HONEY LOVE - IS IT TRUE TOMCHIK?

IN A CHANCE ENCOUNTER DOWN AT STUCKEY'S, THE AULD BUFF WAS RUDELY INTERRUPTED BY HIS PAST. AND NOW HE'S GOT SOME SONOROUS QUESTIONS FOR DA TOMCHIK INNIT

BUFFALO: Dude?

TOMCHIK: Oh, yes, I see, you're talking to me.

BUFFALO: Well, I don't see nobody else here.

TOMCHIK: You want to ask me about something?

BUFFALO: It's like this, Tomchik. I was hitting on the pecan logs down at Stuckey's when this drop-dead gorgeous blonde came my way. She ditsied over and kissed me full on the lips and said she never expected to find me here. Well, I knew that kiss, those cheeks, those eyes, that smell... It was Trudi, with an I, ya get me? And ker-bam sha-lam wooo-hooo! I was in love all over again. You still with me?

TOMCHIK: Er, yes, I think I can follow your meandering train of thought.

BUFFALO: Well, the thing is, see, Trudi and me were an item way back in the days when I wore shorts and she wore white ankle socks va va vooom!

TOMCHIK: You were, how do you say, childhood sweethearts, yes?

BUFFALO: Bull's-eye. Nailed it in one. So anyhoo, my question is this. Is it true, Tomchik, that honey love lasts forever?

TOMCHIK: By this you mean, that you can still harbour intense feelings for one individual all your life?

BUFFALO: Yup.

TOMCHIK: Well, I believe that my mother and father were inseparable and held a deep respect and love for each other, even though they frequently argued and kept their silence sometimes for years, right until the end. And my younger sister is still with the lorry driver who picked her up 20 years ago whilst delivering frozen chickens to the Arctic, so, yes, it seems to me perfectly possible that you still feel the same, as it were, for another human being.

BUFFALO: Thank Freddy for that, cos I thought I was going shit-stirring crazy. OK, right, my next question is this. See, Trudi et moi, well, we were fixing on making up for lost time so we um, went out in the parking lot, got in the back of the pickup and got on down with the wiggly-jiggly.

TOMCHIK: Oh, dear, now you are going to ask me for an opinion on something that has always refused to submit itself to scientific method.

BUFFALO: So... we rumpy pumpied till the parking lot was sparse and me loins were raw.

TOMCHIK: I'm sorry, you did what?

BUFFALO: Shagged like rabbits until me nuts near on fell off, like.

TOMCHIK: That's what I thought you meant.

BUFFALO: Anyhoo, to cut a long celery short, she asked me to marry her.

TOMCHIK: I see.

BUFFALO: So naturally, now I'm running scared, wishing I'd never set eyes on those all-dancing, all-singing melons of hers again. Am I afraid of commitment? Am I a loser? Am I always going to go Freddy up? Is it true, Tomchik?

TOMCHIK: Well, it seems to me, all things reduced defacto to the sum of the whole which is never quite the equal of its constituent parts, I would advise you to indulge in the classic pluses and minuses exercise.

BUFFALO: Huh? Wassat?

TOMCHIK: Make two columns, one for the elements you deem to be positive in this possible future together, and one for the elements you deem to be negative.

BUFFALO: Wow. OK. Here goes. On the plus side, um, we'll be able to fornicate like otters ad infinitum and... um... uh... ho... ha... he... And on the minus side, I'll have to be responsive to her needs 24/7, make her feel special, take her out, buy her presents, keep myself and the place tidy and pretend to like her mother a lot. Oh, and talk about settling down, holidays and how great it'll be to grow old together whilst I lose every goddamn friend I ever had. It's a no brainer, dude. Tanks a lot for making me seal the light.

TOMCHIK: It was nothing, really, you know. I merely helped you to apply your innate common sense to the seemingly imponderable situation.

BUFFALO: Phew. Relieved over here, dude. Hey, next time yer in Motown, look me up and I'll buy you a beer.

TOMCHIK: To be absolutely honest with you, I would not be seen dead in the industrial wasteland of misery Newsweek calls Michigan. And I hate beer. But I know your offer was meant well. Oh, I'm sorry, there's a very interesting email that has just arrived from the International Fellowship of Physicists & Other Concerned Academics Against Waste Paper & Other Antisocial Practices in the Former Soviet Union. It demands an immediate response. Goodbye.

BUFFALO: Wot the Freddy! Now dat's wot I call fecking rude, calculus for brains! Oh, er, is Trudi there, perchance? It's just I've been thinking...

SUPER POOCH TO THE RESCUE

WATSON: I say, Holmes...

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: Have you heard the rumour?

HOLMES: What is a rumour if not a disintegration of integrity?

WATSON: Well, yes, of course. But this is serious, old man. They say that Professor Moriarty is sending an assassin to rub you out, old thing.

HOLMES: But Watty, old bean, that's old news. The intended assassin was found but ten minutes ago face down in a pile of dog faeces in Regent's Park.

WATSON: What?! But that's impossible! That is about when you took Toby for a stroll to the park to execute his daily ablutions.

HOLMES: Just so, old chap. Most fortuitous. The blighter was about to load up a poison dart when our dear pooch here hurled himself at the stinker with aplomb, digging his perfectly formed canine pincers right into the evildoer's jugular.

WATSON: Good Lord!

HOLMES: Whereupon in all the excitement, Toby brought forward his ablutions then expertly jumped back as the fiendish would-be murderer fell face down in the um...

WATSON: Poo. Quite remarkable. And you say Toby mauled him to death what what what?

HOLMES: With some detailed supervision, naturally.

WATSON: But Holmes, Toby wouldn't hurt a fly and suddenly he transforms himself into an efficient, well-oiled killing machine. It's, it's, why, it's incredible.

HOLMES: Elementary, my dear Watson. Any animal, human or otherwise, can be induced to commit a murderous act, given the right conditioning.

WATSON: You mean...

HOLMES: Yes, Watson. I rang the bell, and with true Pavlovian gusto, and not an inconsiderable amount of saliva, our loveable pooch got stuck in, so to speak.

WATSON: But it's preposterous, it's unethical, it's... just you be careful where you go ringing your bell, old bean.

HOLMES: And you be careful that you do not cross Toby again. Now the wagging doggy has a taste for it, he may well strike again if provoked.

WATSON: Good grief, Holmes. You've turned our sweet little Toby into a cold-blooded killer. Surely the ends do not justify the means.

HOLMES: The means, as we both know, do not always lead to the ends and never to the beginnings, so let there be an end to the means and a beginning to the ends, if you follow my drift.

WATSON: Well, if you put it like that...

HOLMES: I do, you wacky quackster. We must be vigilant and alert. And there will be many more Tobys that will join us in our neverending struggle with the forces of darkness, Watson. Many a yelp shall fall but it's all in the game.

WATSON: Nice going , Tobers. Have another choccie biccie.

(Toby yaps contentedly)

WATSON: And all's well that ends well.

HOLMES: This time, Watson.

WATSON: Doggy bone at eleven?

TOBY: Yap, yap!

POOR CHARLIE... CAMPAIGN FOR POETRY ON YouTube

Poor Charlie, he always loved parping
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cramped for him his Percy Bysshe gave way
They said

Oh ho ho ho, it was up, down, sideways always
(Still the cork popped whilst frumping)
I was much too far out in virtual, dude
And not waving but dumping

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qeKGZaoda1c

SUPPORT MORE POETRY ON YouTube now!
Download your poem on YouTube & Educate & Alleviate the Asses

GIMME DA JOB, DUDE!

