction.
HOLMES: My dear Watson, it is quite clear to me that you and I do not share the same sense of humour. Indeed, your sense of humour is so coarse that one wonders that if baked beans and flatulence were banned whether you would ever laugh again.
WATSON: Confound it, Holmes. You're pushing my ire here. I'm warning you! Anyway, aren't you curious to know what the greatest joke never told is?
HOLMES: Why should I be when I already know it?
WATSON: What?
HOLMES: Yes, it is true. It is no mystery to the great Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, because I penned it.
WATSON: You? But that's preposterous! You've never told a joke in your life.
HOLMES: On the contrary, Watty Botty. Under my pseudonym, I have penned the top 300 greatest jokes ever!
WATSON: But but but but... and more buts.
HOLMES: It is a welcome distraction from the chemistry set and wayward waifs on Hampstead Heath.
WATSON: It's not April 1st, this isn't a dream and you are Holmes. I don't believe you.
HOLMES: That is y0ur prerogative.
WATSON: Prove it.
HOLMES: Ricky Gervais, Larry Sanders, Billy Crystal, John Cleese & co, they all come to me. Why do you think the greatest joke never told is under lock and key at the Bank of England?
WATSON: I haven't the foggiest.
HOLMES: To prove that it was I that was the funniest comedian of them all. Because I am weary of propping up the careers of these comedians that in modern parlance have been "milking me for all they can get". And also because I've just signed an exclusive multi-million-squillion deal with National Lampoon.
WATSON: But that's insatiable.
HOLMES: Quite.
WATSON: What about the detective work? What about making old Albion a safer place for people to live in?
HOLMES: There won't be any time for that, old chum. That's why I'm handing the reins over to you.
WATSON: To me?! But... we're a team, a double act. Without you...
HOLMES: You'll be fine. Stiff upper lip, walk tall and proud, God save the Empire.
WATSON: Oh, well, I suppose I could possibly surely definitely keep fighting the good fight what what what.
HOLMES: That's the spirit!
WATSON: Just one last thing, Holmes.
HOLMES: Certainly.
WATSON: What is the greatest joke never told?
HOLMES: You'll soon find out, old chap. Suffice it to say that it involves a cabbage, a vestal virgin and a fishing rod.
WATSON: (chuckles) But Holmes... that's... a cabbage... a vestal... virgin... and a fishing rod... (guffaws, farts loudly before falling off armchair and rolling around on floor)
HOLMES: That is precisely why I didn't want to say anything to you. Hudders!
MRS HUDSON: Yes, Mr Sherlock?
HOLMES: The lavender and aloe vera spray, quick!
MRS HUDSON: Coming right up, sir. Filter at eleven!
HOLMES: Oh, I do hope so!
Sunday, March 25, 2007
INTRODUCING G-FORCE & THE MAGIC MARKER
THE BIRD & BUFFALO HUMBLY APOLOGIZE FOR THEIR ABSENCE. PLIZ, NO MORE ABUSIVE EMAILS, K? WE FEEL YER FRUSTRATION BUT HEAVY CACKOW IS GOIN' DOWN & WE GOTTA DEAL WID IT, INNIT. ANYHOO... BACK IN DA LAND OF DA RELIVING...
BUFFALO: Birdy, you der?
BIRD: Freshly flocked and feathered, Buff.
BUFFALO: Remember my asshole buddy G-Force?
BIRD: The Mesomorph beefcake chap with OCD? The one who's always full mast?
BUFFALO: Yeah. He’s been gainfully unemployed for a while, but still working part-time as a weekend bouncer at some trendy singles bar in the upscale burbs. They let him flex his biceps in tight black t-shirts to lure in flocks of vacuous birds who get blind pissed drunk and rogered in the back seats of Camaros in the parking lot at closing time. Anyhoo, he's finally landed another gig in his chosen career field.
BIRD: Professional muff-diving?
BUFFALO: No, something to do with computers. “IT” or “ID” or some damn Freudian thing. He’s tried to explain it to me but it makes my head hurt. Ah, speak of the Devil. . .
G-FORCE: Dude, thanks for helping me find a job. You’re a real friend.
BUFFALO: So, you're gainfully employed for another 90 days, is it?
BIRD: Ninety days? What’s that about, then?
BUFFALO: Mandatory probation period. G-Hole invariably gets released on the 90th day, like Swiss clockwork, as he suffers from chronic hoof-and-mouth disease.
BIRD: Is that like a permanent yeast infection?
BUFFALO: No, it's much worse. He can’t keep either his trousers or his pie hole zipped, and every time he opens his gob he puts his foot in it. So, after three moons, the boss puts his boot up G-Hole's bleedin' ass.
G-FORCE: (sighs) Yeah, I’m my own worst enema. Hey, dude, can you spot me a Finn until payday?
BUFFALO: Yeah, Huck Finn. I thought I warned you about Finns. Find yourself a nice girl with bipolar disorder instead. Much safer. And try to save some jack this time instead of blowing it all on she-male hookers. No offense, Birdy.
BIRD: None taken, you great shaggy, nappy-headed drunken horny brute.
BUFFALO: Look, G-Plug, buy yourself a case of Vaseline Intensive Hand Care Lotion and a twelve pack of Puffs. Use your imagination to fuel your sexual fantasies instead of employing it to work yourself into a suicidal lather, you maniacal bugger.
G-FORCE: (sighs) Yeah, I know, I've got to cut back on watching Internet porn on the job, and stop thinking about pussy all the time.
BIRD: Good Lord. Is it true what Buff says, that you work with a perpetually throbbing woody?
G-FORCE: It comes and goes. Speaking of which, I’ve got to get to my bouncing job.
BIRD: Tell me, Geefours, do you literally bounce rowdies out of the bar?
G-FORCE: Depends on how rowdy they are, and how big. The little squirts bounce real good. The big galoots don't bounce very well, unless you fling them off the roof.
BIRD: Ah, yes, I see. What about the birds then?
G-FORCE: Oh, hell, anybody can bounce a girl, but we hardly ever do, except for the biker chicks. Of course it takes three or four of us to toss one of them bull dykes into the alley.
BIRD: Why the alley?
G-FORCE: It pisses 'em off no end if we toss ‘em out the front door, and then they beat the shit out of our customers in the parking lot.
BUFFALO: So when does the new gig start?
G-FORCE: Monday morning. I’m dreading it. I have to be there at 8 AM and I usually don’t get to bed until around 4 AM.
BIRD: Blimey, how do you do it?
BUFFALO: G-Plug swills Red Bull like you and me drink Hobgoblin Ale, Birdy.
BIRD: But wouldn’t that cause your heart to explode after a while?
G-FORCE: Not if you know how to pace yourself.
BUFFALO: Right. . . when did you ever pace yourself?
G-FORCE: So, Buff, ya got any advice for me, for the new gig, like?
BUFFALO: Yeah. Keep your ears open, your mouth shut, your nose to the grindstone, don't be dealing women on the clock, and for God's sake don't tell them about the alien abductions, the cattle mutilations, or that secret deal with the Venusians. I'd leave out the chicken sodomy, too.
G-FORCE: Wait, I wanna write that down. Got a scratch pad and a pencil?
BUFFALO: Here’s a ballpoint pen. Write it on your Freddy so you won’t lose it.
BIRD: Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: X-rated film at eleven.
G-FORCE: This isn’t working, dude. I keep puncturing myself. You got a magic marker?
FOR ANYONE WHO WISHES TO PROVIDE G-FORCE WITH A MAGIC MARKER, PLEASE CONTACT HIM AT THE FOLLOWING WATERING HOLE: G-forcegagsonmagicmarkers@mutilatenow.com
BUFFALO: Birdy, you der?
BIRD: Freshly flocked and feathered, Buff.
BUFFALO: Remember my asshole buddy G-Force?
BIRD: The Mesomorph beefcake chap with OCD? The one who's always full mast?
BUFFALO: Yeah. He’s been gainfully unemployed for a while, but still working part-time as a weekend bouncer at some trendy singles bar in the upscale burbs. They let him flex his biceps in tight black t-shirts to lure in flocks of vacuous birds who get blind pissed drunk and rogered in the back seats of Camaros in the parking lot at closing time. Anyhoo, he's finally landed another gig in his chosen career field.
BIRD: Professional muff-diving?
BUFFALO: No, something to do with computers. “IT” or “ID” or some damn Freudian thing. He’s tried to explain it to me but it makes my head hurt. Ah, speak of the Devil. . .
G-FORCE: Dude, thanks for helping me find a job. You’re a real friend.
BUFFALO: So, you're gainfully employed for another 90 days, is it?
BIRD: Ninety days? What’s that about, then?
BUFFALO: Mandatory probation period. G-Hole invariably gets released on the 90th day, like Swiss clockwork, as he suffers from chronic hoof-and-mouth disease.
BIRD: Is that like a permanent yeast infection?
BUFFALO: No, it's much worse. He can’t keep either his trousers or his pie hole zipped, and every time he opens his gob he puts his foot in it. So, after three moons, the boss puts his boot up G-Hole's bleedin' ass.
G-FORCE: (sighs) Yeah, I’m my own worst enema. Hey, dude, can you spot me a Finn until payday?
BUFFALO: Yeah, Huck Finn. I thought I warned you about Finns. Find yourself a nice girl with bipolar disorder instead. Much safer. And try to save some jack this time instead of blowing it all on she-male hookers. No offense, Birdy.
BIRD: None taken, you great shaggy, nappy-headed drunken horny brute.
BUFFALO: Look, G-Plug, buy yourself a case of Vaseline Intensive Hand Care Lotion and a twelve pack of Puffs. Use your imagination to fuel your sexual fantasies instead of employing it to work yourself into a suicidal lather, you maniacal bugger.
G-FORCE: (sighs) Yeah, I know, I've got to cut back on watching Internet porn on the job, and stop thinking about pussy all the time.
BIRD: Good Lord. Is it true what Buff says, that you work with a perpetually throbbing woody?
G-FORCE: It comes and goes. Speaking of which, I’ve got to get to my bouncing job.
BIRD: Tell me, Geefours, do you literally bounce rowdies out of the bar?
G-FORCE: Depends on how rowdy they are, and how big. The little squirts bounce real good. The big galoots don't bounce very well, unless you fling them off the roof.
BIRD: Ah, yes, I see. What about the birds then?
G-FORCE: Oh, hell, anybody can bounce a girl, but we hardly ever do, except for the biker chicks. Of course it takes three or four of us to toss one of them bull dykes into the alley.
BIRD: Why the alley?
G-FORCE: It pisses 'em off no end if we toss ‘em out the front door, and then they beat the shit out of our customers in the parking lot.
BUFFALO: So when does the new gig start?
G-FORCE: Monday morning. I’m dreading it. I have to be there at 8 AM and I usually don’t get to bed until around 4 AM.
BIRD: Blimey, how do you do it?
BUFFALO: G-Plug swills Red Bull like you and me drink Hobgoblin Ale, Birdy.
BIRD: But wouldn’t that cause your heart to explode after a while?
G-FORCE: Not if you know how to pace yourself.
BUFFALO: Right. . . when did you ever pace yourself?
G-FORCE: So, Buff, ya got any advice for me, for the new gig, like?
BUFFALO: Yeah. Keep your ears open, your mouth shut, your nose to the grindstone, don't be dealing women on the clock, and for God's sake don't tell them about the alien abductions, the cattle mutilations, or that secret deal with the Venusians. I'd leave out the chicken sodomy, too.
G-FORCE: Wait, I wanna write that down. Got a scratch pad and a pencil?
BUFFALO: Here’s a ballpoint pen. Write it on your Freddy so you won’t lose it.
BIRD: Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: X-rated film at eleven.
G-FORCE: This isn’t working, dude. I keep puncturing myself. You got a magic marker?
FOR ANYONE WHO WISHES TO PROVIDE G-FORCE WITH A MAGIC MARKER, PLEASE CONTACT HIM AT THE FOLLOWING WATERING HOLE: G-forcegagsonmagicmarkers@mutilatenow.com
Thursday, March 15, 2007
THE SANITY CLAUSE
SPARKY: Birdy, are you there?