IN DESPERATION & IN VIEW OF AN IMPENDING COURT CASE, THE AULD BUFFALO HAS FINALLY BITTEN THE SAUERKRAUT & APPLIED FOR A JOB AT McDonald's. IN A MATTER OF HOURS, HE WILL DISPATCH THE FOLLOWING JOB APPLICATION, WHICH IS SHORTLY TO APPEAR ON YouTube. NUDGE, NUDGE, WINK, WINK, YOU KNOW WOT I MEEN. ANY INSENSIBLE SUGGESTIONS GREAT FULLY RECEIVED. BTW UNTIL THE MULTIMILLION DOLLAR OPTION FOR HIS SCREENPLAY ABOUT THE GREAT ALLEVIATOR & SOCIALLY BACKWARD IMMOBILIZER JEREMIAH JUGHEAD ENTITLED JUGS ARE MY LIFE COMES THRU, THIS IS HIS ONLY HOPE! PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY.

NAME: Splendor G. Mainwaring.

SEX: Now and then.

DESIRED POSITION: On top.

EDUCATION: I am in favor of it.

LAST POSITION HELD: Venison counter.

SALARY: Forty bucks an hour.

MOST NOTABLE ACHIEVEMENT: Teri Winderski.

REASON FOR LEAVING: She was preggers.

HOURS AVAILABLE TO WORK: Anything except Happy Hour.

PREFERRED HOURS: Noon to 1PM, Sundays.

DO YOU HAVE ANY SPECIAL SKILLS? I am adept at finding the Mons Venus within 2.5 seconds.

MAY WE CONTACT YOUR CURRENT EMPLOYER? If I had a current employer I wouldn't be wasting my time on this application.

DO YOU HAVE ANY PHYSICAL CONDITIONS THAT WOULD PROHIBIT YOU FROM LIFTING UP TO 50 LBS? Yes, a quadruple hernia and an impacted bandicoot.

DO YOU HAVE A CAR? No, but I'd have no trouble stealing one.

HAVE YOU RECEIVED ANY SPECIAL AWARDS OR RECOGNITION? I won the Bud Lite pissing contest three years in a row, and am frequently recognized by my children and my dog.

DO YOU SMOKE? I don't know, I never looked.

DO YOU CERTIFY THAT THE ABOVE IS TRUE AND COMPLETE TO THE BEST OF YOUR KNOWLEDGE? Huh? Oh, sure. The heavens never lie.

SIGN HERE "Welcome to Arkansas, Home of Bill Clinton. In Compliance with Megan's Law, the Above is a Known Sex Offender".

YouTube CUMZ GUD

Omigod! After much wrangling and incentivisational inducements, YouTube have given the red, blue, amber, indigo light to I...
Is this the beginning
Or merely end to end?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhRNlCTTr4w

SUPPORT MORE POETRY ON YouTube NOW! DOWNLOAD YOUR POEM ON YouTube & EDUCATE & ALLEVIATE THE ASSES!

IF... CAMPAIGN FOR POETRY ON YouTube

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a cyber interactive rabbit-poo festooned field
That is forever Pubistan

Jeremiah Jughead

SUPPORT MORE POETRY ON YouTube NOW! DOWNLOAD YOUR POEM ON YouTube & EDUCATE & ALLEVIATE THE ASSES

THE RIGHT GUFF ON YouTube

WATSON: I say, Holmes...

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: I've just been offered half a million big ones to dish the dirt on you, old chap, what what what.

HOLMES: Watson, old man, what dirt could you possibly be referring to?

WATSON: Oh, you know, old beanster, those terribly naughty pastimes you pursued as a lad.

HOLMES: My dear Watty, I hardly think they would be of any interest even to my official biographer Jeremiah Jughead.

WATSON: Oh, come now, Holmes, you know that were the public to become acquainted with some of your youthful wayward practices, there would be demands for your head.

HOLMES: Now listen to me, my good man, anything I told you about guffing at school and kissing girls on their belly buttons in the tool shed by the light of a glow worm must never be committed to paper.

WATSON: Oh, really? So you ARE ashamed of your past?

HOLMES: Not in the slightest, dear boy. But these juvenile experiences do not maketh the man or shed any light on the genius that was to follow.

WATSON: Well, there's a turn up for the books. The great Sherlock Holmes attempting a cover up.

HOLMES: You know, Watson, I never thought of you as a greedy man. Or an amusing one, come to think of it, but I digress. I fail to see why you are trying to provoke me on this fine sunny day when Hudders is in full blossom and you are perfectly smitten.

WATSON: Well, Holmes, I just think it's time that you faced your demons. Maybe publishing a warts and all book about you will prove cathartic, put you at ease with your gremlins.

HOLMES: Watty, I am at perfect ease with my misguided misdemeanours, and frankly, doesn't everyone do things in the flame of youth they'd rather not dwell on?

WATSON: Not me, old boy.

HOLMES: Oh, dear, Watson. Game, set and match, I'm afraid. Caught in your own dastardly web of self-indulgence. You forget that you told me ALL your secrets one drunken night in the Limehouse Tavern.

WATSON: Now look here, Holmes, I may have compromised Lucinda underneath the cherry tree, and I may have overfamiliarised myself with Geraldine by the stables, and indeed I may have had wayward hands in the sweet shop on occasion, but I did NOT guff. My dear mama and papa would never sanction such a thing.

HOLMES: Ah, so this is what this is all about. You think I've guffed, don't you? And you want me to apologise.

WATSON: Well...

HOLMES: How petty you can be at times. Exhibit A...

WATSON: What? Toby?

HOLMES: Elementary, my dear teen slayer.

WATSON: But but but...

HOLMES: I fear it was the scotch eggs Hudders fed him for breakfast.

WATSON: Oh, Toby! You poor mutt.

HOLMES: And there he goes again. I fear we shall have to vacate shortly.

WATSON: Toby poos! Please forgive us for feeding you that rotten old salmanella thingie.

HOLMES: Come, Watson, we have work to do. And don't think you're off the hook, old man. Sherlock Holmes may forgive but he NEVER forgets.

WATSON: Crumpet at eleven?

HOLMES: Not 'arf!

MUCUS EXTRACTION BANNED IN PUBISTAN

Yes, it's true, my freedom loving, tub thumping, freestyle humping chums! The People's Democratic Republic of Pubistan has just passed a law to ban making the picking of one's nose in public places an offence as of June 1st 2007. This inhuman, highly provocative and ultimately self-implosive act will prevent anyone over the age of two years of age with or without a runny nose from dealing appropriately with the offending snotpiece. It will also mean, since all vehicles and barns, sheds, garages, greenhouses and outside toilets have been designated as public areas, that any citizen caught in the aforementioned structures partaking of a bit of picky wicky of the honourable bogey will be liable to the maximum punishments under the law, which are as follows:

For the first offence: the nose shall be knitted together by needle and thread for a period of no more than ten years, and no less than nine years, eleven months and 30 days.

For the second offence: one or both nostrils shall be removed with the use of malnourished wild hogs specially bred for the procedure.

For the third offence: the nose shall be removed altogether with the use of the Pubistan all-in-one snothole slicer (patent pending).

For the fourth offence: the offender shall be cast out of his/her community, have heavy shackles attached to his/her legs and at the count of three be thrown into the Black Lagoon at midnight on the first day of the month and left to rot for ten calendar days.

For the fifth offence: the perpetrator will be unceremoniously fed to the rabbits of State Farm Number 16 and his/her entrails made into bargain rabbit burgers for the international market.

Stop the snot haters now! Write to your local MP, Member of the House of Representatives and Senate, the Mayor, the butcher, the baker, the chemist, the dressmaker, the stall holder, the handyman, the beach babe, the inventor of the iPod or digg or Joost or YouTube, or Technorati even and ROLL A BOGEY TODAY ON INTERNATIONAL PICK YOUR SNOT WITH PRIDE DAY ON JUNE 1st 2007 in solidarity with our brothers and sisters in Pubistan whose nasal passages and quiet moments of contemplation in front of family, friends and selected pets will be ruined forever if we do not act NOW!

TO PLEDGE YOUR FULL SUPPORT FOR SAFEGUARDING THE EXTRACTION OF MUCUS IN PUBISTAN & THROUGHOUT THE WORLD - JEEZ THEY'LL BE BANNING SMOKING & CREAM CAKES WITH CHERRIES ON TOP NEXT!!! - PLEASE EMAIL keeppickingsnotfree@SNOT4ALL.com

Thank you, good night and may your nostrils go with you.

One Nite In Taylor-Tucky - Wot The Freddy!

IN A HIGHLY DISTURBING ENVELOPMENT, WE PRESENT TO YOU A NEW FEATURE WHICH IS SPREADING THE WHIRLED - WOT THE FREDDY! SOON TO BE AVAILABLE ON YouTube & JOOST & FREDDYNET

BIRD: So, Buff, any more mass murders on your side of the pond lately?

BUFF: No, all quiet on the Midwestern affront, Birdy. Just the odd spouse dismemberment now and then.

BIRD: You’re having me on, Buff.

BUFF: No, my avian chum. . . carving up one’s spouse has become the new state sport in Michigan. They have competitions now, with prizes and blue ribbons. Gives a whole new meaning to the expression “trophy wives.”

BIRD: Wot the Freddy!

BUFF: The latest incident was at the Sign of the Beef Carver, one of those Midwestern culinary anachronisms – the all-you-can-eat buffet, where gluttony is still considered an heroic virtue. Apparently this fellow had been standing in line for an hour and tired of his wife chewing on his ass non-stop, so he stuck her head in the roast beef slicer.

BIRD: That’s fookin’ horrible, like! Is the hubby in jail, then?

BUFF: No, it was officially ruled a suicide. . . seems that the county sheriff is the hubby’s brother. Another fellow strangled his comely wife recently, then sliced and diced her and sowed the bits all over a local Metro park. At first it was rumored that he was trying to grow his own gaggle of "Stepford Wives” - but it turned out he had no real motive, just a keen desire to try out his new chain saw.

BIRD: Fudge rocket on a stick! Me yarbles have just shrivelled up and retreated back into the old abominable cavity, like. It’s like a scene from “Clockwork Orange” – pure horrorshow. Cor, but you Yanks are a bloodthirsty lot.

BUFF: What, us? Dude, we’re a Christian nation. Ask the Indians. Before we do anything violent we always ask, “What would Jesus do?” Of course we usually conclude that Jesus would kick ass and take names.

BIRD: Let’s change the subject, Buff, before I lose my Cadbury Biscuits, like. Is it true that there’s a town in Georgia where it’s a law that you must own a gun?

BUFF: It's the fair dinkum, Birdy. And it makes perfect sense, too. An armed society is a polite society. . .

BIRD: Oh, well, at least it’s comforting to know that you don’t own a gun, Buffer.

BUFF: Like hell, Birdman. Dream on. I’ve got a .20 gage shotgun and a .357 Magnum.

BIRD: I’m horrified, like. Why do you need all that artillery?

BUFF: Haven’t needed it in a long time, but the last time I had the misfortune to find myself downriver, in Taylor-Tucky, stopped at a red light, an inbred piece of white trailer trash pulled a Dirty Harry Special on me.

BIRD: Wazzat, like a Dirty Sanchez or summat?

BUFF: No, you berk, it’s a long-barreled Colt .44 Python. Sumbitch’ll put a magnum round through a fookin’ Hummer, I mean right through the perishing engine block, and still take out two or three innocent by-standers on the way out.

BIRD: Wot the Freddy! My blood’s turned to aspic, Buff. Why would a perfect stranger pull a cannon on you, unprovoked, like?

BUFF: He was far from perfect, Birdy - more like a failed genetic experiment that’s gone horribly awry. Think “Island of Dr. Moreau” meets "Larry the Cable Guy".

BIRD: Sphincter time here, Buff.

BUFF: Ha, you should’ve BEEN there. So, anyway, this butt-ugly sister-humper unholstered his Monty. . .

BIRD: The Python, that is?

BUFF: Right-o. . . right after I flipped him the bird.

BIRD: Wot the Freddy! You give him the auld index digit? What in the name of God’s holy trousers possessed you to do that?

BUFF: I was returning the favor, like. He flipped me the twig first. See, I made the mistake of making eye contact with this Confederate shit-kicker, and he raised his left arm, ensconced in a plaster cast covered with a lot of badly-spelled graffiti, and used his middle finger to indicate his I.Q. Well, I assumed this was the Taylor-Tucky equivalent of the Welcome Wagon, so, not wishing to offend him, I returned the salute - in double digits. That’s when he cleared leather on me.

BIRD: Zut alors, Buffer, how did you survive this hair-raising ordeal?

BUFF: I gave him the “V” sign - the universal gesture that means “Wanna drag?” Well, he was driving a souped-up Road Runner, while I was behind the wheel of a Saturn SL-2 - so he flashed me a semi-toothless grin right out of “Deliverance” and when the light turned green, he peeled rubber for a hundred yards while I made an illegal left turn on westbound M-14 and fled for my life to Ypsilanti.

BIRD: Wot the Freddy! And the moral is?

BUFF: The credo of the Coast Guard: Semper Paratus. In udder wurds, never drive around unarmed.

BIRD: Bloodcurdling, Buff. Film at eleven?

BUFF: Arf, arf!

SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY JOOST RIGHT

BIRD: Buff, you darty auld Finn sniffer, you've been sleeping with the enemy!!

BUFFALO: Rubbish, lad. Rumors of my deflection have been greatly exaggerated. I'm merely taking a walk on the Wilde side, so to speak.

BIRD: But you're consorting with. . . ugh. . . felons - er, felines, pussy people!

BUFFALO: Takes all kinds to make a whirled, Birdy. I mean, look at the two of us - we're fookin' certifiable, mate, and yet Fifi still talks to us.

BIRD: Ah, Fifi Lamour... now there's a woman for ya.

BUFFALO: If you want to chastise someone, get on her case for sleeping with the VC.

BIRD: The Victoria Cross?

BUFFALO: The Charlie. Geddit?

BIRD: Tendriolic obscurios, Buffters. I appertain your meanness. Well, at least you have to give the lad high marks for good taste.

BUFFALO: Yes, but as the cultured lady said to the Thunnus thynnus, or blue fin tuna to you, Birdy...

BIRD: Izzat right? Well, bollax to you, too, Buffo!

BUFFALO: I'll pretend I didn't hear that. As Pearl, the cultured lady, said to the aforementioned social climbing fish of the thynnus family, "We want tunas that taste good, Charlie, not tunas with good taste."

BIRD: My great Aunt Flossie was reputed to have cohalibutated with a fish that was alleged to be a musical prodigy.

BUFFALO: Ah, the infamous piano tuna?

BIRD: The very same. Aunt Flossie was quite keyed up over it. Gil, his name was. A Finn, I think.

BUFFALO: Oh, Gawd, here we go again. I have to buzz off now, mate. Family emergency. I have to chauffeur a sick kiddy to the pediatrician.

BIRD: You're trucking a chucking up cat to the vet?! I knew it! I knew this is where it would all lead!

BUFFALO: (sighs) You've been at the cooking sherry again, innit, mate?

BIRD: C'est possible, mon Bison.

BUFFALO: Catnip?

BIRD: Touché.

BUFFALO: Gotta run. X-ray film at eleven.

BIRD: Meow. . . er, Ci-ao.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf...

LOVE SUCKS

BIRD: It’s like a fookin’ tomb in here, Buff.

BUFF: Oh, that’s because I’ve been up to my ass in vampires lately, dude.

BIRD: Vampires? What are you doing mucking about with the Undead, like?

BUFF: Gotta come up with a new title for “Bloodsuit”. Hud says those wonkers in Hollywood all think it’s a horror film and they won’t read the fookin’ script. Hud thinks the title should be more romantic like, and also make it clear that it’s about Dracula, who’s become an attorney and is shagging his old lover Lucrezia Borgia, who’s also an attorney, and also make it clear that they’re duking it out in court over a billion dollar lawsuit.