BIRD: Right here, Sparkers! Got the day off for good behaviour again?
SPARKY: Yeah. (sighs) I have to appear at the sanity hearing.
BIRD: Crikey. For the Buff, y'mean? That was for real, like?
SPARKY: All too real for my taste, man.
BIRD: What taste? Buffers said you can't taste a bleedin' thing since you went off the sauce all of eight years ago.
SPARKY: Eight and half, man, but who's counting?
BIRD: All right then, give us the skinny, dude. Has the randy old Buff gone off his melon?
SPARKY: That groovy cat's been off his melon as long as I've known him -but he's outdone himself this time, man.
BIRD: Good Lord. . . let me guess. He's acted out his fantasies about his therapist, innit? The Jenny Agutter/Annette Benning hybrid? He's gone and jammed his great gnarly nappy head up between her porcelain knees and goddess-like thighs and given her both barrels, er, horns, like?
SPARKY: Oh, he did that many celestials ago, man.
BIRD: What? And he wasn't arrested?
SPARKY: Actually, she was totally flattered by the attention. Blushed a bit, billed him an extra twenty for the session, and made him buy her a new pair of sheer panty hose, but otherwise he got off Scottie-free.
BIRD: I see. So, spill the legumes, Sparkers, what has he done?
SPARKY: Pulled a Cool Hand Luke.
BIRD: Omigod. He's eaten 50 hard boiled eggs all in one sitting?
SPARKY: No, though he did try it once. . . emptied his gizzards after only 23.
BIRD: Well, then, has he escaped from the chain gang or buggered the blood hounds?
SPARKY: Nah, he borrowed a pipe-cutter from Rockin' Jim and after the bars closed he went and decapitated all the parking meters in front of the county courthouse.
BIRD: Great flaming bollax! Really? Now that's what ya call Homeric!
SPARKY: It was a metallic massacre. All the bums woke up Saturday morning, saw the carnage, and fainted in coils. Aw, shit, the time. . . Gotta go to the sanity hearing.
BIRD: Will they finally lock him up, d'ya think?
SPARKY: Man, he's been locked up since Friday night. That's when he drank all the cleaning products and did the Charlie of all deeds. It's created quite a Purple Haze here. . . there's thousands of irate citizens picketing the courthouse, demanding that he be let off.
BIRD: He's become a causal celebre?
SPARKY: No. . . he's still straight as far as I know. But his defense is that all the parking meters in Mt. Clemens are as crooked as a dog's hind legs, and under the provisions of the city charter he had a perfect right to, how did he put it. . . "decommission" them. The community is solidly behind him. They've burned the Mayor in effigy, barricaded the streets and hung all the flags upside down as a signal of distress. The Governor is threatening to send in the Natural Guard. He's signed a book deal already and Paramount's optioned the screenplay.
BIRD: Bully for Buffy!
SPARKY: But man, what am I gonna do if they have him committed and kick him off the pineapple?
BIRD: Pineapple?
SPARKY: Take his bucks away.
BIRD: Oh. . . yes, that would be a real bite in the farce-arse, wooden tit? Well, let's hope he gets an advance on the book deal. Tell the Buffster to keep shakin' that bush!
SPARKY: Oh, man, he's shakin' that bush, spanking that blutwurst, filling in da ho's, I mean holes. Gee, that guy's got more juice in him than Texas has oil, and that's a lotta oil, man! Hope they don't zap his shit for brains before he bursts his geezer!
BIRD: Frying at eleven!
SPARKY: Arf, arf, man!
BIRD: Right here, Sparkers! Got the day off for good behaviour again?
SPARKY: Yeah. (sighs) I have to appear at the sanity hearing.
BIRD: Crikey. For the Buff, y'mean? That was for real, like?
SPARKY: All too real for my taste, man.
BIRD: What taste? Buffers said you can't taste a bleedin' thing since you went off the sauce all of eight years ago.
SPARKY: Eight and half, man, but who's counting?
BIRD: All right then, give us the skinny, dude. Has the randy old Buff gone off his melon?
SPARKY: That groovy cat's been off his melon as long as I've known him -but he's outdone himself this time, man.
BIRD: Good Lord. . . let me guess. He's acted out his fantasies about his therapist, innit? The Jenny Agutter/Annette Benning hybrid? He's gone and jammed his great gnarly nappy head up between her porcelain knees and goddess-like thighs and given her both barrels, er, horns, like?
SPARKY: Oh, he did that many celestials ago, man.
BIRD: What? And he wasn't arrested?
SPARKY: Actually, she was totally flattered by the attention. Blushed a bit, billed him an extra twenty for the session, and made him buy her a new pair of sheer panty hose, but otherwise he got off Scottie-free.
BIRD: I see. So, spill the legumes, Sparkers, what has he done?
SPARKY: Pulled a Cool Hand Luke.
BIRD: Omigod. He's eaten 50 hard boiled eggs all in one sitting?
SPARKY: No, though he did try it once. . . emptied his gizzards after only 23.
BIRD: Well, then, has he escaped from the chain gang or buggered the blood hounds?
SPARKY: Nah, he borrowed a pipe-cutter from Rockin' Jim and after the bars closed he went and decapitated all the parking meters in front of the county courthouse.
BIRD: Great flaming bollax! Really? Now that's what ya call Homeric!
SPARKY: It was a metallic massacre. All the bums woke up Saturday morning, saw the carnage, and fainted in coils. Aw, shit, the time. . . Gotta go to the sanity hearing.
BIRD: Will they finally lock him up, d'ya think?
SPARKY: Man, he's been locked up since Friday night. That's when he drank all the cleaning products and did the Charlie of all deeds. It's created quite a Purple Haze here. . . there's thousands of irate citizens picketing the courthouse, demanding that he be let off.
BIRD: He's become a causal celebre?
SPARKY: No. . . he's still straight as far as I know. But his defense is that all the parking meters in Mt. Clemens are as crooked as a dog's hind legs, and under the provisions of the city charter he had a perfect right to, how did he put it. . . "decommission" them. The community is solidly behind him. They've burned the Mayor in effigy, barricaded the streets and hung all the flags upside down as a signal of distress. The Governor is threatening to send in the Natural Guard. He's signed a book deal already and Paramount's optioned the screenplay.
BIRD: Bully for Buffy!
SPARKY: But man, what am I gonna do if they have him committed and kick him off the pineapple?
BIRD: Pineapple?
SPARKY: Take his bucks away.
BIRD: Oh. . . yes, that would be a real bite in the farce-arse, wooden tit? Well, let's hope he gets an advance on the book deal. Tell the Buffster to keep shakin' that bush!
SPARKY: Oh, man, he's shakin' that bush, spanking that blutwurst, filling in da ho's, I mean holes. Gee, that guy's got more juice in him than Texas has oil, and that's a lotta oil, man! Hope they don't zap his shit for brains before he bursts his geezer!
BIRD: Frying at eleven!
SPARKY: Arf, arf, man!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
FROM A TENDER BUFFALO...
Hello, Ms Tatyana!
A tender blutwurst is raining buckets whilst winding for a blow. It needs maximum gratification... I feel like this now, well, all the time, as matterly fact... Cover me with your warm melons and hand me with your tender lips and I will be yours in nectarol perpetuity and eternal gratitude... If you are looking for something hard and enduring, if your Lucy misses something important...
write to me... my bed is lonely... let them meet...
http://randyauldbuffalowidmassivewoody.com/feelfree
Waiting for your letter/email/phone call/ring on the doorbell
Buffalo
Carfax Arms
Motown
BUFFALO: Whaddya think, dude?
BIRD: Yowzer, yowzer, yowzer!
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
A tender blutwurst is raining buckets whilst winding for a blow. It needs maximum gratification... I feel like this now, well, all the time, as matterly fact... Cover me with your warm melons and hand me with your tender lips and I will be yours in nectarol perpetuity and eternal gratitude... If you are looking for something hard and enduring, if your Lucy misses something important...
write to me... my bed is lonely... let them meet...
http://randyauldbuffalowidmassivewoody.com/feelfree
Waiting for your letter/email/phone call/ring on the doorbell
Buffalo
Carfax Arms
Motown
BUFFALO: Whaddya think, dude?
BIRD: Yowzer, yowzer, yowzer!
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Monday, March 12, 2007
FROM A TENDER FLOWER...
Hello, Mr Buffalo!
A tender flower is crying on the cold rain and blowing wind. It
needs protection... I feel like this now... Cover me with your warm
hands and kiss me with your tender lips and I will be yours... If you
are looking for something, if your heart misses something important...
write to me... my heart is lonely... let them meet...
http://greatmatchings.com/feelfree
Waiting for your letter
Tatyana
BUFFALO: Wot the...
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Gaff, gaff!
A tender flower is crying on the cold rain and blowing wind. It
needs protection... I feel like this now... Cover me with your warm
hands and kiss me with your tender lips and I will be yours... If you
are looking for something, if your heart misses something important...
write to me... my heart is lonely... let them meet...
http://greatmatchings.com/feelfree
Waiting for your letter
Tatyana
BUFFALO: Wot the...
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Gaff, gaff!
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
REQUIEM FOR A SHITHOUSE RAT
SPARKY: He's on the cellphone. He's asking for ya, man.
BIRD: Thank you, God. Put him on.
BUFFALO: Meet me by the grave of Percy Longwater Gooding, by the light of the silvery moon.
BIRD: Dude?
BUFFALO: Why Percy Longwater Gooding? Because his bones are slight and the earth is soft.
BIRD: Are you OK?
BUFFALO: How we let the silence swallow us up. So little moves me any more. If only I had an extra pair of lungs.
BIRD: Just how much trank have you had, dude?
BUFFALO: I’ve kept this last piece specially for you. Sorry if I’m a little vague, but human contact was never my forte. Don't forget to water the balls, old chum. Cheerio, Lucy.
(cellphone cuts out)
BIRD: Sparky?
SPARKY: Fifi?
FIFI: Dotty?
DOTTY: Watson?
WATSON: Holmes?
HOLMES: Hm. One is reminded of The Notorious Case Of The Missing Gamete Of Bayswater, alas no longer in print, but if memory serves me right a most malicious toxic mixture of horse manure, pig's trotters' glue and Toblerone was injected into a passing coal man for a bet.
WATSON: Oh, good Lord, Holmes! That unfortunate creature went quite bonkers and after running the length and breadth of Westminster Bridge stark bollock - a-hm - naked plunged into the murky waters of the cavernous Thames never to be seen or heard of again. You don't think...
BIRD: You don't think... It's finally happened! He really has become as crazy as a shithouse rat! And all before we ever got to share that pint at the Dog & Duck. 'Tis a cruel fate that bares a false wind on the aft. Fare ye well, dear Buffters. Alas, I knew him not but his mark is undeliverable and writ large. It shall dwell in this here cyberspace FOREVER. Ah MEN!
BIRD: Thank you, God. Put him on.
BUFFALO: Meet me by the grave of Percy Longwater Gooding, by the light of the silvery moon.
BIRD: Dude?
BUFFALO: Why Percy Longwater Gooding? Because his bones are slight and the earth is soft.
BIRD: Are you OK?
BUFFALO: How we let the silence swallow us up. So little moves me any more. If only I had an extra pair of lungs.
BIRD: Just how much trank have you had, dude?
BUFFALO: I’ve kept this last piece specially for you. Sorry if I’m a little vague, but human contact was never my forte. Don't forget to water the balls, old chum. Cheerio, Lucy.
(cellphone cuts out)
BIRD: Sparky?
SPARKY: Fifi?
FIFI: Dotty?
DOTTY: Watson?
WATSON: Holmes?
HOLMES: Hm. One is reminded of The Notorious Case Of The Missing Gamete Of Bayswater, alas no longer in print, but if memory serves me right a most malicious toxic mixture of horse manure, pig's trotters' glue and Toblerone was injected into a passing coal man for a bet.
WATSON: Oh, good Lord, Holmes! That unfortunate creature went quite bonkers and after running the length and breadth of Westminster Bridge stark bollock - a-hm - naked plunged into the murky waters of the cavernous Thames never to be seen or heard of again. You don't think...
BIRD: You don't think... It's finally happened! He really has become as crazy as a shithouse rat! And all before we ever got to share that pint at the Dog & Duck. 'Tis a cruel fate that bares a false wind on the aft. Fare ye well, dear Buffters. Alas, I knew him not but his mark is undeliverable and writ large. It shall dwell in this here cyberspace FOREVER. Ah MEN!
OF REAL MEN & QUICHE
BUFFALO: Never take a 54 mg time release Ritalin capsule at 3 in the afternoon, even if you ARE falling asleep at the wheel on I-94 driving to Detroit Metro Airport. You'd be better off to take the first exit, find a Starbuck's, and drink an entire pot of coffee so heavily caffeinated that it would bring Lazarus back to life. The caffeine will wear off in four or five hours but Ritalin is for-fooking-ever, sports fans. Nine hours and 21 minutes and I'm still totally stoked, and tempted to drive north all night to the bloody bridge just to see the sun rise behind the Grand Hotel on the off chance that Britney Spears might be there in a sheer negligee listening to variations on a theme by Paganini on a goddamned music box. What the HELL was I thinking?
BIRD: And you say that was the last you heard of him, Sparky?
SPARKY: That was the last telephone conversation we had, man.
BIRD: And that was 11 hours ago, and he never made it to the airport?
SPARKY: Exactamundo, man. That is way not groovy.
BIRD: And he didn't mention anything unusual before he left the Carfax Arms?
SPARKY: Nope. Only that "real men don't kill women, but I bet they eat quiche".
BIRD: Omigod!
SPARKY: It's the trank talking, man. It don't mean zebrashit.
BIRD: No, Sparky, you don't understand, the auld Buff LOVES quiche. Try him on his cellphone again. If you get thru, tell him... tell him... I was wrong, it was Jenny Agutter in Logan's Run, not Jane Seymour. The daft bugger hates to lose.
SPARKY: Come again, man?
BIRD: Just tell him. Lazarus, Britney, Paganini... The unholy trinity. Jeez, I hope we're not too late...
BIRD: And you say that was the last you heard of him, Sparky?
SPARKY: That was the last telephone conversation we had, man.
BIRD: And that was 11 hours ago, and he never made it to the airport?
SPARKY: Exactamundo, man. That is way not groovy.
BIRD: And he didn't mention anything unusual before he left the Carfax Arms?
SPARKY: Nope. Only that "real men don't kill women, but I bet they eat quiche".
BIRD: Omigod!
SPARKY: It's the trank talking, man. It don't mean zebrashit.
BIRD: No, Sparky, you don't understand, the auld Buff LOVES quiche. Try him on his cellphone again. If you get thru, tell him... tell him... I was wrong, it was Jenny Agutter in Logan's Run, not Jane Seymour. The daft bugger hates to lose.
SPARKY: Come again, man?
BIRD: Just tell him. Lazarus, Britney, Paganini... The unholy trinity. Jeez, I hope we're not too late...
Tuesday, 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...
Saturday, March 03, 2007
DIPPIN' INTO DA ARCHIVE OF LIFE, PART 3: GOODBYE, CRUEL WORLD
BIRD: "I am home now. At least I think it's home. I don't recognise my room and the people claiming to be my parents haven't yet told me what they've done with my real parents. I buried Bud this morning in a simple yet deeply moving ceremony. I have just watched the video of it, so I know what I'm talking about. RIP Bud, we love you. Well, I do, anyway. I am still afraid. In 19 days time I shall be nine."
BUFFALO: (sighs) I'm touched, dude. Rewinds me of when my dear old Goldfish Fred bit the bullet, like.
BIRD: "I have just been told that my brother has found a new girlfriend and won't be coming home any more. As a parting present, he gave me a copy of Playboy and told me to 'toss myself silly' over it. I really have no idea what he's talking about. It isn't Pancake Day and I'm rubbish at cooking, anyway. This evening, Fatty Rupert came round and asked me for money. 'That fiver you owe me, I want it back,' he said. I told him I didn't know anything about a fiver and after he shook me a few times and threatened to rearrange my face, I ran to my room and locked myself in. Fatty Rupert is banging on the door as I write. And now he's shouting, 'I'm gonna shove your head up your arse and make you swallow your own poo!' I am still afraid. In 18 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Gawd, is that all? I woz expecting much worse.
BIRD: "After school today, Fatty Rupert and his chums were waiting for me at the bus stop. He personally stamped on my testicles and made a determined effort to shove my head up my bottom. When he failed, he broke some of my limbs instead. I am now back in hospital, sitting on the toilet with serious diarrhoea. I am still afraid. In 17 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Broke your limbs, you say? How fooked is that! I hope you got yer own back on him, like.
BIRD: "The man in the next bed is incontinent. I think it means he travels a lot. He is very smelly and miserable. I requested to be moved to another ward. The nurse told me to show some compassion. So I decided to talk to him. He told me he wanted to die, because 'My grandparents are dead, my parents are dead, my wife hates me, I've lost my job, my house, my friends and I owe the bank £70,000'. I agreed to put a pillow over his face and press hard after everyone else was asleep. 'But the worst thing,' he said, 'is knowing that when you're dead you're gone forever - you'll never laugh, cry, love again. And eventually even the ashes will disappear. So what's the point of living, anyway?' I decided to put the pillow over my own face and press hard instead. Goodbye, cruel world. In 16 days time I would have been nine years old."
BUFFALO: Omigod! What did you do then?
(AGONIZING SILENCE)
BUFFALO: Speak to me, dude. Ya didn't try to lop yerself, did ya? Dude?
BIRD: (softly) They're known as The Lost Years: 9-17. Available at amazon.com. "A harrowing read" - The Litter Hairy Gazette. "A journey to hell and back with lots of chocolate and tight trousers" - Profanity Fair. "A roller coaster ride with your cock stuck in the wheels" - Wonkers Weekly.
BUFFALO: Ordering 50, no, 100 copies right now!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: (sighs) I'm touched, dude. Rewinds me of when my dear old Goldfish Fred bit the bullet, like.
BIRD: "I have just been told that my brother has found a new girlfriend and won't be coming home any more. As a parting present, he gave me a copy of Playboy and told me to 'toss myself silly' over it. I really have no idea what he's talking about. It isn't Pancake Day and I'm rubbish at cooking, anyway. This evening, Fatty Rupert came round and asked me for money. 'That fiver you owe me, I want it back,' he said. I told him I didn't know anything about a fiver and after he shook me a few times and threatened to rearrange my face, I ran to my room and locked myself in. Fatty Rupert is banging on the door as I write. And now he's shouting, 'I'm gonna shove your head up your arse and make you swallow your own poo!' I am still afraid. In 18 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Gawd, is that all? I woz expecting much worse.
BIRD: "After school today, Fatty Rupert and his chums were waiting for me at the bus stop. He personally stamped on my testicles and made a determined effort to shove my head up my bottom. When he failed, he broke some of my limbs instead. I am now back in hospital, sitting on the toilet with serious diarrhoea. I am still afraid. In 17 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Broke your limbs, you say? How fooked is that! I hope you got yer own back on him, like.
BIRD: "The man in the next bed is incontinent. I think it means he travels a lot. He is very smelly and miserable. I requested to be moved to another ward. The nurse told me to show some compassion. So I decided to talk to him. He told me he wanted to die, because 'My grandparents are dead, my parents are dead, my wife hates me, I've lost my job, my house, my friends and I owe the bank £70,000'. I agreed to put a pillow over his face and press hard after everyone else was asleep. 'But the worst thing,' he said, 'is knowing that when you're dead you're gone forever - you'll never laugh, cry, love again. And eventually even the ashes will disappear. So what's the point of living, anyway?' I decided to put the pillow over my own face and press hard instead. Goodbye, cruel world. In 16 days time I would have been nine years old."
BUFFALO: Omigod! What did you do then?
(AGONIZING SILENCE)
BUFFALO: Speak to me, dude. Ya didn't try to lop yerself, did ya? Dude?
BIRD: (softly) They're known as The Lost Years: 9-17. Available at amazon.com. "A harrowing read" - The Litter Hairy Gazette. "A journey to hell and back with lots of chocolate and tight trousers" - Profanity Fair. "A roller coaster ride with your cock stuck in the wheels" - Wonkers Weekly.
BUFFALO: Ordering 50, no, 100 copies right now!
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Friday, March 02, 2007
DIPPIN' INTO DA ARCHIVE OF LIFE, PART 2: I AM AFRAID
BIRD: "When I was released from hospital, Mad Billy and his chums ambushed me when I went to the letter box to post a thank you letter to the doctors and nurses for being so kind. I was kicked to the ground, and then beaten unconscious with a cucumber from our garden. I am not afraid. In 27 days from now I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Fookin' L, dude! So you went back to hospital, like.
BIRD: "I'm not sure what time it is, but it's late. I am back in hospital, under the sheets with a torch. I don't remember how I got here. The man in the next bed says they took me for a brain scan. My mother came to see me and was very pale. 'Don't leave us, Birdy!' she wailed. It was most embarrassing. Of course I'm not going anywhere. My parents feed and clothe me. I know when I'm on to a good thing. I am not afraid. In 25 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Not sure I can take much more of this, Birdman.
BIRD: "This morning they took away my torch, so I am writing this in the toilet. It is the only place where I can enjoy some privacy. Last night, a very nice nurse was hitting me on the chest and shouting, a little too loudly for me, 'I think we've lost him, doctor!' How many times do I have to tell them? I'm going NOWHERE! I miss Bud. That's my budgie. I hope my mother is feeding him. He'll starve otherwise. I am not afraid. In 22 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: What the Freddy! Gimme a minute, will ya? It's all too much.
BIRD: "Bud died yesterday, just after the six o'clock news. I suspect foul play but I can't prove it. The man in the next bed told me, 'Life's a bitch and then you die'. I think he's missing his dog. Luckily, I don't have a dog so I can't miss it, but I don't mind telling you I am very upset about Bud, although it means I won't have to clean up his poo any more, which is a big relief. After tea, a strange woman came, claiming to be my mother. She was with a strange man, who was most insistent that he is my father. Tomorrow, they are coming to take me away. I am afraid. In 21 days time I shall be nine."
BUFFALO: I can't take it any more, dude! Pass me the Kleenex, will ya?!
BIRD: It's OK, Buff, there's only one more part. True, the most horrific part, but it'll soon be over.
BUFFALO: Gawd! And I thought I had a traumatic childhood.
BIRD: We'll soon find out. It's your turn next.
BUFFALO: O my Goddddddd!
BIRD: No one gets outta here alive!
BUFFALO: Time to die!
BIRD: Here's lookin' at you, kid!
BUFFALO: I'll be back.
BIRD: Fill Mwah at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: Fookin' L, dude! So you went back to hospital, like.
BIRD: "I'm not sure what time it is, but it's late. I am back in hospital, under the sheets with a torch. I don't remember how I got here. The man in the next bed says they took me for a brain scan. My mother came to see me and was very pale. 'Don't leave us, Birdy!' she wailed. It was most embarrassing. Of course I'm not going anywhere. My parents feed and clothe me. I know when I'm on to a good thing. I am not afraid. In 25 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Not sure I can take much more of this, Birdman.
BIRD: "This morning they took away my torch, so I am writing this in the toilet. It is the only place where I can enjoy some privacy. Last night, a very nice nurse was hitting me on the chest and shouting, a little too loudly for me, 'I think we've lost him, doctor!' How many times do I have to tell them? I'm going NOWHERE! I miss Bud. That's my budgie. I hope my mother is feeding him. He'll starve otherwise. I am not afraid. In 22 days time I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: What the Freddy! Gimme a minute, will ya? It's all too much.
BIRD: "Bud died yesterday, just after the six o'clock news. I suspect foul play but I can't prove it. The man in the next bed told me, 'Life's a bitch and then you die'. I think he's missing his dog. Luckily, I don't have a dog so I can't miss it, but I don't mind telling you I am very upset about Bud, although it means I won't have to clean up his poo any more, which is a big relief. After tea, a strange woman came, claiming to be my mother. She was with a strange man, who was most insistent that he is my father. Tomorrow, they are coming to take me away. I am afraid. In 21 days time I shall be nine."