BIRD: Blimey, that’s a tall order. I always liked “Bloodsuit” myself.

BUFF: I know, but Hud’s in Hawaii watching his wing-ding float in a lagoon, slurping Poi, surrounded by Hula girls in grass skirts with Hibiscus flower pasties on their great articulated nips. I fear he's gone native.

BIRD: The darty old Hudster. How about “Bloodsucking Attorney and Smokin’ Hot Sorceress Duke It Out in Court and Shag Like Sea Otters ‘Til the Dugongs Come Home”?

BUFF: Not bad. It gets the point across. Bit windy, though.

BIRD: “Drac Loves Lucy”?

BUFF: I already ran that one up the flagpole, and Hud piddy-widdled on it. Do you like “Courting Lucrezia”?

BIRD: Bit lame, innit?

BUFF: Well, it is more romantic, like. And there’s the double entendre.

BIRD: Yeah, it’s totally lame.

BUFF: Miserable auld Willy Wonker, always widdling on my parade.

BIRD: Does it really matter? Won’t the studio change the title anyway?

BUFF: Of course. They’ll probably call it “Love Sucks!” or some such shit.

BIRD: So go with that, beat ‘em to the Punch and Judy, like.

BUFF: Yeah, right… then they’ll call it “Blood on the Bailiff” or “Vampire Verdict” or something equally nauseating. You can't win with those assholes. I should try honest work for a change – like robbing graves or summat.

BIRD: There’s a good theme for a Holmes adventure, Buff.

BUFF: Hmmm, you could have something there. It’s a dark and stormy night on Baker Street, raining cats and Cocker Spaniels, and Holmes and Watters send out for a curry pizza. . .

BIRD: . . and some twit delivers a cadaver by mistake!

BUFF: Right, and Watson says…

WATSON: I say, Holmes, it’s bad enough that Katmandu Pizza’s gone and delivered us a stinking cadaver, but they’ve left off the anchovies again.

HOLMES: Worse than that, Watson, this cadaver is highly suspect. I have reason to believe that it was obtained illegally.

WATSON: Blimey, Holmes, how could you possible deduce that with no evidence whatsoever?

HOLMES: On the contrary, Watson, this corpse is crawling with evidence.

WATSON: Damned if I can see it, Holmes. The filthy swine’s so covered with curried rice it’s hard to make out any clues at all.

HOLMES: If you look more closely, you’ll see that the rice is moving, Watson.

WATSON: Eh, what? Ah, so it is. It’s maggots, then… filthy, slimy maggots… which could explain why it didn’t taste like curried rice at all.

HOLMES: Forget the vermin for now, Watson. They don’t tell us much, except that this cadaver is several days old, and hasn’t been properly refrigerated.

WATSON: Scandalous. Hand me the telephone, Holmes, I’m going to report those damned tricksters to the authorities. Baked fresh to order, indeed…

HOLMES: Hold the inside leg, Watson. Unless my ears deceive me, I think I hear Mrs. Hudson taking delivery of our pizza this very moment.

MRS. HUDSON: Oh, Mr. Holmes, your filthy curry pizza has arrived!

WATSON: Shall I go and retrieve it, Holmes?

HOLMES: As you wish, Watson, though I’ve quite lost my appetite. When you return I want you to call the pizza parlor and repeat the order you gave them earlier.

WATSON: Should I mention the missing anchovies, Holmes?

HOLMES: No, repeat the order verbatim.

WATSON: Very well, Holmes, but I thought you’d gone off your feed?

HOLMES: And so I have, Watson… but unless I’m very much mistaken, I think your order will result in the delivery of another cadaver.

WATSON: Well, if it does, as Heracles is my witness, I'll go back to burgers.

LATER...

MRS. HUDSON: Oh, Mr. Holmes, there’s a tradesman around the back entrance with another filthy body. Shall I send him up or tell him to clear off?

HOLMES: Send him up, Mrs. Hudson, straightaway. The topping is afoot. Finally, a murder to get my teeth into!

WATSON: Here we go again...

JOOST IS THE WORD

Well, actually, it's not. But to be incontrovertible, what is Joost? What does it taste like? What does it smell like? What does it look like? Where does it live? What lies beneath all the hype and the slime? Should MySpace and YouTube and Britney feel threatened? Is Second Life out of breath? Is Google about to be God no? Is Adsense ass sense? Is blogroll no better than bog roll? Is there beauty in the beast? Is the environment a nice place to live? Is silverlight as translucent as Bakolite? Are cream crackers really so smooth? Is vitamin C the tablet of choice? Is the Year Zero a band or a brand? Is Digg not all that groovy? Are current events as sexy as Kent? Is the vacuum the cleaner or the wiser? Is open-source a scar or a spot? Can HD-DVD be better than Pal? Is Ajax a place or a powder? Is Coke still cool or all bubbled out? Are the children safe or about to grow old? Isn't it time to stop calling me baby? What is war if not the absence of peace? Is daily life not finally at an end? Where is American Idol going? Are you really my friend? Must people scowl?

Ink-wiring minds...

NEW FEATURE: IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK?

TOMCHIK, A MAN OF MYSTERY, SOME SAY HALF LITERAL/HALF VERSUPIAL. AN INQUISITOR IF EVER THERE WOZ ONE. ASK HIM ANYTHING & HE'LL... THINK ABOUT IT. A GENIUS IN HIS OWN SHOPPING BASKET, A LEGEND IN HIS OWN CROTCH, LADIES & GENTLEMEN, I GIVE YOU...
IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK?

BIRD: So anyway, I was wondering...

TOMCHIK: Yes?

BIRD: Well, maybe you could tell us about yourself, make the readers feel comfy with you.

TOMCHIK: Well, it seems to me, you know, that possibly this will not happen, but I will endeavour.

BIRD: That's the spirit. Now here's a little getting to know Tomchik questionnaire. First, is it true that I invented you in Thomas Mann's own image because you have your nose stuck in a book, even whilst making love?

TOMCHIK: I have been known to turn a few pages during fornication, this is an accurate statement.

BIRD: And you are medium height?

TOMCHIK: That is so.

BIRD: Medium build?

TOMCHIK: It would appear to be the case.

BIRD: You have receding curly black hair on an unusually large jutting forehead?

TOMCHIK: Well, yes, I agree.

BIRD: And you have large Bambi black eyes?

TOMCHIK: They have been referred to as cute by certain members of the female population.

BIRD: And you are still searching for the seventh dimension?

TOMCHIK: Yes, that and the missing chapter from Lady Chatterley's Lover.

BIRD: And your favourite meal is Uzbek dumplings with lamb and pilau rice?

TOMCHIK: Don't forget the green tea with oatmeal biscuits.

BIRD: As if. OK, here goes. Favourite colour?

TOMCHIK: Black, although indigo has its merits.

BIRD: Dog or cat?

TOMCHIK: Fruit bat, actually. A fascinating creature.

BIRD: Airplane or train?

TOMCHIK: Bicycle, if possible. Although I did suffer a terrible head wound the last time I cycled in central London. One really doesn't know how to educate the thoughtless inner city driver.

BIRD: Top five books ever?

TOMCHIK: I could not possibly give you an answer before sometime next week, but the most influential book on my way of thinking has been Only Cowgirls Get The Blues by Tom Robbins, and on my way of preparing food The Beginner's Guide To Mastering Bacon by Alain de Jamrolly.

BIRD: The last film you saw?

TOMCHIK: One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, on DVD. It rekindled my fondness for basketball and all things medicinal.

BIRD: Favourite pastime, apart from reading?

TOMCHIK: I like to walk and swim and fish and rummage through people's bins for objects of interest.

BIRD: Most embarrassing moment during puberty?

TOMCHIK: Discovering that my mother couldn't ski. No, that my father could not play the piano OR build his own radio transmitter.