BUFFALO: I can't take it any more, dude! Pass me the Kleenex, will ya?!
BIRD: It's OK, Buff, there's only one more part. True, the most horrific part, but it'll soon be over.
BUFFALO: Gawd! And I thought I had a traumatic childhood.
BIRD: We'll soon find out. It's your turn next.
BUFFALO: O my Goddddddd!
BIRD: No one gets outta here alive!
BUFFALO: Time to die!
BIRD: Here's lookin' at you, kid!
BUFFALO: I'll be back.
BIRD: Fill Mwah at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Thursday, March 01, 2007
DIPPIN' INTO DA ARCHIVE OF LIFE, PART 1: I AM NOT AFRAID
BIRD: "I dreamt last night of a bathroom. The door is creaking backwards and forwards, beckoning me inside. The bathroom is divided into three. The basin is straight ahead. To my right is Deborah in the bath, fully clothed. She's on the phone, laughing. To my left a towel is being sprayed with water to make it dry(!). There is a ball falling from a great height towards me. I am not afraid. One month from now I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Huh?
BIRD: "Today, at school I got hit in the face by a ball. I have lost three teeth, broken my jaw and have double vision. How spooky is that! I am not afraid. In 30 days from now I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Dude?
BIRD: "I woke up this morning to find I had lost all feeling in my left leg and my right eye was the size of a very large potato. As I was stumbling to the bathroom, I slipped and fell down the stairs. My head made heavy contact with the reinforced glass on the front door. I lost consciousness for two and a half hours. The ambulance came very quickly. This afternoon they are taking me to be operated on for serious head injuries. I am not afraid. In 29 days from now I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Holy Fruit Bat Shit On The Loom, dude. Then what happened?
BIRD: Part 2. Tomorra.
BUFFALO: No!
BIRD: Yep. Horrorshow at eight.
BUFFALO: Redemption at nine? Arf, arf!
BUFFALO: Huh?
BIRD: "Today, at school I got hit in the face by a ball. I have lost three teeth, broken my jaw and have double vision. How spooky is that! I am not afraid. In 30 days from now I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Dude?
BIRD: "I woke up this morning to find I had lost all feeling in my left leg and my right eye was the size of a very large potato. As I was stumbling to the bathroom, I slipped and fell down the stairs. My head made heavy contact with the reinforced glass on the front door. I lost consciousness for two and a half hours. The ambulance came very quickly. This afternoon they are taking me to be operated on for serious head injuries. I am not afraid. In 29 days from now I shall be nine years old."
BUFFALO: Holy Fruit Bat Shit On The Loom, dude. Then what happened?
BIRD: Part 2. Tomorra.
BUFFALO: No!
BIRD: Yep. Horrorshow at eight.
BUFFALO: Redemption at nine? Arf, arf!
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
ANTONELLA BARBA DOWN DEEP & DARTY ON DA YOUTUBE
BUFFALO: Antonella who? Did wot?
BIRD: Antonella Barba. American Idol, dude. She's gonna win it, Apparent Lee, by a head. Her vid is doin' a gagging trade on da YouTube, like.
BUFFALO: Wot vid? Xplain, pliz, Lucy.
BIRD: It's incredible. Pushing the boundaries. Breaking new ground.
BUFFALO: Holy salivations! Wot in Theodore Digitalis's name is she doin' innit?
BIRD: Gardening, dude. Getting down deep and darty.
BUFFALO: Wot, with a trowel and shrubs 'n' stuff?
BIRD: Yahhh-p. The way she strokes that hoe - it's electrifying!
BUFFALO: Omigod! I'm gettin' that Olivia Newton-John Grease moment all over again. Just wot exactly is she doin' wid dat hoe, dude?
BIRD: Cutting the border on the lawn.
BUFFALO: No! Ohhh...
BIRD: Yes. And you know wot she does next?
BUFFALO: Don't tell me, lemme guess. Cuts the lawn?
BIRD: Yahhp! Slowly, methodically, like a real pro. Wiping her hot, sweaty face and brow as she goes.
BUFFALO: Oh Merciful Marigolds! Is she wearin' a hat?
BIRD: Yahhp.
BUFFALO: A baseball hat?
BIRD: Yahhp.
BUFFALO: A New York Yankees' baseball hat?
BIRD: Yahhp.
BUFFALO: Ohhhh... And the vid's on YouTube, you say?
BIRD: Was.
BUFFALO: Was?!
BIRD: It was voluntarily pulled - too many elderly male gardeners were having seizures, like.
BUFFALO: But of course.
BIRD: But the good news is...
BUFFALO: Go on.
BIRD: You can still see the full 15-minute unedited feast of horticultural celebration at http://www.sexygardening4beginners.com/.
BUFFALO: Wow. Clicking as we speak.
BIRD: I tell ya, dude, when she pops that wet grass onto the compost heap down by the potting shed and starts cleaning her tools...
BUFFALO: Dude, dude, don't spoil it! Ohhh, yeah... there she goes to the shed. She's getting the lawn mower out... Oh, Antonella, you darty gal...
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Watering at twelve! Arf, arf!
BIRD: Antonella Barba. American Idol, dude. She's gonna win it, Apparent Lee, by a head. Her vid is doin' a gagging trade on da YouTube, like.
BUFFALO: Wot vid? Xplain, pliz, Lucy.
BIRD: It's incredible. Pushing the boundaries. Breaking new ground.
BUFFALO: Holy salivations! Wot in Theodore Digitalis's name is she doin' innit?
BIRD: Gardening, dude. Getting down deep and darty.
BUFFALO: Wot, with a trowel and shrubs 'n' stuff?
BIRD: Yahhh-p. The way she strokes that hoe - it's electrifying!
BUFFALO: Omigod! I'm gettin' that Olivia Newton-John Grease moment all over again. Just wot exactly is she doin' wid dat hoe, dude?
BIRD: Cutting the border on the lawn.
BUFFALO: No! Ohhh...
BIRD: Yes. And you know wot she does next?
BUFFALO: Don't tell me, lemme guess. Cuts the lawn?
BIRD: Yahhp! Slowly, methodically, like a real pro. Wiping her hot, sweaty face and brow as she goes.
BUFFALO: Oh Merciful Marigolds! Is she wearin' a hat?
BIRD: Yahhp.
BUFFALO: A baseball hat?
BIRD: Yahhp.
BUFFALO: A New York Yankees' baseball hat?
BIRD: Yahhp.
BUFFALO: Ohhhh... And the vid's on YouTube, you say?
BIRD: Was.
BUFFALO: Was?!
BIRD: It was voluntarily pulled - too many elderly male gardeners were having seizures, like.
BUFFALO: But of course.
BIRD: But the good news is...
BUFFALO: Go on.
BIRD: You can still see the full 15-minute unedited feast of horticultural celebration at http://www.sexygardening4beginners.com/.
BUFFALO: Wow. Clicking as we speak.
BIRD: I tell ya, dude, when she pops that wet grass onto the compost heap down by the potting shed and starts cleaning her tools...
BUFFALO: Dude, dude, don't spoil it! Ohhh, yeah... there she goes to the shed. She's getting the lawn mower out... Oh, Antonella, you darty gal...
BIRD: Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Watering at twelve! Arf, arf!
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
ALL OUR SOMETHINGS
BIRD: Nothing comes from nothing. Nothing ever could. But somewhere...
FIFI: ...all the somethings you ever dreamed about are waiting--to get you!!!
BIRD: Yikes!
FIFI: ...all the somethings you ever dreamed about are waiting--to get you!!!
BIRD: Yikes!
Monday, February 26, 2007
AND THE OSCAR GOES TO...
BIRD: Britney Sp... HELEN MIRREN! Yay!
BUFFALO: Woo!
BIRD: Yippee!
BUFFALO: Foo-dook-a-rooooo!
BIRD: Ger-fum-a-ummm!
BUFFALO: Per-too-a-shooooo!
BIRD: (sighs deeply)
BUFFALO: (sighs deeply)
BIRD: Our Hels!
BUFFALO: Your Hels!
BIRD: The Long Good Friday, Piscali's Island...
BUFFALO: The Cook, The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover, The Madness Of King George...
BIRD: Last Orders, Gosford Park...
BUFFALO: Calendar Girls...
BIRD: And The Queen!
BUFFALO: Mah-vellous!
BIRD: Spiffing! Birth name Ilyena Vasilievna Mironov.
BUFFALO: 5ft 4 inches tall. Nickname Popper.
BIRD: Made a dame in 2003.
BUFFALO: 36-25-36...
BIRD: (sighs deeply)
BUFFALO: (sighs deeply)
BIRD: Sayonara, Britney?
BUFFALO: Do one, Spears!
BIRD: Helen at eleven!
BUFFALO: Ahhhhhf, ahhhhhf!
BUFFALO: Woo!
BIRD: Yippee!
BUFFALO: Foo-dook-a-rooooo!
BIRD: Ger-fum-a-ummm!
BUFFALO: Per-too-a-shooooo!
BIRD: (sighs deeply)
BUFFALO: (sighs deeply)
BIRD: Our Hels!
BUFFALO: Your Hels!
BIRD: The Long Good Friday, Piscali's Island...
BUFFALO: The Cook, The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover, The Madness Of King George...
BIRD: Last Orders, Gosford Park...
BUFFALO: Calendar Girls...
BIRD: And The Queen!
BUFFALO: Mah-vellous!
BIRD: Spiffing! Birth name Ilyena Vasilievna Mironov.
BUFFALO: 5ft 4 inches tall. Nickname Popper.
BIRD: Made a dame in 2003.
BUFFALO: 36-25-36...
BIRD: (sighs deeply)
BUFFALO: (sighs deeply)
BIRD: Sayonara, Britney?
BUFFALO: Do one, Spears!
BIRD: Helen at eleven!
BUFFALO: Ahhhhhf, ahhhhhf!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
FUBAR THE ROBOT
HOLMES: America? Surely you jest, Watters.
WATSON: God’s tooth, Holmes. I was there in the winter of ‘80.
HOLMES: Not in “Lost Wages” I trust?
WATSON: Good heavens, no, Holmes. I was summoned to the wilds of Pennsylvania. The capitol, no less. A rather prosaic burg. . . Harrisburg, to be precise. Not far from the fabled town of Hershey, where the street lamps are done up in the shape of the infamous Hershey Kisses. . . bizarre, that. They have a “theme park” dedicated to the proliferation of chocolate.
HOLMES: Milk?
WATSON: With Earl Grey? Gads, Holmes. . . no, thank you, just a spot of lemon and sugar, there’s a good fellow.
HOLMES: Harrisburg.
WATSON: Yes, indeed. . . it seems that a gaggle of writers were in need of a travelling physician.
HOLMES: Whatever for?
WATSON: Have you ever known any writers, Holmes?
HOLMES: Only Sir Arthur. . . and that eccentric chap, Wilde.
WATSON: Right. So you know of the proclivity of writers for the grape, shall we say?
HOLMES: Ah, I appertain your meaning. . . scribblers do have a certain reputation for imbibing like fish, is it not?
WATSON: To put it mildly, Holmes. You may recall the last words of the nefarious Welsh writer Dylan Thomas: “I had eighteen Scotch and sodas. I think that’s the record.”
HOLMES: Ended badly, did it?
WATSON: The coroner listed the cause of death as “An alcoholic insult to the brain.”
HOLMES: I believe I see where this is going, Watters. This pride of itinerant wordsmiths, fearing untimely demise from spiritus frumenti, elected to employ a doctor as a traveling companion, lest they overindulge?
WATSON: Precisely, Holmes. That and the odd short-arm inspection, seeing as how one of them was a rather vivacious young woman who lost most of her inhibitions and her lingerie when she’d had a drop too many, something that happened with fearful regularity about two hours into Happy Hour every evening.
HOLMES: Ah, the prod thickens. . .
WATSON: Pluralize that and you’ve got it, Holmes.
HOLMES: I say, Watney, just out of professional curiosity, you being a man of the world and all, did you perchance happen to. . .