BIRD: Most embarrassing moment in adulthood?

TOMCHIK: Losing a volume of Proust's Remembrance Of Things Past somewhere between Barnet & Camden Town on the Northern Line of the London Underground whilst under the influence of a wine gum.

BIRD: That's great. I think our readers are now building up a picture of you. Now it's time for the punchline.

TOMCHIK: I am ready.

BIRD: Alvin Toffler states in The Third Wave, that ageing societies will be using new medical technologies from self-diagnosis to instant toilet urinalysis to self-administered therapies delivered by nanotechnology to do for themselves what doctors used to do. Well, IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK?

TOMCHIK: It seems to me that this pronouncement largely depends on many factors which once factored into the multitude of existing factors and those factors which do not at present exist but will one day come into being and thus, one's understanding of the fundamental proposition must be by its very nature compromised.

BIRD: Wow. I think you're going to fit in nicely on the blog. Tomchik, thanks for dropping by. We'll be back next week with more mouthwatering utterances and gutterances in IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK?

AND YOU CAN VISIT THE IS IT TRUE, TOMCHIK? PODCAST SHORTLY ON YouTube & OTHER CLASSY OUTLETS

IN DEFENCE OF GALILEA MONTIJA

And I quote: "The kid has a lovely wanger. Give him a chance!" - Britney.

And I quote again: "Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother." - George Orwell.

NOTES FROM HOZZIE Q THE SPASMER'S TAIL

EXCLUSIVE: SMUGGLED OUT UNDER THE COVER OF DARKNESS IN A CADBURY'S CHOCOLATE BICCIE TIN, ROVING REPORTER BOB SPLASHER OF THE EAST FENWICK BELCHER BRINGS YOU THE BIRD'S THOUGHTS, DREAMS & INFLECTIONS FROM HIS HOSPITAL BED AS HE FIGHTS WITH THE DREADED SPASM IN THE LOWER PLACENTA...

Dear world!

Yes, it's me! I'm in the post-recoiled wing of St Just's Hospital, East Fenwick. I've just had me supper - a burnt kipper (that's a fish for all you dudes from the US of Eh?!) - and a mug of rabbit's P. Well, that's what it tastes like, anyhoo. There's been a lot of prodding going on today, and I've been twisted this way and that. And that's just by me mum! Look, I told her not to come but would she listen? Eh, A, Ay? She brought me a Mars bar and twelve packets of Marks & Spencer's sea salt and pepper crisps. But I really only wanted a Coke and the book that I was reading before this horrible thing happened to me whilst stretching meself in bed. The book, by the way, is the prequel to CONFESSIONS OF A POOP-SCOOPER & OTHER TALES OF EXCEPTIONAL LOBOTOMIES, which hasn't been written yet. The latter, I mean. And the former is kinda sketchy too, but hilarious. It's called THE SQUASHED GROPE IN THE PANTRY & THE ENEMA THAT REFUSED TO DIE. Nurse Schlapenbumfen has warned me that if I wet the bed one more time, she'll put me on a strict regime of sensory degradation, and take away my teddy bear and socks. But honestly, I think she just enjoys PRETENDING to be a Nazi stormtrooper with the tightest arse this side of the Revolving Curtain. I doubt that a bow anchor would make it up there, or anything else come to think of it, which I'd rather not, you know, think about, cos, well, I won't go on. So as I was saying, who could possibly know how tough it is to bump off an enema? At this juncture, I really have no idea how they're going to do it but I strongly suspect that it involves the following, but I may be wrong:
1) A pitch fork
2) A hose pipe
3) A CD player with Coldplay's last album on a loop
4) A piece of shipping rope
and 5) Sulphuric acid

Why does it hurt when I turn on my side? Because that's what grumbling placentas do. The throbbing badger... well, that's just to work up some sympathy innit. I wouldn't know what a throbbing badger in pantaloons looked like if it grabbed me by the Freddy, but naturally, I wouldn't want one neither. And when I'm cured, I want to go back to writing my memoirs and growing the perfect parsnip. Do I heck! Buff and me are in the middle of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries and a zillion other projects. Oops. Forgot. Wasn't supposed to tell anyone about that till National Lamb-Poo sorted out the contract. Doesn't matter, I guess, in the wider scheme of rings. As long as we get laid. I mean PAID.

Dammit! Schlapenbumfen is on the warpath again. I'd better wrap this baby up and smuggle it out. I'm feeling a bit wibbly but I think that's mainly due to my lack of Marmite sarnies. And I'm getting totally fed up with mashed potato and spinach but on the plus side, I'm warm, dry, well-tranked up and in full contention of my facilities.

As always, your humble recalcitrant,

Birdy

PS Can someone water me cammelia on the patio? Ta.

SPASM UPDATE Q BENADRYL DRIP

A STATEMENT BY SIR JOHN FURTERSPLATTER, CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER AT ST JUST'S HOSPITAL, EAST FENWICK (AS TRANSCRIBED FROM THE EAST FENWICK BELCHER NEWSPAPER)

I regret to inform you that on the morning of the 17th of April, in the year of our Lord 2007, the universally abhorred comedian Mr Bird was admitted to St Just's Hospital East Fenwick suffering from a throbbing badger in his pantaloons. Sorry, let me regurgitate. In laymen's speak, the avian patient was suffering from a spasm of the lower placenta which meant he was unable to sit straight, talk straight or bend over without requesting assistance from a nurse with a potty handy. Or a handy potty. Same difference, rarely.

The appropriate treatments were subsequently applied according to the medical code. They involved steam cleaning the rogerer, massaging the todgerer, and creaming the frotherer. Unfortunately, Mr Bird responded badly to the first treatment, slightly warmed to the second treatment, and was positively impressed and thoroughly irrigated by the third treatment.

However, overnight, the patient took a turn for the wurst and ended up wandering down an unmarked corridor whereuon he impaled his upper teater on a passing gurney. He was consequentially operated on immediately to remove excess fluid and stray shrapnel.

I am elated to announce that this morning Mr Bird has regained conscientiousness and is sat up in his hospital bed playing with his Benadryl drip and entertaining the nurses in the way he knows best. It is the considered opinion of a hastily arranged panel of cardio-thoracical experts that the patient will make a full recovery, eventually, undoubtedly, possibly within the coming weeks and months. In the meantime, I would ask you, the assembled media of various blood types and feral orientations to please give the sickly tweeter some privacy and understanding whilst he embarks on this troublesome road to a full recovery of his limited assets. Naturally, we will update you on any further envelopments as and when they recur. I'm sure that all our thoughts and the thoughts of udders are with Mr Bird on this uncommonly sunny day in April. Thank you.

THE BEES... THE BEES... Q PODCAST!

FIFI LAMOUR: And... action!

BUFFALO: So I hear Prince William has dumped his gal, like.

BIRD: Kate Middleton. Yep. Tragic. Nice gal if you can hack the plum in the mouth and the funny walk.

BUFFALO: She'd have made a nice queen.

BIRD: Maybe. Although Diana probably would've been better. Thing is the monarchy'll be done and dusted once our Madge falls off her perch.

BUFFALO: "Our Madge"? Friend of yours is she? The QUEEN to you. And to everybody else.

BIRD: It's affectionate, like. She's the people's QUEEN or some Finn like that.

BUFFALO: Tut tut on you. You Brits are so cazh with yer traversions. Moving on.

BIRD: Please do.

BUFFALO: To bees.

BIRD: Oh, I know this one. A Parent Lee, mobile phones are killing them off and we won't have any crops any more and the world will subsequently die an excrutiating death from mega starvation so that when the asteroid hits it won't make no difference what-so-ever. Right?

BUFFALO: Spot on, Birdy. And Final Lee, Iraq.

BIRD: Oh, lumme. Must we?

BUFFALO: Indubitably. It's sliding into civil war, they say.

BIRD: Er, that's about the quince of it. What's the question?

BUFFALO: What was the big story there last week?

BIRD: Um, er, oh yeah, the two British naval personnel selling their stories to the Daily Bumhole.

BUFFALO: That's right.

BIRD: And we had the revolutions that Faye Turkey was deprived of her favourite ciggies and her beloved fish and chips for ten days. And they wouldn't give her new underwear neither. Or let her wash her old ones after the old lamb kebab went down the wrong way.

BUFFALO: Indeed. And then she sat blindfolded as her interrogator peeled an orange over her lap.

BIRD: Yewk! Lou Rid!

BUFFALO: And wot is the interrogator purported to have said to her?

BIRD: "I have good peeler. You want juice?"

BUFFALO: Nearly. He Actual Lee said, "You peel my orange, blondie? I give you enjoyment".

BIRD: Omigod! The things sailors have to endure in the name of honour.

BUFFALO: And the final round...

BIRD: Eh?

BUFFALO: The missing headline from Iranian Democratics Institutionalised Then Reprogrammed Monthly - "The ***** ****** ***** Beg For ****** ******* *******".

BIRD: Oh, yeah, I saw this one. "The Revolutionary Guard Dogs Beg For Cadbury's Chocolate Biscuits".

BUFFALO: Correct. This is the story about the vicious Iranian border collies who guard the opening to the Al-Shat On Constantly But Our Reward Is In Heaven waterway who have been spoilt by British patrol boats bunging them Cadbury's choccie biscuits because according to their commanding officer they are "so thin they make Kate Moss look pork worthy". And now the dogs refuse to eat the leftover lamb kebabs the guards toss them after lights out. And what happened to several of the border collies?

BIRD: Um, I believe they swam across the Al-Shat On etc waterway and were picked up by foxtrot Freddy 0.5 and held by the Royal Navy as a bargaining chip in case negotiations to release the British service personnel went tits up.

BUFFALO: Full points. And where are they now?

BIRD: Strolling and sniffing their way up and down HMS Cornwall cos the Iranians didn't want them back, and I quote, "because the pig dogs yielded their stomachs to the delicatessen of the vegetating West".

BUFFALO: That's right, Birdman. You really are the most knowledgeable tweet your country has to offer. The U in K should be veritably proud. And that just leaves me time to announce that it is official - Basil Fawlty has been voted the funniest UK TV comedy character EVER, and we wrap up this Podcast with a clip from Fawlty Towers in which Basil greets some German guests -

BASIL: Ah, wonderful! Vonderbar! Ahh! Please allow me to introduce myself, I am the owner of Fawlty Towers. And may I welcome your war... your war... you all... and hope that your stay will be a happy one. Now, would you like to eat first, or would you like a drink before the war... AHH! Er... trespassers will be tied up with piano wire... SORRY, SORRY!

BIRD & BUFFALO: Good night!

GIMME DA MONEY, GUV'NOR!

WATSON: I say, Holmes...

HOLMES: Oh, if you must, Watson.

WATSON: This letter just came for you, slipped under the fortified door what what what.

HOLMES: How utterly tedious. Read it out, old boy. There's something in my toe nail.

WATSON: Righto ho. "Dear Mr Shylock, With due respect and humblelity. I am Mrs. Alice Biggins of Basingstoke. I was married to da Mr Biggins of Basingstoke for four years before he what copped it down a gold mine in Abubajan. We was very 'appy but childless. Well, da Mr Biggins, he did but curl up da feet without so much as a penny for da pee pot. And I was thinking... p'raps you'd be persuadable to take pity on dis little misses, who I happen to add is seriously well in debt and in need of heavy remittance, if you could possibly bung a coupla hundred bum wipe smackers my way. I'd do anyfink to pleasure your highness.

God bless ya, guv'nor!

Lots of luv,

Alice
xxx

PS And if by half a perchance, you could see your sideways to givin' me another coupla hundred big'uns, I shall invest da funds into helping da churches and orphanages and such like."

HOLMES: Good gracious!

WATSON: So, er, what do you think, Holmes? Do you feel inclined to help this unfortunate wretch of Basingstoke?

HOLMES: Oh, really, Watson! Give me that.

WATSON: Careful, old boy. You'll tear it.

HOLMES: Tear it?! I shall burn it and then set Toby on you in the yard.

WATSON: I'm sure I don't know what you're meandering at, Holmes.

HOLMES: (reads letter) Surely you did not expect to fool the high and mighty sleuth of all history past and present with this childish balderdash.

WATSON: What?! You're not... Why, you think I had a hand in this, old man? But that's preposterous!

HOLMES: A cowardly act even by your standards.

WATSON: I take offence at that last utterance, old bean, I don't mind telling you.

HOLMES: I see. Since you insist on pursuing this charade, I shall expose your fatal mistakes and then I expect a full apology whilst I consider an appropriate punishment for your moronic prank. Your first mistake was to use the name Alice Biggins. You should know full well that Alice Biggins was the third victim of the Ripper of Reading. Her entrails were found lining the A329 between Binfield and Wokingham.

WATSON: Ah...

HOLMES: Originality has never been your forte. Then the language. It is clearly the work of an educated person endeavouring to talk common. A simple individual would never overuse "da", nor display obvious rudeness - "a coupla hundred bum wipe smackers" indeed!

WATSON: Yes, well, perhaps the language is rather on the colourful side...

HOLMES: And lastly, I heard you and Hudders late last night in the pantry conspiratorily hatching the whole plot. It is possible that had you not both tittered like a pair of bloated hyenas, my slumber would not have been interrupted.

WATSON: Oh, dear. Well, um, I can explain...

HOLMES: You needed the money.

WATSON: Yes, you see...

HOLMES: When will you learn, Watty, that the end NEVER justifies the means?

WATSON: But it's Hudders' dear mater...

HOLMES: Just ask, dear fellow. That's all you have to do. I look after my own, don't you know?

WATSON: Sorry, Holmes. I felt so damned awkward...

HOLMES: You understand that I still have to punish you.

WATSON: But of course.

HOLMES: Now run along to Hudders and tell her that Mr Sherlock has already taken care of her mother's financial embarrassment and secured her wellbeing for the rest of her days.

WATSON: Oh, good Lord! Thank you so much, Holmes. How can I ever repay you?

HOLMES: I'll think of some way, don't be remiss of that.

WATSON: Scones at eleven?

HOLMES: Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary.

CATERING FOR THE BELOW-AVERAGE OIK

WATSON: I say, Holmes...

HOLMES: What is it now, Watson?

WATSON: Did you read that article by Rochester in the Times?

HOLMES: That confounded old wind bag? What's he been saying now?

WATSON: Says we can't be held responsible for gaps in other people's education what what what.

HOLMES: A-ha! Some sense from the big lump of lard at last!

WATSON: But he does take a pop at you, old thing.

HOLMES: What's that?!

WATSON: Claims you make the solving of crimes over-complicated and difficult to follow.

HOLMES: (sighs) The man's riddled with contradictions. The triumph of the oiks is upon us, I can see it coming.

WATSON: Quite, but he does have a point, old man. I mean, that last case, The Mysterious Mr Peg Leg & His Performing Piccolo... well, I'm blowed if I could follow the counter revolutions.

HOLMES: Convolutions, Watty Botty. The fault lay not in the explanation, which was an outstanding example of lucid thinking and deductive reasoning, but in the 15-second attention span of both you and the masses at large.

WATSON: What's that, old bean? Oh, yes, quite. Well, you see, since my bicycle accident when I fell into the mire and swallowed that trout, I find the ringing in my ear and in my posterior impedes my ability to concentrate.

HOLMES: It doesn't exactly aid your ablutions either, but that's another kettle of sea bass. Just be grateful dear Hudders is so understanding.

WATSON: She's an absolute treasure, that woman. What would we do without her?