WATSON: Say no more, Holmes. We were still obliged to take the Hippocratic Oath when I became an intern. I never laid a hand on her. Well, discounting the daily examinations to ensure that she hadn’t been contaminated by the virtual non-stop rutting, of course.
HOLMES: Of course. I would expect no less of you, Watters. Carry on.
WATSON: Where was I? Let’s see. . . it was Christmas Day and we were making our way over the Dawson trail. . . no, no, dash it all, that was another winter expedition. Ah, I have it. . . it was a Saturday morning, hence a rest day, and we were enroute to the local shopping mall to find an establishment known as “Victoria’s Secret”. . .
HOLMES: “Victoria’s Secret”? I say, Watson, is that some devilish slur on our beloved sovereign?
WATSON: No, not at all, Holmes. It’s merely a popular panty emporium that panders to svelte young women and middle-aged chaps of the lecherous stripe.
HOLMES: Ah, I see. Just curious, do they publish a catalogue, perchance?
WATSON: Yes. I’m on the subscription list, actually. . . would you like an application? For your “files” of course.
HOLMES: Most thoughtful of you, Watson. More tea?
WATSON: Yes, thank you. Another wedge of lemon, if you don’t mind. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. . . there were seven of us crammed into a Land Rover, on hire from a local garage.
HOLMES: And the young lady? Where was she seated?
WATSON: On my lap. Out of pure necessity, I assure you, Holmes. Otherwise she would’ve been scrunched in between myself and that damned randy Buffalo chap, you know the one – consorts with that cross-dressing cinematic captionist from East Fenwick?
HOLMES: Ah, Le Folle. . .
WATSON: The very one. Well, professional ethics dictated that I couldn’t allow poor Marsha to come into intimate contact with the most infamous muff-diver east of the Mississippi, so I insisted that she ensconce herself on the old lappers, like.
HOLMES: “Ensconce?” I say, Watters, are you implying that….
WATSON: Allow me to say merely that it was not necessary for us to share a seat belt, if you catch my lunch box.
HOLMES: Smashing bird, you say?
WATSON: Of the first water, Holmes. Tantalizing, to say the least. Of course everything was strictly on the up and up.
HOLMES: (dryly) Yes, I have no doubt. Pray, continue.
WATSON: Well, then, as we came over a small rise in the ice-covered highway, we saw the sprawling mall laid out before us, an ostentatious monument to vanity and avarice, and at the entrance to this modern day bazaar, there was a towering marquee, upon which, in bright red block letters three feet high, was spelled out the cryptic message “KIDS! TODAY AT 10 AM – SEE FUBAR THE ROBOT!”
HOLMES: Fubar?
WATSON: Precisely. Fubar.
HOLMES: An odd name, even for a robot. What is the language of origin, do you know?
WATSON: English, Holmes.
HOLMES: I think not, Watson. Let me consult the works of Dr. Johnson…
WATSON: No need, Holmes. All will be explained momentarily.
HOLMES: Very well. What happened next?
WATSON: My travelling companions, without exception, broke into riotous laughter, and our driver, who was drinking Bloody Maries from a thermos, drove our vehicle into a rather precipitous ditch, rolling the Rover in the process. Had we not all been securely fastened in place, I would most likely not be here telling the tale.
HOLMES: Thank heavens. Now, Watson, enlighten me about the aforementioned laughter.
WATSON: The local constabulary arrived on the scene minutes later, accompanied by the Fire department and the paramedics. We were expertly extracted from the flaming wreckage in the nick of time. Marsha and I were separated with the “jaws of life”. I was then obliged to fashion a makeshift splint from the whalebone stays of Marsha’s exquisite corset, alas, only recently purchased from Victoria’s Secret. Damned shame, that. . . but I digress. We were covered with blankets and given mugs of steaming black coffee, and when the writers stopped chuckling long enough to be somewhat coherent, they explained the cause of their un-premeditated mirth.
HOLMES: Confound it, Watson. Get to the punch-line, man!
WATSON: Patience, Holmes. . . more tea, please. Turns out that “Fubar” is an acronym – one, I might add, that is hardly suitable for children. Putting it euphemistically, it stands for “F**ked Up Beyond All Recognition.”
HOLMES: Good Lord! And were you able to see Fubar in person?
WATSON: Indeed, we were, Holmes. . . but I’m much too famished to go into THAT at the moment.
HOLMES: Savoy Grill? My treat?
WATSON: Capital, Holmes!
HOLMES: Harrisburg, I believe you said. I say, Mrs. Hudson, would you fetch our rubbers?
MRS. HUDSON: I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Mr. Holmes!
WATSON: Crumpet at eleven, Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: Dr Watson, please. You'll wake the dead.
HOLMES: Curious species, these Yanks. Got an acronym for everything. Well, see if you can fathom this one, Uncle Sam. TFBTEBSNTV. OK?
WATSON: God’s tooth, Holmes. I was there in the winter of ‘80.
HOLMES: Not in “Lost Wages” I trust?
WATSON: Good heavens, no, Holmes. I was summoned to the wilds of Pennsylvania. The capitol, no less. A rather prosaic burg. . . Harrisburg, to be precise. Not far from the fabled town of Hershey, where the street lamps are done up in the shape of the infamous Hershey Kisses. . . bizarre, that. They have a “theme park” dedicated to the proliferation of chocolate.
HOLMES: Milk?
WATSON: With Earl Grey? Gads, Holmes. . . no, thank you, just a spot of lemon and sugar, there’s a good fellow.
HOLMES: Harrisburg.
WATSON: Yes, indeed. . . it seems that a gaggle of writers were in need of a travelling physician.
HOLMES: Whatever for?
WATSON: Have you ever known any writers, Holmes?
HOLMES: Only Sir Arthur. . . and that eccentric chap, Wilde.
WATSON: Right. So you know of the proclivity of writers for the grape, shall we say?
HOLMES: Ah, I appertain your meaning. . . scribblers do have a certain reputation for imbibing like fish, is it not?
WATSON: To put it mildly, Holmes. You may recall the last words of the nefarious Welsh writer Dylan Thomas: “I had eighteen Scotch and sodas. I think that’s the record.”
HOLMES: Ended badly, did it?
WATSON: The coroner listed the cause of death as “An alcoholic insult to the brain.”
HOLMES: I believe I see where this is going, Watters. This pride of itinerant wordsmiths, fearing untimely demise from spiritus frumenti, elected to employ a doctor as a traveling companion, lest they overindulge?
WATSON: Precisely, Holmes. That and the odd short-arm inspection, seeing as how one of them was a rather vivacious young woman who lost most of her inhibitions and her lingerie when she’d had a drop too many, something that happened with fearful regularity about two hours into Happy Hour every evening.
HOLMES: Ah, the prod thickens. . .
WATSON: Pluralize that and you’ve got it, Holmes.
HOLMES: I say, Watney, just out of professional curiosity, you being a man of the world and all, did you perchance happen to. . .
WATSON: Say no more, Holmes. We were still obliged to take the Hippocratic Oath when I became an intern. I never laid a hand on her. Well, discounting the daily examinations to ensure that she hadn’t been contaminated by the virtual non-stop rutting, of course.
HOLMES: Of course. I would expect no less of you, Watters. Carry on.
WATSON: Where was I? Let’s see. . . it was Christmas Day and we were making our way over the Dawson trail. . . no, no, dash it all, that was another winter expedition. Ah, I have it. . . it was a Saturday morning, hence a rest day, and we were enroute to the local shopping mall to find an establishment known as “Victoria’s Secret”. . .
HOLMES: “Victoria’s Secret”? I say, Watson, is that some devilish slur on our beloved sovereign?
WATSON: No, not at all, Holmes. It’s merely a popular panty emporium that panders to svelte young women and middle-aged chaps of the lecherous stripe.
HOLMES: Ah, I see. Just curious, do they publish a catalogue, perchance?
WATSON: Yes. I’m on the subscription list, actually. . . would you like an application? For your “files” of course.
HOLMES: Most thoughtful of you, Watson. More tea?
WATSON: Yes, thank you. Another wedge of lemon, if you don’t mind. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. . . there were seven of us crammed into a Land Rover, on hire from a local garage.
HOLMES: And the young lady? Where was she seated?
WATSON: On my lap. Out of pure necessity, I assure you, Holmes. Otherwise she would’ve been scrunched in between myself and that damned randy Buffalo chap, you know the one – consorts with that cross-dressing cinematic captionist from East Fenwick?
HOLMES: Ah, Le Folle. . .
WATSON: The very one. Well, professional ethics dictated that I couldn’t allow poor Marsha to come into intimate contact with the most infamous muff-diver east of the Mississippi, so I insisted that she ensconce herself on the old lappers, like.
HOLMES: “Ensconce?” I say, Watters, are you implying that….
WATSON: Allow me to say merely that it was not necessary for us to share a seat belt, if you catch my lunch box.
HOLMES: Smashing bird, you say?
WATSON: Of the first water, Holmes. Tantalizing, to say the least. Of course everything was strictly on the up and up.
HOLMES: (dryly) Yes, I have no doubt. Pray, continue.
WATSON: Well, then, as we came over a small rise in the ice-covered highway, we saw the sprawling mall laid out before us, an ostentatious monument to vanity and avarice, and at the entrance to this modern day bazaar, there was a towering marquee, upon which, in bright red block letters three feet high, was spelled out the cryptic message “KIDS! TODAY AT 10 AM – SEE FUBAR THE ROBOT!”
HOLMES: Fubar?
WATSON: Precisely. Fubar.
HOLMES: An odd name, even for a robot. What is the language of origin, do you know?
WATSON: English, Holmes.
HOLMES: I think not, Watson. Let me consult the works of Dr. Johnson…
WATSON: No need, Holmes. All will be explained momentarily.
HOLMES: Very well. What happened next?
WATSON: My travelling companions, without exception, broke into riotous laughter, and our driver, who was drinking Bloody Maries from a thermos, drove our vehicle into a rather precipitous ditch, rolling the Rover in the process. Had we not all been securely fastened in place, I would most likely not be here telling the tale.
HOLMES: Thank heavens. Now, Watson, enlighten me about the aforementioned laughter.
WATSON: The local constabulary arrived on the scene minutes later, accompanied by the Fire department and the paramedics. We were expertly extracted from the flaming wreckage in the nick of time. Marsha and I were separated with the “jaws of life”. I was then obliged to fashion a makeshift splint from the whalebone stays of Marsha’s exquisite corset, alas, only recently purchased from Victoria’s Secret. Damned shame, that. . . but I digress. We were covered with blankets and given mugs of steaming black coffee, and when the writers stopped chuckling long enough to be somewhat coherent, they explained the cause of their un-premeditated mirth.
HOLMES: Confound it, Watson. Get to the punch-line, man!
WATSON: Patience, Holmes. . . more tea, please. Turns out that “Fubar” is an acronym – one, I might add, that is hardly suitable for children. Putting it euphemistically, it stands for “F**ked Up Beyond All Recognition.”
HOLMES: Good Lord! And were you able to see Fubar in person?
WATSON: Indeed, we were, Holmes. . . but I’m much too famished to go into THAT at the moment.
HOLMES: Savoy Grill? My treat?
WATSON: Capital, Holmes!
HOLMES: Harrisburg, I believe you said. I say, Mrs. Hudson, would you fetch our rubbers?
MRS. HUDSON: I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Mr. Holmes!
WATSON: Crumpet at eleven, Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: Dr Watson, please. You'll wake the dead.
HOLMES: Curious species, these Yanks. Got an acronym for everything. Well, see if you can fathom this one, Uncle Sam. TFBTEBSNTV. OK?
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
THE BRITNEY HAT ACCORDING TO JOYCE & EINSTEIN
BIRD: Dude, Frank Lee, you look like a total fookwit with a tea cosy on.
BUFFALO: Dude, it's warm, OK. I call it the Britney Hat.
BIRD: Dude, if Britney sees you like this...
BUFFALO: Britney, Paris, Helen, Jenny, Betty, Daisy, Carmen fecking Miranda. It don't make no difference. As Joyce once said, "His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
BIRD: Wot the fook's THAT supposed to mean?
BUFFALO: The drugs don't work.
BIRD: Eh?
BUFFALO: I used to imagine that I would be more happy at this stage of my life, living in the bosom of my family and all, growing old gracefully with a woman who loved and understood me...
BIRD: And?
BUFFALO: That I'd be more relaxed and mellow, and a bit wiser and more philosophical about life and so on.
BIRD: What's brought all this on?
BUFFALO: The hat. The "I Am A Fookwit Ha Ha Ha I Shall Now Go And Blow My Brains Out When The Laughter Subsides Big Girl's Blouse" woolly hat!
BIRD: Hey, it don't look so bad.
BUFFALO: Then why are you soiling yerself, dude. Why is EVERYONE I know laffing their buttholes off?
BIRD: Hey, get over it, dude. They're not laffing at you, they're laughing WITH you.
BUFFALO: But I'm not laffing.
BIRD: Light a candle for peace or some Finn. Always works for me.
BUFFALO: Birdy, I have a jar of nitrous oxide in my pocket and I'm gonna use it.
BIRD: Haven't we been here before?
BUFFALO: Yeah, every fooking Friday nite, only this is different, this time I mean it.
BIRD: The final frontier?
BUFFALO: That's right.
BIRD: No more Mr Bare Yer Fooking Soul To The World then?
BUFFALO: No. The lunatic is really me, holding myself hostage. It's time to release the hostage.
BIRD: Dude, it's time you got laid.
BUFFALO: Huh?
BIRD: Wot's Clare doin' tonite?
BUFFALO: Clare? Jeez, I forgot to call her. Wot day is it? She's got meditation at three, dream interpretation at four, scriptwriting at five, manicure at six... and Buffo at seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven and twelve!
BIRD: Dat's my boy! And remember, however bad it gets, as Einstein says "Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile."
BUFFALO: Tanks, Birdy! I'll tell her that. Laters.
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
IN ONE EAR, OUT DA UDDER
BIRD: Guess if you can't beat 'em...BUFFALO: Dude, now you're just being silly. You've lost yer color.
BIRD: Desperate measures. Like you said.
BUFFALO: But but but but but...
BIRD: I've even shaved off me pubes, like.
BUFFALO: No!
BIRD: In solidarity. Saw Britney last nite on Fookwits Global TV. Felt VERY sorry for her.
BUFFALO: Yer all heart, dude. And just as I woz beginning to feel like a tit for doing something VERY dumb.
BIRD: Some geezer at Fox wanted to interview me. About the pubes, like.
BUFFALO: And yer Freddy?
BIRD: Still in full working order as far as I can tell.
BUFFALO: No complaints from da missus then?
BIRD: Nope. She likes it smooth.
BUFFALO: Maybe I should...
BIRD: Maybe you should.
BUFFALO: But if I did, I'd feel TOTALLY nekkid.
BIRD: Wear it loud and proud, Buffo.
BUFFALO: OK, I will. Just one thing.
BIRD: Wassat?
BUFFALO: Gotta fess up. It's so fookin' cold without da kopf that I've got to wear a woolly hat, like.
BIRD: Wot? You in a woolly hat? Gotta be seen to be relieved.
BUFFALO: Don't even like her frickin' music, dude.
BIRD: Hey, neither do I.
BUFFALO: Me head doc said it's got nuffink to do with Britney. Apparent Lee, I've got identity issues.
BIRD: Then wot have I got?
BUFFALO: A herd mentality.
BIRD: Wassat?
BUFFALO: In one ear, out da udder.
BIRD: Rimshot! Film at eleven?
BUFFALO: Arf, arf! Sparky! Seen my woolly hat anywhere?
Monday, February 19, 2007
BRITNEY & BUFFTERS UNITED AT LAST
BIRD: Wot the Freddy, dude? Wot ya done?!
BUFFALO: Nuffink much. Just shaved me gulliver, like.
BIRD: Yeah, but why?
BUFFALO: Solidarity with Britney, like.
BIRD: Eh?
BUFFALO: She's going through a tough time. She needs to know that I'm there for her.
BIRD: Dude, you look like a victim of a failed lobotomy.
BUFFALO: Dude, it's not how I feel, it's how Britney feels, and I know that my action has made her feel oh SO much better.
BIRD: And if she shaved her nipples off?
BUFFALO: Well, then I'd...
BIRD: And her Shepherd's Bush?
BUFFALO: Well, I'd... I'll do whatever it takes to heal that sweet misunderstood angel. The world's a wikkid place, dude. Britney's a little ray of sunshine glimmering in the fires of Hades.
BIRD: She's a big slapper with the intellectual capacity and sensibilities of a frozen pea.
BUFFALO: If this is a Britney versus Paris thang, don't go there, dude. The wound's still a-hurtin', if ya get m'drift.
BIRD: Dude, I thought you had the hots for Helen Mirren! Not some juvenile mutant on the road to McDummyanddummerville.
BUFFALO: (strokes photo) It's OK, Britters, he don't mean nothing by it. He's jealous. That's all. Note that I ain't demanding an apology from ya for those most hurtful of remarks of yours.
BIRD: Buffters, I'm outta here. Just one thing. If you decide to shave your Freddy, don't post a photo here, OK?
BUFFALO: As if! Don't worry, Britters, all this is temporary. When they realise the error of their ways, they'll BEG for your forgiveness and then you'll be right back at the top where you belong. So there, Birdman. Oo er, I suddenly feel kinda whoopy-loopy. Now where's my trank?
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 13, 2007
HUDDERS TO THE RESCUE
MRS HUDSON: Oh, Mr Sherlock, I had no idea.
HOLMES: It's all right, Hudders, you weren't to know.
MRS HUDSON: And this baby of yours...
HOLMES: My son.
MRS HUDSON: You've really no idea where he is now?
HOLMES: Unfortunately, not. The mother gave strict instructions that I was to be kept in the dark about his whereabouts.
MRS HUDSON: But surely with all your powers of detection, you could find him, Mr Sherlock.
HOLMES: Alas, there are some puzzles even the great Sherlock Holmes cannot solve.
MRS HUDSON: But have you tried to find him?
HOLMES: Oh, dear Hudders, it is not so simple. The boy, no doubt, has changed name and identity a hundred times since he was brought into this ugly world of ours.
MRS HUDSON: Oh, Mr Sherlock, is that a tear I see in your eye?
HOLMES: I fear it is, Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: Oh, come here, you silly old fruit.
(MRS HUDSON PULLS HOLMES TO HER WELCOMING BOSOM)
MRS HUDSON: Is that better, Mr Sherlock?
HOLMES: (sighs) Much better, sweet udders. I mean Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: There, now you rest your weary weepers awhile until that daft old quack Watson gets back from the vet with that filthy mutt.
HOLMES: Mmm. One could quite easily... fall asleep... in such a soft... cradle... zzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
(FRONT DOOR BURSTS OPEN)
WATSON: I say, Holmes! We're back! Toby's had his manhood seen to. Ah-hmm. Perhaps he'll stop trying to compromise all those cute little poodles now. Holmes?!
MRS HUDSON: Hush, will you! Mr Sherlock is enjoying forty winks.
WATSON: Crikey. I say! Isn't he, just! As snug as a bug in an Axminster. Come on, Toby! Let's leave the master to um... enjoy Mrs Hudders'... thoughtful accommodation.
(TOBY WOOFS & SNIFFS MRS HUDSON'S KNICKERS)
WATSON: Here, boy! There's nothing of interest to you there now, Toby pooster. Choccie biccie?
(TOBY LEAPS AT WATSON & WAGS TAIL)
WATSON: Good boy! Let's go and see what we can find in the pantry what what what.
(TOBY WOOFS, WATSON MUTTERS, MRS HUDSON SIGHS CONTENTEDLY, HOLMES DREAMS OF MILK & HONEY & BOATING ALONG ON THE RIVER)
HOLMES: It's all right, Hudders, you weren't to know.
MRS HUDSON: And this baby of yours...
HOLMES: My son.
MRS HUDSON: You've really no idea where he is now?
HOLMES: Unfortunately, not. The mother gave strict instructions that I was to be kept in the dark about his whereabouts.
MRS HUDSON: But surely with all your powers of detection, you could find him, Mr Sherlock.
HOLMES: Alas, there are some puzzles even the great Sherlock Holmes cannot solve.
MRS HUDSON: But have you tried to find him?
HOLMES: Oh, dear Hudders, it is not so simple. The boy, no doubt, has changed name and identity a hundred times since he was brought into this ugly world of ours.
MRS HUDSON: Oh, Mr Sherlock, is that a tear I see in your eye?
HOLMES: I fear it is, Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: Oh, come here, you silly old fruit.
(MRS HUDSON PULLS HOLMES TO HER WELCOMING BOSOM)
MRS HUDSON: Is that better, Mr Sherlock?
HOLMES: (sighs) Much better, sweet udders. I mean Hudders.
MRS HUDSON: There, now you rest your weary weepers awhile until that daft old quack Watson gets back from the vet with that filthy mutt.
HOLMES: Mmm. One could quite easily... fall asleep... in such a soft... cradle... zzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
(FRONT DOOR BURSTS OPEN)
WATSON: I say, Holmes! We're back! Toby's had his manhood seen to. Ah-hmm. Perhaps he'll stop trying to compromise all those cute little poodles now. Holmes?!
MRS HUDSON: Hush, will you! Mr Sherlock is enjoying forty winks.
WATSON: Crikey. I say! Isn't he, just! As snug as a bug in an Axminster. Come on, Toby! Let's leave the master to um... enjoy Mrs Hudders'... thoughtful accommodation.
(TOBY WOOFS & SNIFFS MRS HUDSON'S KNICKERS)
WATSON: Here, boy! There's nothing of interest to you there now, Toby pooster. Choccie biccie?
(TOBY LEAPS AT WATSON & WAGS TAIL)
WATSON: Good boy! Let's go and see what we can find in the pantry what what what.
(TOBY WOOFS, WATSON MUTTERS, MRS HUDSON SIGHS CONTENTEDLY, HOLMES DREAMS OF MILK & HONEY & BOATING ALONG ON THE RIVER)
Monday, February 12, 2007
OF FLOOZIES & FEMME
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: It says here in the Times that that harlot Anna Nicole Smith has passed away.
HOLMES: Language, old chap, please.
WATSON: Sorry, Holmes. It's just it made my blood boil the way she married that silly old fogie and diddled him out of his money.
HOLMES: Don't believe everything you read, old chum. I have it on good authority that he died happily and peacefully with a long, stiff protrusion to boot.
WATSON: Holmes! I'm shocked.
HOLMES: Oh, come now, Watty Botty, we're both men of the world here. You didn't think that your intrepid crime cracker was blissfully unaware of the mores of his underlings, did you?
WATSON: No, of course, not, it's just...
HOLMES: You're not used to me referring to the male member.
WATSON: Quite.
HOLMES: I hardly think protrusion qualifies as talking smutty, do you?
WATSON: Well, no, but but but...
HOLMES: Watson, old bean, I have known pleasures other than nabbing the latest murderer to cause mayhem in Berkeley Square, you know.
WATSON: Oh, dear. Listen to us. Talking tittle tattle like a pair of demented bell ringers.
HOLMES: Or should that be ball ringers?
WATSON: Oh, my Godddddd!
HOLMES: Oh, spare me the feigned outrage, Watson. I saw you chuckle.
WATSON: I chortled against my better judgement, Holmes.
HOLMES: It reminds me of the notorious case of Molly Bloomerless and her insatiable appetite for aristocratic patronage, if you recall.
WATSON: Oh, really, Holmes! Must we remember that awful lady of the night?
HOLMES: It has some bearing on the present taste of elderly gents for pretty young things today, does it not?
WATSON: Well...
HOLMES: And Molly would have got clean away with the loot had it not been for the deflating boobsters, remember?
WATSON: An ingenious plan, to fill her ample bosom with thousands of pounds of hard-earnt aristocratic lucre. Only you could have deduced where she'd hidden it.
HOLMES: Indeed. And it was I who recovered the notes from that veritable pouch too.