HOLMES: Yes, candlelit Su Doku does have its limitations.

WATSON: I say, you're a bit frosty today, old boy. It wouldn't have anything to do with the contents of that letter delivered by hand but five minutes ago?

HOLMES: Watson, you never cease to amaze me. Just when I think your cerebral activity has fallen below that of a dehydrated sickle cell, you pull another rabbit out of the hat.

WATSON: Let it out, old bean. It's the best of therapies.

HOLMES: In all honesty, I am not inclined to "let it out" as you suggest, but I suppose that you will have to be told sooner or later.

WATSON: Holmes, you're crying.

HOLMES: Nonsense, Watson. I have merely suspended the act of blinking so that an eyelash may be removed from the tear duct in my left eye.

WATSON: Oh, for Pete's sake, man. Tell me what's in the letter. You'll get me at it in a minute.

HOLMES: Well... old... chum... it's... Samantha Hardcastle.

WATSON: Samantha Hardcastle?! That fallen waif of the night who met an untimely fate at Limehouse down by the docks?

HOLMES: Yes... she's... been found in a field in Kent eating grass and responding to the name Daisy.

(Holmes turns away and hides his face in his bathing towel)

WATSON: Holmes, you mustn't blame yourself. You did all you could to save her.

HOLMES: I... just... think... if I hadn't prized her away from that blackguard Gerald Bonkerbottle, she'd still be...

WATSON: A fallen woman with boils, jagged teeth and rancid gums. You found her a dentist, paid for the dermatologist, hired a dress maker to give her a new start.

HOLMES: I know... and now she thinks she's a cow!

WATSON: Yes, well, you know, you win some, lose some.

HOLMES: Thank you, Watson, you've been a great comfort.

WATSON: Good Lord! Have I? Yes, I suppose I have. Well, maybe the lesson here is that you should, um, stick to solving crime and leave the social engineering to someone else... someone more qualified.

HOLMES: Indeed. The oiks have it again. As Plato once said, if the tree is meant to fall, leg it.

WATSON: Clever chap, that Plateau.

HOLMES: Farewell, dear Samantha. May your glades be forever moist and supplemental.

WATSON: Um, quite.

HOLMES: Buttercups at eleven.

WATSON: Arf, arf!

THAR SHE BLOWS!

BIRD: Buffers, are you conscious?

BUFFALO: Semi, Birdy. Wuzzup?

BIRD: Just checking to see if you're still among the quick.

BUFFALO: Aye, still hanging in here, trying to weather the latest Arctic blast. The bloody wind's like "Mariah" today.

BIRD: Mariah Carey?

BUFFALO: No, more like Drew Carey. . . overdone and not very funny. Also it's colder than a witch's nips out there, or so I'm told by Osbee, who just phoned to find out if I'd invalidated my life insurance policy yet.

BIRD: Lordy, you're not thinking about taking Old Betsy out for a stroll in the woods again, are you?

BUFFALO: Oh, hell, no, Birdy. It's too frickin' cold. I'm waiting for better weather so I can accidentally drown meself in the lake, like.

BIRD: Why not drown your sorrows in a six pack of Hobgoblin Ale, instead?

BUFFALO: It's a pleasant thought, but as the song goes, "I tried drowning my sorrows, but my sorrows had learned how to swim."

BIRD: Blimey, that's diabolical. Speaking of which, how's Sparky's romance with Lilith going?

BUFFALO: Well, I assume, as you can't find a drop of K-Y around here to save your Freddy.

BIRD: So he's spending a lot of time at the Castavet's then?

BUFFALO: Yes, judging by all the howling, moaning, caterwauling and flute playing going on next door all night long.

BIRD: Suspicions confirmed then? It really is a coven?

BUFFALO: Fed-Ex has been delivering Belgian chocolates, naked female aristocrats and white horses day and night. The whole building's starting to sound and smell like a three ring Circus Maximus, complete with Roman candles, chariot races, and Christians on the bill of fare.

BIRD: And you still think the motive for all this is for Sparkers to impregnate Lilith with his demon seed?

BUFFALO: More like to have Sparky fertilize her demon egg with all the sploodge he's been saving up since the winter of '98.

BIRD: Good lard, with nary a venal sin or nocturnal emission in the interim?

BUFFALO: Not according to Sparky, who is terrified of contracting carpal tunnel syndrome.

BIRD: So, has he loosed this veritable tsunami on her yet?

BUFFALO: I doubt it, as I've heard no screaming yet. See, I've calculated that all that accumulated back pressure would rupture her eardrums and shoot her eyeballs out of her head like ping pong balls.

BIRD: Hors alors! Talk about "We Shall Overcome!"

BUFFALO: Would serve her right, too, for trying to corrupt an upright Christian lad like Sparkers just to bring another devil spawn into the world.

BIRD: Are there others, then, aside from B. L. Selbubb?

BUFFALO: Three that we know of, though only by their first names: Richard, Donald, and George. Minnie calls them "Huey, Dewey and Louie."

BIRD: You don't mean "The Three Amigos"?

BUFFALO: 'Fraid so, Birdy.

BIRD: Buff, you've got to rescue Sparky from that den of iniquity before it's too late! If he knocks up Lilith it could wreak havoc on the world!

BUFFALO: Really? How would you be able to tell? But seriously, I suppose you're right. I'll call the Health Department.

BIRD: To report devil worshippers?

BUFFALO: Naw, I'm gonna turn 'em in for running a stable without a license. Chances are they can slap a bestiality charge on 'em, too.

BIRD: Bwilliant!

BUFFALO: I do have my moments.

BIRD: But what about Sparkers? Will he be crushed, like, having to give up his Satanic lover?

BUFFALO: No problem. He's got an AA meeting tonight. I'll lace his barley water with a good stiff dose of Viagra, and swap his cologne for that stuff that's loaded with male pheromones. By the time he gets up to testify he'll be doing his famous imitation of the Battle of the Bulge. He'll have half a dozen drunken horny floozies dripping from his arms by the time he hits the parking lot.

BIRD: But what about the dreaded sploodge tsunami?

BUFFALO: Well, I figure they'll rip off his clothes immediately - he'll be full mast, of course - and they'll pounce on his Freddy, which will be on a hair trigger by then. It'll be like Chapter Eleven of "Moby Dick" - you know, "Thar she blows!" The girls will have a whale of a time. I should videotape it and sell the footage to the National Harpoon.

BIRD: Homeric, Buff. This is the stuff that sit-coms are made of.

BUFFALO: You're right. I could peddle this to the Fox Network.

BIRD: Call Fookwit Moloch!

BUFFALO: Perhaps later. I have to go wash the octopus now.

BIRD: Oh, dear. . . in arm's way again.

BUFFALO: Well, someone has to do it, and it's the maid's day off.

BIRD: Molly Maid?

BUFFALO: Molly Broom, honolable Bild-san.

BIRD: Ah, a dublin-entendre. . .yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. . . and always yes!

BUFFALO: Up the Republicans! Film at eleven.

T WITH LIPTON

BIRD: Buffmeister, are you decent?

BUFFALO: More or less. I'm up, robed, oatmealed, and slurping tea.

BIRD: Prince of Wales?

BUFFALO: No, alas, regular old Lipton, supplied by my new neighbor, Minnie Castavet, just moved here from North or South Dakota - she was a bit vague about that - keeps saying "The Dakota".

BIRD: Crikey, Buff, you don't think she's referencing John Lennon's old digs?

BUFFALO: Damn, I thought that tea had a chalky under-taste. . .

BIRD: Er, does she have any children?

BUFFALO: Yes, a son. Right ugly little tyke. He has some sort of 'orrible skin condition, all scaly like. Also, sounds as if he's incredibly clumsy.

BIRD: Oh, how so?

BUFFALO: Well, Minnie's constantly complaining that he has hooves for hands.

BIRD: What's the little tyke's name, then?