WATSON: Masterfully done too.
HOLMES: But I shan't deny, my dear quack, that I was stirred by that waif's acquired assets.
WATSON: Naturally.
HOLMES: Which only proves one thing.
WATSON: Which is?
HOLMES: That we are all vulnerable to the attentions of a voracious femme. So we must be on our guard and not think too unkindly or smirk too loudly at the misfortunes that befall silly old duffers who should know better. 'Twas always thus and 'twill always be.
WATSON: Dash it, Holmes, if I'm not more confused than ever. Next you'll be telling me you find that damnable floozie Paris Hilton rather fanciful.
HOLMES: She is not without her merits, Watson, but can't sing for a toffee and has all the grace of a rat on arsenic.
WATSON: I'll take that as a no then.
HOLMES: I think you shall. No, Watson, when it comes to the fairer sex, I can see no more wonderful creature than Helen Mirren. Alas, far too glamorous to bother herself with little old me.
WATSON: 'Fraid so, Holmes. But one can harbour one's dreams what what what.
HOLMES: In fact, there are those who claim I turned to crime solving because of my disastrous forays into romance. Well, perhaps they're right. Perhaps my love for Aggie was doomed from the off.
WATSON: Aggie?
HOLMES: Not now, Watson. The demons are upon me.
WATSON: Oh, right. Well, I er... I'll just go and give Toby a trot round the block.
HOLMES: If you wouldn't mind.
WATSON: Yes. Um... see you later then.
HOLMES: If only I hadn't been so eager to get to second base...
TO BE CONTINUED...
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: It says here in the Times that that harlot Anna Nicole Smith has passed away.
HOLMES: Language, old chap, please.
WATSON: Sorry, Holmes. It's just it made my blood boil the way she married that silly old fogie and diddled him out of his money.
HOLMES: Don't believe everything you read, old chum. I have it on good authority that he died happily and peacefully with a long, stiff protrusion to boot.
WATSON: Holmes! I'm shocked.
HOLMES: Oh, come now, Watty Botty, we're both men of the world here. You didn't think that your intrepid crime cracker was blissfully unaware of the mores of his underlings, did you?
WATSON: No, of course, not, it's just...
HOLMES: You're not used to me referring to the male member.
WATSON: Quite.
HOLMES: I hardly think protrusion qualifies as talking smutty, do you?
WATSON: Well, no, but but but...
HOLMES: Watson, old bean, I have known pleasures other than nabbing the latest murderer to cause mayhem in Berkeley Square, you know.
WATSON: Oh, dear. Listen to us. Talking tittle tattle like a pair of demented bell ringers.
HOLMES: Or should that be ball ringers?
WATSON: Oh, my Godddddd!
HOLMES: Oh, spare me the feigned outrage, Watson. I saw you chuckle.
WATSON: I chortled against my better judgement, Holmes.
HOLMES: It reminds me of the notorious case of Molly Bloomerless and her insatiable appetite for aristocratic patronage, if you recall.
WATSON: Oh, really, Holmes! Must we remember that awful lady of the night?
HOLMES: It has some bearing on the present taste of elderly gents for pretty young things today, does it not?
WATSON: Well...
HOLMES: And Molly would have got clean away with the loot had it not been for the deflating boobsters, remember?
WATSON: An ingenious plan, to fill her ample bosom with thousands of pounds of hard-earnt aristocratic lucre. Only you could have deduced where she'd hidden it.
HOLMES: Indeed. And it was I who recovered the notes from that veritable pouch too.
WATSON: Masterfully done too.
HOLMES: But I shan't deny, my dear quack, that I was stirred by that waif's acquired assets.
WATSON: Naturally.
HOLMES: Which only proves one thing.
WATSON: Which is?
HOLMES: That we are all vulnerable to the attentions of a voracious femme. So we must be on our guard and not think too unkindly or smirk too loudly at the misfortunes that befall silly old duffers who should know better. 'Twas always thus and 'twill always be.
WATSON: Dash it, Holmes, if I'm not more confused than ever. Next you'll be telling me you find that damnable floozie Paris Hilton rather fanciful.
HOLMES: She is not without her merits, Watson, but can't sing for a toffee and has all the grace of a rat on arsenic.
WATSON: I'll take that as a no then.
HOLMES: I think you shall. No, Watson, when it comes to the fairer sex, I can see no more wonderful creature than Helen Mirren. Alas, far too glamorous to bother herself with little old me.
WATSON: 'Fraid so, Holmes. But one can harbour one's dreams what what what.
HOLMES: In fact, there are those who claim I turned to crime solving because of my disastrous forays into romance. Well, perhaps they're right. Perhaps my love for Aggie was doomed from the off.
WATSON: Aggie?
HOLMES: Not now, Watson. The demons are upon me.
WATSON: Oh, right. Well, I er... I'll just go and give Toby a trot round the block.
HOLMES: If you wouldn't mind.
WATSON: Yes. Um... see you later then.
HOLMES: If only I hadn't been so eager to get to second base...
TO BE CONTINUED...
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
AN OFFER YOU CAN'T REFUSE...AND SO SAY ALL OF US
BIRD: Hello?
KINNEY DALLIS: Hi there! My name Kinney Dallis!
BIRD: But I don't know any Kinneys.
KINNEY DALLIS: Thank you for your loan request, which we recieved yesterday, your refinance application has been accepted Good Credit or Not,
BIRD: Eh?
KINNEY DALLIS: We are ready to give you a $390,000 loan, after further review, our lenders have established the lowest monthly payments. Approval process will take only 1 minute.
Please visit the confirmation link below and fill-out our short 30 second Secure Web-Form.
www.iamadumbfuckwillingtoloseeverythingthendie.com/
BIRD: Er, thanks, but no, thanks.
KINNEY DALLIS: You're welcome.
BIRD: Don't ya just love spam? Now lemme just click on this baby here... Urgh yahhhhk! More rabbit porn. I tell ya, dude. Pubistan must be stopped.
BUFFALO: Yeah. It's giving good honest clean darty porn a bad name.
BIRD: Exactly.
BUFFALO: Wait, dude. Kinney Dallis is a goddamn rabbit?
BIRD: Hey, sorry, dude. I clicked on the wrong link. I went to www.iamadumbfuckwhowillclickonanythingthendie.com/
BUFFALO: You too, huh? Must stop doing that.
BIRD: A cautionary tale for all our fans, if ever there was one.
BUFFALO: Yer right there, my avian chum.
BIRD: O shite on a tricycle! Now I can't close the window down.
BUFFALO: Reboot.
BIRD: Bollax on a sandwich. Rebooting now. What the...
BUFFALO: What's that, dude?
BIRD: Pop ups. Nothing but pop ups with dollar signs and boobs and rabbits' bits and... Oh, I don't believe it!
BUFFALO: Dude, you're scaring me! Are you OK?
BIRD: A new e-mail has flashed up. Listen to this:
THE LOTTERY DEPARTMENT
UK.22 Garden Close,
PE9 2YP, London
REF Nº:UKNL-L/200-26937BATCH Nº:14/0017/1PD
Dear Winner!
This is to inform you that you have been selected for a cash prize of £1,000,000.00 (British Pounds) held on the 1St of February 2007 inLondon Uk. The selection process was carried out through randomselection in our computerized email selection system(ess) from adatabase of over 250,000 email addresses drawn from which you were selected. The BRITISH UK. Lottery is approved by the British Gaming Board. To begin the processing of your prize you are to contact our fiduaciary claims department for more infomation as regards procedures to claimyour prize. Contact your fiduciary agent below for claims process. Name: Mr Shedrack Harrison .Phone # : +44-702-405-4092
Is nowhere safe?
BUFFALO: Dunno, dude. Sounds kinda plausible. Maybe you should phone.
BIRD: Are you serious?
BUFFALO: Could've won a lorra money.
BIRD: No way, dude. No. No. No.
BUFFALO: Do it.
BIRD: No.
BUFFALO: Go on.
BIRD: No!
BUFFALO: I knew a Shedrack once. Nice kid. Skinny. Pointy ears. Bit of a lisp. Ring him.
BIRD: Oh, OK, then. Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf! Omigod! Wot have I done. I woz only havin' a laff. Like.
KINNEY DALLIS: Hi there! My name Kinney Dallis!
BIRD: But I don't know any Kinneys.
KINNEY DALLIS: Thank you for your loan request, which we recieved yesterday, your refinance application has been accepted Good Credit or Not,
BIRD: Eh?
KINNEY DALLIS: We are ready to give you a $390,000 loan, after further review, our lenders have established the lowest monthly payments. Approval process will take only 1 minute.
Please visit the confirmation link below and fill-out our short 30 second Secure Web-Form.
www.iamadumbfuckwillingtoloseeverythingthendie.com/
BIRD: Er, thanks, but no, thanks.
KINNEY DALLIS: You're welcome.
BIRD: Don't ya just love spam? Now lemme just click on this baby here... Urgh yahhhhk! More rabbit porn. I tell ya, dude. Pubistan must be stopped.
BUFFALO: Yeah. It's giving good honest clean darty porn a bad name.
BIRD: Exactly.
BUFFALO: Wait, dude. Kinney Dallis is a goddamn rabbit?
BIRD: Hey, sorry, dude. I clicked on the wrong link. I went to www.iamadumbfuckwhowillclickonanythingthendie.com/
BUFFALO: You too, huh? Must stop doing that.
BIRD: A cautionary tale for all our fans, if ever there was one.
BUFFALO: Yer right there, my avian chum.
BIRD: O shite on a tricycle! Now I can't close the window down.
BUFFALO: Reboot.
BIRD: Bollax on a sandwich. Rebooting now. What the...
BUFFALO: What's that, dude?
BIRD: Pop ups. Nothing but pop ups with dollar signs and boobs and rabbits' bits and... Oh, I don't believe it!
BUFFALO: Dude, you're scaring me! Are you OK?
BIRD: A new e-mail has flashed up. Listen to this:
THE LOTTERY DEPARTMENT
UK.22 Garden Close,
PE9 2YP, London
REF Nº:UKNL-L/200-26937BATCH Nº:14/0017/1PD
Dear Winner!
This is to inform you that you have been selected for a cash prize of £1,000,000.00 (British Pounds) held on the 1St of February 2007 inLondon Uk. The selection process was carried out through randomselection in our computerized email selection system(ess) from adatabase of over 250,000 email addresses drawn from which you were selected. The BRITISH UK. Lottery is approved by the British Gaming Board. To begin the processing of your prize you are to contact our fiduaciary claims department for more infomation as regards procedures to claimyour prize. Contact your fiduciary agent below for claims process. Name: Mr Shedrack Harrison .Phone # : +44-702-405-4092
Is nowhere safe?
BUFFALO: Dunno, dude. Sounds kinda plausible. Maybe you should phone.
BIRD: Are you serious?
BUFFALO: Could've won a lorra money.
BIRD: No way, dude. No. No. No.
BUFFALO: Do it.
BIRD: No.
BUFFALO: Go on.
BIRD: No!
BUFFALO: I knew a Shedrack once. Nice kid. Skinny. Pointy ears. Bit of a lisp. Ring him.
BIRD: Oh, OK, then. Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf! Omigod! Wot have I done. I woz only havin' a laff. Like.
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.
Monday, February 05, 2007
A SLEUTH IN HOT PURSUIT
MRS HUDSON: It's a letter... for you, Mr Sherlock.
HOLMES: Thank you, Hudders. That will be all. Watson?
WATSON: Oh, yes, quite. It's a poem, Holmes. I think.
HOLMES: Well, read it, then, man.
WATSON: Right you are, mon Liege.
An idiot who lived in a hovel
Just published a best-selling novel.
Though his vomitous drivel
Would make your head swivel
He fancies himself Vaclav Havel.
HOLMES: Is that it?
WATSON: 'Fraid so, Holmes. What do you suppose it means?
HOLMES: Let me see. I fear, and I hope I'm mistaken here, Watty, old boy, but I fear that it means that Dan Brown has published a sequel to the Da Vinci Code.
WATSON: Surely not, Holmes. Not after the film flopped so atrociously.
HOLMES: Listen carefully, Watson, because I shall only say this the once. Those who can, can. Those who can't, write best-selling novels.
WATSON: Oh, good Lord, you've got me there, old bean. My dendrites are in a veritable twist, what what what. I don't suppose you'd care to elucidate?
HOLMES: Persist. Conquer.
WATSON: Sorry, Holmes. You've lost me.
HOLMES: Or as Flaubert put it: "Nothing is more humiliating than to see idiots succeed in enterprises we have failed in."
WATSON: Ah, yes, indeed. But what is literature, anyway, hmm, but the pursuit of inner happiness by other means?
HOLMES: (drops pipe in lap) What did you say?
WATSON: Don't you agree?
HOLMES: Quite incredible. You know, Watson, I've given this some thought and I think that now may well be the time...
WATSON: To write all our adventures down so that we may inspire future generations of readers and writers and super sleuths?
HOLMES: Just so, Twotty Watty. But where to begin?
WATSON: Oh, I don't know, what about the Blood Hound Of The Biscuit Thrills? Remember, we never did find the tin.
HOLMES: Indeed. A splendid idea, my good man. Hand me that, pen, Watson. Time to show Dan Brown and his ilk what real literature is all about.
WATSON: Nobel at eleven, Holmes.
HOLMES: Booker at twelve.
WATSON: Eh?
HOLMES: Never mind, old chap. (writes) Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was usually quite comatose in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night drinking the finest malt whiskey and sniffing substances from test tubes, was splayed out at the breakfast table. I stood upon the shag pile and picked up the biscuit tin which Mr Borat had left the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of tin, suffused with herbs and spices, with a charming illustration of Hunting and Polymer's finest choccie biscuits for dunking...
HOLMES: Thank you, Hudders. That will be all. Watson?
WATSON: Oh, yes, quite. It's a poem, Holmes. I think.
HOLMES: Well, read it, then, man.
WATSON: Right you are, mon Liege.
An idiot who lived in a hovel
Just published a best-selling novel.
Though his vomitous drivel
Would make your head swivel
He fancies himself Vaclav Havel.
HOLMES: Is that it?
WATSON: 'Fraid so, Holmes. What do you suppose it means?
HOLMES: Let me see. I fear, and I hope I'm mistaken here, Watty, old boy, but I fear that it means that Dan Brown has published a sequel to the Da Vinci Code.
WATSON: Surely not, Holmes. Not after the film flopped so atrociously.
HOLMES: Listen carefully, Watson, because I shall only say this the once. Those who can, can. Those who can't, write best-selling novels.
WATSON: Oh, good Lord, you've got me there, old bean. My dendrites are in a veritable twist, what what what. I don't suppose you'd care to elucidate?
HOLMES: Persist. Conquer.
WATSON: Sorry, Holmes. You've lost me.
HOLMES: Or as Flaubert put it: "Nothing is more humiliating than to see idiots succeed in enterprises we have failed in."
WATSON: Ah, yes, indeed. But what is literature, anyway, hmm, but the pursuit of inner happiness by other means?
HOLMES: (drops pipe in lap) What did you say?
WATSON: Don't you agree?
HOLMES: Quite incredible. You know, Watson, I've given this some thought and I think that now may well be the time...
WATSON: To write all our adventures down so that we may inspire future generations of readers and writers and super sleuths?
HOLMES: Just so, Twotty Watty. But where to begin?
WATSON: Oh, I don't know, what about the Blood Hound Of The Biscuit Thrills? Remember, we never did find the tin.
HOLMES: Indeed. A splendid idea, my good man. Hand me that, pen, Watson. Time to show Dan Brown and his ilk what real literature is all about.
WATSON: Nobel at eleven, Holmes.
HOLMES: Booker at twelve.
WATSON: Eh?
HOLMES: Never mind, old chap. (writes) Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was usually quite comatose in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night drinking the finest malt whiskey and sniffing substances from test tubes, was splayed out at the breakfast table. I stood upon the shag pile and picked up the biscuit tin which Mr Borat had left the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of tin, suffused with herbs and spices, with a charming illustration of Hunting and Polymer's finest choccie biscuits for dunking...
Thursday, February 01, 2007
URGENT E-MAIL REPLY TO SWEET MR LOMPO
AND I MEAN URGENT!
THE BACKGROUND: WE RECEIVED THIS E-MAIL BUT YESTERDAY EVENING AND BECAUSE IT WAS MARKED URGENT WE FELT WE HAD TO RESPOND ASAP. FIFI RECKONS IT'S A SCAM BUT I DUNNO, SHE HAS A SUSPICIOUS MIND AND HE SEEMS SUCH A NICE CHAP AND HIS OFFER IS VERY HARD TO DESIST. JUDGE FOR YOURSELVES: ARE WE BEING FAIR HERE? OR TOO GENEROUS? OR JUST PLAIN STOOPID? INK-WIRING MINDS WANT 2 KNOW.
THE FOREGROUND: SOME GRASS, A FEW FIR TREES, A SHED AND 6FT HIGH FENCE.
MR LOMPO: FROM THE DESK OF MR MOUBARIK LOMPO MANAGER AUDIT AND ACCOUNTING DEPARTMENT BANK INTERNATIONAL DU BURKINAFASO.( B.I.B)
BIRD: Hi, there!
MR LOMPO: I am Mr. moubarik lompo, Manager Audit Accounting Department Bank International Du Burkina B.I.B.
BIRD: That's nice. Mr Loco, you say? I like banks with abbreviations. Now how can I help?
MR LOMPO: I would like to know if this proposal will be worth while for your acceptance.
BIRD: I'm listening.
MR LOMPO: I have a Foreign Customer,Andreas Schranner from Germany who is an Investor, Crude Oil Merchant and Federal Government Contractor...…
BIRD: Piquing my interest here, dude.
MR LOMPO: ..that was a victim with Concord Air Line, flight AF4590 killing 113 people crashed on 25 July 2000 near Paris...…
BIRD: Sorry to hear that. Friend of yours, was he?
MR LOMPO: ..leaving a closing balance of Twelve Million Eight Hundred Thousand United States Dollars ($12.8m in one of his Private US Dollar Account...…
BIRD: That's a lorra dough.
MR LOMPO: ..that is been managed by me as the Customer's Account Officer.
BIRD: The grammar, dude, it's just not happening, but go on.
MR LOMPO: Base on my security report, these funds can be claimed without any hitches as no one is aware of the funds and its closing balance except me and the customer (Now Deceased)...…
BIRD: Er, and you're writing to us because...…
MR LOMPO: ..therefore, I can present you as the Next of Kin...…
BIRD: Ah, I think I can see what you're deriving at.
MR LOMPO: ..and we will work out the modalities for the claiming of the funds in accordance with the law.
BIRD: Well, naturally.
MR LOMPO: If you are interested, Please call me to discuss in further details and our sharing ratio will be 60% for me and 30% for you...…
BIRD: You're nothing if not a fair man, Mr Loco. And your number is?
MR LOMPO: ..while 10% wil be for the necessary expenses that might occur along the line.
BIRD: But of course. Now if you'd just tell me your number...
MR LOMPO: Thank you, Sincerely.
BIRD: No, thank YOU!
MR LOMPO: ( MR) moubarik lompo
BIRD: Oh, there's just one tincy wincy bincy quincy little nagging doubt here, Mr Lompo: Apparent Lee, Andreas Schanner was delayed that day and never actually made it onto that flight, which makes your proposal slightly dodgy, to say the least. However, providing you've got access to his stash of cash, I think we can overlook that minor discrepancy, on the strict understanding, of course, that if you are caught with your Freddy in the till, so to speak, that you and I have never met and that you have no idea who I am or what happened to the 30% once it's mysteriously removed from a certain Mr Sparky's Swiss bank account within minutes of you transferring the money into it. Oh, and one last thing, just to ensure that you don't have second thoughts about doing business with the delectavious Tails From The Bird & Buffalo franchise, I have concealed in several e-mail in-boxes of some highly trusted pals copies of your e-mail, which if revealed to Interpol would lead to you spending a VERY long time in prison, or perhaps enduring an even worse fate. Now does that sound reasonable to you? Cyber shake on it? Mr Loco? Are you there?
THE BACKGROUND: WE RECEIVED THIS E-MAIL BUT YESTERDAY EVENING AND BECAUSE IT WAS MARKED URGENT WE FELT WE HAD TO RESPOND ASAP. FIFI RECKONS IT'S A SCAM BUT I DUNNO, SHE HAS A SUSPICIOUS MIND AND HE SEEMS SUCH A NICE CHAP AND HIS OFFER IS VERY HARD TO DESIST. JUDGE FOR YOURSELVES: ARE WE BEING FAIR HERE? OR TOO GENEROUS? OR JUST PLAIN STOOPID? INK-WIRING MINDS WANT 2 KNOW.
THE FOREGROUND: SOME GRASS, A FEW FIR TREES, A SHED AND 6FT HIGH FENCE.
MR LOMPO: FROM THE DESK OF MR MOUBARIK LOMPO MANAGER AUDIT AND ACCOUNTING DEPARTMENT BANK INTERNATIONAL DU BURKINAFASO.( B.I.B)
BIRD: Hi, there!
MR LOMPO: I am Mr. moubarik lompo, Manager Audit Accounting Department Bank International Du Burkina B.I.B.
BIRD: That's nice. Mr Loco, you say? I like banks with abbreviations. Now how can I help?
MR LOMPO: I would like to know if this proposal will be worth while for your acceptance.
BIRD: I'm listening.
MR LOMPO: I have a Foreign Customer,Andreas Schranner from Germany who is an Investor, Crude Oil Merchant and Federal Government Contractor...…
BIRD: Piquing my interest here, dude.
MR LOMPO: ..that was a victim with Concord Air Line, flight AF4590 killing 113 people crashed on 25 July 2000 near Paris...…
BIRD: Sorry to hear that. Friend of yours, was he?
MR LOMPO: ..leaving a closing balance of Twelve Million Eight Hundred Thousand United States Dollars ($12.8m in one of his Private US Dollar Account...…
BIRD: That's a lorra dough.
MR LOMPO: ..that is been managed by me as the Customer's Account Officer.
BIRD: The grammar, dude, it's just not happening, but go on.
MR LOMPO: Base on my security report, these funds can be claimed without any hitches as no one is aware of the funds and its closing balance except me and the customer (Now Deceased)...…
BIRD: Er, and you're writing to us because...…
MR LOMPO: ..therefore, I can present you as the Next of Kin...…
BIRD: Ah, I think I can see what you're deriving at.
MR LOMPO: ..and we will work out the modalities for the claiming of the funds in accordance with the law.
BIRD: Well, naturally.
MR LOMPO: If you are interested, Please call me to discuss in further details and our sharing ratio will be 60% for me and 30% for you...…
BIRD: You're nothing if not a fair man, Mr Loco. And your number is?
MR LOMPO: ..while 10% wil be for the necessary expenses that might occur along the line.
BIRD: But of course. Now if you'd just tell me your number...
MR LOMPO: Thank you, Sincerely.
BIRD: No, thank YOU!
MR LOMPO: ( MR) moubarik lompo
BIRD: Oh, there's just one tincy wincy bincy quincy little nagging doubt here, Mr Lompo: Apparent Lee, Andreas Schanner was delayed that day and never actually made it onto that flight, which makes your proposal slightly dodgy, to say the least. However, providing you've got access to his stash of cash, I think we can overlook that minor discrepancy, on the strict understanding, of course, that if you are caught with your Freddy in the till, so to speak, that you and I have never met and that you have no idea who I am or what happened to the 30% once it's mysteriously removed from a certain Mr Sparky's Swiss bank account within minutes of you transferring the money into it. Oh, and one last thing, just to ensure that you don't have second thoughts about doing business with the delectavious Tails From The Bird & Buffalo franchise, I have concealed in several e-mail in-boxes of some highly trusted pals copies of your e-mail, which if revealed to Interpol would lead to you spending a VERY long time in prison, or perhaps enduring an even worse fate. Now does that sound reasonable to you? Cyber shake on it? Mr Loco? Are you there?
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