BUFFALO: B. L. Selbubb. They call him "Bub" for short.

BIRD: What's the "B. L" stand for?

BUFFALO: Babylon Lucifer, I think.

BIRD: Blimey. Do you ever hear chanting through the walls late at night?

BUFFALO: How would I know? I'm constantly bombarded by the bass beat from Rap and Hip-Hop, pretty much 24/7.

BIRD: Do you socialize much with the Castavets?

BUFFALO: Well, I don't. . . their apartment reeks of sulfur and I'm allergic to it. Sparky's been spending a lot of time there, though. Apparently they're trying to set him up with some exotic babe named Lilith.

BIRD: Good Lord, Buff, isn't she a Succubus from the Seventh Level of Hell?

BUFFALO: No, I think that's Ann Coulter.

BIRD: But they're related, aren't they?

BUFFALO: Well, you're probably right about that. They're both cloven-hooved and have snakes for hair.

BIRD: Rug and carpet both?

BUFFALO: Copperheads on top, asps on the fertile delta of denial.

BIRD: Talk about anguish in herba, eh?

BUFFALO: Too true. Sparky has to wear fang mail when he goes courting.

BIRD: Have you considered moving?

BUFFALO: Oh yes, but they've just offered to renew the lease again, at last year's rate, which was a considerable reduction over the previous year's rent.

BIRD: How did you manage that?

BUFFALO: By constantly bitching and moaning about my fookwit neighbors, who leave trash on the stairwells, roast goats over open fires in their living rooms, and sacrifice their first born to the god Quetezcoatal, judging by the bloodcurdling screams on nights of the full moon.

BIRD: You're got to get out there, Buff, before Sparky knocks up that Succubus. There'll be Hell to pay then. So, how's the weather?

BUFFALO: It's the blustery day here. I expect to see Winnie the Pooh fly by any minute, with a honey pot and sticky buns.

BIRD: Windy, is it?

BUFFALO: Aye, a cold blast of Arctic air funneled down from Canada, using giant wind tunnels. Since NAFTA we've been raping and pillaging the Canuck's natural resources, so they're giving us the cold shoulder, so to speak. I think the wind chill factor today is around forty below - Fahrenheit, that is. Cold enough to freeze Ann Coulter's nips off.

BIRD: Why not stay indoors all snug and warm watching "Girls Gone Wild" on the telly?

BUFFALO: Gotta rescue my granddaughters from latch key at 1PM - otherwise they're stuck there until 4:00 at the mercy of the horrible Helgas and Gretchens who force them to weave macramé key chains or play basketball until they drop.

BIRD: Sounds a bit Medieval.

BUFFALO: Aye. A good deal for me, though. I get to scope all the MILFs who've come for their Kinder. There's usually a plethora of them, which is good for the old ego as I am usually mistaken for Sasha and Samantha's father - and those MILFs do love to flirt with the sensitive types who rescue their Kinder from latch key, especially hotshot Hollywood screenwriters.

BIRD: You darty auld Buff.

BUFFALO: Hey, whatever blows their skirts up.

BIRD: And what do your grandchildren say about this?

BUFFALO: Oh, they cull out the good ones for me. "Gramps, check out the brunette in the cashmere sweater. You could do Romeo and Juliet on that balcony."

BIRD: That's despicable, like!

BUFFALO: Not at all, they're well-compensated. I always take them to the Frigid Queen afterwards for banana splits and sundaes. Speaking of which, it's time to steam clean the melon and suit up for the ordeal. Have to don Arctic gear for this run.

BIRD: Watch out for the Succubi.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf.

PAM-A-LAM, I KID THEE NOT

BUFFALO: Guten Morgan, mein Tweeter.

BIRD: Wotcha, Buff! So, how's it going today?

BUFFALO: Well, I managed to get out of bed - no easy task.

BIRD: Still nauseous and full of fear and loathing, are you?

BUFFALO: Yeah, pretty much, compounded by a horrible fookin' dream brought on no doubt by seeing a silly ass Frog Flic last night at the Silver Cinema.

BIRD: A French film? You? A Buffalo?

BUFFALO: Don't know what possessed me. It was "Arthur and the Invisibles". I was the only person in the theater. A bit eerie, that. Very strange animated film. So fast paced you'd swear you were on speed. I was friggin' exhausted when they ran the credits. Dreamed I was being eaten by thousands of tiny little crabs about the size of dimes. Woke up in a cold sweat, craving seafood.

BIRD: Any Freudian symbolism there, you think?

BUFFALO: Could be. Osbee's a Cancer, y'know. That might explain it. Or it could be a warning to stay away from Clare, lest I contract the old crabs, like.

BIRD: So, have you had your oatmeal yet?

BUFFALO: No, nor my tea, either. Polished off the orange juice, lest I get scurvy. Starting to feel like Nick Nolte in "Down and Out in Beverly Hills" - living off cans of discarded pate in alley ways, consorting with fickle canines.

BIRD: Any light at the end of the tunnel?

BUFFALO: A glimmer of light, but with my luck it's probably the 4:15 express to Grand Rapids.

BIRD: Still nauseous from the meds, then?

BUFFALO: Yeah. Came close to tossing my biscuits this morning.

BIRD: Getting any work done?

BUFFALO: Only drivel suitable for wrapping fish or lining bird cages.

BIRD: So what the Hail Mary are you going to do, me old fruit?

BUFFALO: I'd stick my gulliver in the Cusinart, but Sparky cobbled it trying to mix toe jam with Brazil nuts. He neglected to shell the nuts first, the silly sod.

BIRD: Do you have any plans for today?

BUFFALO: At the moment I'm just waiting for Pam to kick in.

BIRD: Pam?

BUFFALO: Lorazepam.

BIRD: Seeking tranquillity, are we?

BUFFALO: Yeah. With any luck I might be able to slip back into the old buffalo wallow for a bit, for a bit of a snooze, or to watch some depressing thing on the History Channel - another flaming documentary about Hitler or Moses or some damned thing. The history of chastity belts, or how candy bars are made - or toothpicks - or condoms - or nose hair tweezers - or pickles. . . witch rewinds me, do you know how to make pickle bread?

BIRD: Nope.

BUFFALO: You use dill dough. . . get it?

BIRD: Omigod!

BUFFALO: I either have to go steam clean the melon, shave, get dressed and go out, or make myself a toasted peanut butter and concord grape jam sandwich and a pot of tea and crawl back into bed to fry my brain with bad television all day, or until I fall asleep and dream of being eaten alive by rampaging ducks that have escaped from the laboratory.

BIRD: I vote for a walk at the beach and a matinee at the Hi-Ho Silver Cinema. Take a half-pint of Myer's Dark Rum with you, for lacing your Cherry Coke. A large bag of English Toffee would be nice, too.

BUFFALO: Not a half bad idea. Better than a poke up me derriere with a stick of dino-mite, or carving me initials on me jugular vein with a rusty razor blade.

BIRD: Infinitely better. Maybe you'll get lucky and sit next to a bosomy blonde waitress on her day off.

BUFFALO: A big blondie waitress. . . hmmm. . . yeah, that might get my head screwed back on tight.

BIRD: Don't forget to "tip" her.

BUFFALO: Oh, she'll get a tip all right. . . the tip of the auld blutwurst.

BIRD: Hold the mayo. . . so what's Sparker up to now?

BUFFALO: Steam cleaning toe jam off the walls. I told him everything had better be spic and span by the time I return from the movies or he gets the cattle prod, right up the old pie hole.

BIRD: Just desserts, eh?

BUFFALO: Right. Rewinds me, gotta get that toast going and put on the kettle.

BIRD: Hit the beach, Buff. The fresh air and sunshine will clear your muddy melon.

BUFFALO: It's worth a shot, I guess.

BIRD: Film at eleven?

BUFFALO: Arf, arf...

TOE JAMMIN' WITH SPARKY & THE CELEBS

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!

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!