MORE PROBLEMS WITH DA REAR THAN YOU CAN WAVE A STICK AT

Woke up this morning to find... a wrinkled bottom. Now how did THAT get there? So I googled it. And that's when I realised... there are a lot of people who let their arse go. Or is it ass? I'm never sure. Except I know I have one and I know it's wrinkled. And it wasn't the last time I looked. But one interesting fact I did pick up from an online message board - or is it forum? - is that it is a common complaint among nuns. And chief executives. Wrinkled bottom. Not even Wikipedia dares to include an entry but on present estimates 1.2 BILLION... let me say that again, 1.2 BILLION people worldwide suffer from it and the medical profession hasn't got a fecking clue where it comes from or what to do about it. Try all the creams you like. Consult your local plastic surgeon. See a faith healer even. Nothing but nothing works. And here's the worst thing about it. It gets worse. Yes. That's right. It doesn't stay a little wrinkled. It gets more and more wrinkled until you find your grandparents have pitched up on your derriere. Oh, shit, feck, foch even, you've just noticed you've got a wrinkled bottom too, right? Help! You say? OK, well, I don't know if this works, but I have devised a series of exercises to try to unwrinkle the butt based on old Sanskrit texts and ancient recipes for toejam brulee. Bear with me on this, I think we might have cracked it. Geddit? There's only five of them so even a cretinous single-celled swamp dweller - yeah, just like your next door neighbour - will be able to follow them and get some sort of relief.

1. Raise your left arm in the air, spread your legs as wide as they will go, then bounce up and down off a bed of approximately ten nails for a minute.

2. Attach a clothes line peg to each cheek, then attack one peg by using a strong piece of cord to the nearest locked door and pull hard for 3o seconds, and/or until you feel a burning sensation.

3. Rub your arse/ass/butt hard along the nearest cobbled surface for five minutes or until you feel faint and smell blood or pus.

4. Lower and raise your arse/ass/butt onto the side of a bath 5o times then grab the nearest hairbrush and scrape any residue or dead skin away and check on the results.

5. Get someone who's very special to you and will do literally anything for you without asking questions or worrying about medical bills to suck hard on each cheek for five minutes at a time every hour on the hour for seven days.

And if that doesn't work, try shoving a cigar up the crack and lighting it. Cigar smoke contains a chemical known in the hairdresser's profession as ZLT16 which is proven in laboratory tests to relax hair follicles and smooth out dermatological deluvial cavities. If blistering occurs, consult your doctor, lawyer, teacher, cleaner, butcher, baker, banker, dentist, economist, agent, priest, local bystander. Or better still, buy a dog.

OR... contact wrinkledbottomsputtothetest@weirdbuttdiseases.com

Arf, arf!

WHEN ORANGE JUICE JUST AIN'T ENUFF

I WOKE UP IN A COLD SWEAT. SOMETHING INSIDE ME WAS DYING.

I wrote that in a more lucid moment as I recalled the last bath I had. Baths are no longer in fashion.

I WROTE THAT AS I GAZED AT MY NAVEL WHILST WAITING FOR MY LUNCH TO GET NUKED IN THE MICROWAVE

But orange juice. Be it thick or thin. Or a smoothie even. It's never enough for a growing boy.

THERE'S AN ACHE IN MY HEART. THAT CERTAIN SOMETHING IS STILL DYING.

Now I wrote THAT this afternoon. And then only because the tulips downstairs popped their heads out to say hello.

DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY GERMS ARE OUT THERE MOUNTING ATTACKS ON THIS THING WE CALL A BODY?

Well, that's pretty obvious. I wrote that just now as I scratched another festering boil.

WHERE'S THIS ALL LEADING TO? GIMME SOME GAGS. DON'T FECK ME OFF WITH YOUR INNERMOST REFLECTIONS ON TIME PAST AND EXPERIENCE DISSECTED

OK, well, if you come across a man with a gay dog on cocaine, think yourself lucky.

WHAT THE FECK DOES THAT MEAN? IS IT SOME SORT OF CODE?

Just so, grasshopper. Funny too. If you think about it. If you really think about it. But if you really, really, really think about it you might go blind. Remember, it's not that everything is so far away now, it's that you're too close.

OH, I GET IT. WORDPLAY AGAIN. BUT TELL ME, WHAT IS THE TRUE MEANING OF VENETO?

Don't ask me, just book today, tasting is good. Which brings me to the title of this here muse. Orange juice. A life saver but bland, bland, bland. Boysenberry juice. Now you're talking. A wine moment. And now it's gone. Did you know that claret was the Brits' way of... Oh, never mind. See that? It just slipped through my fingers. Again.

WHAT ABOUT A LIST? PEOPLE LOVE LISTS. THE TOP FIVE THINGS TO DO WITH ORANGE JUICE WHEN YOU'RE NEKKID WITH SOME HOT TOTTY?

It slid down my throat. I don't know where it's gone. But it left behind a bad taste. Like melted polystyrene with horseshit mixed in. Did you know that I know a man who can eat a whole horse? Yep. I mean, not straightaway. You have to sit him down at noon and leave him for the rest of the day. But he won't eat the nostrils. He's funny that way. But honestly, what IS a national treasure?

OFUKKIT. I'M THRU. ENUFF ALREADY!

And I wrote that, well, yesterday actually, as the next door neighbour pleaded for more. One can only give so much of a stale loaf. Which rewinds me...

Stale loaf
Stale loaf
You're such an oaf
Stale loaf
So hard
Yet dry

PRESIDENT OBAMA'S MESSAGE TO THE B&B

LAST NITE, THE RIGHT VENERABLE PREZ BARRY OBAMA SENT A POISONAL MESSAGE TO DA BIRD & BUFF & ALL WHO SAIL IN DIS EAR BLOG. HE BROKE OFF FROM A HIGHLY IMPORTANT BREKKIE WID DA TONY BLAIR DUDE TO DELIVER THIS HEARTFELT TRIBUTE TO THE GREATEST COMEDY DOUBLE ACT TO NEVER BREAK WIND AFTER A TIN OF BUFFALO ROAD APPLES:

CITIZENS OF THE WORLD, CAN WE GIVE THE BIRD & BUFFALO THE RECOGNITION THEY TRULY DESERVE FOR EVERYTHING THEY HAVE DONE TO MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE TRULY APPRECIATE THE SACRIFICES THE BIRD & BUFFALO HAVE MADE AND CONTINUE TO MAKE IN THE SERVICES OF GLOBAL HUMOUR AND CONSENSUAL HUMILIATION? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE LOOK THEM BOTH HUMBLY IN THE EYE AND APOLOGISE FOR ALL OUR SHORTCOMINGS WHEN WE FAIL TO UNDERSTAND THE SUBTLE GENIUS OF THEIR GOLDEN UTTERANCES ON THE GREATEST BLOG THAT EVER LIVED? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE, AS NATIONS, REGIONS, CITIES, TOWNS, RURAL AREAS, RAMSHACKLE SHEDS AND INDIVIDUALS WORK TOGETHER WITH THE BIRD & BUFFALO, IN SPITE OF OUR DIFFERENCES, AND INFERIOR INTELLIGENCE, CHARISMA AND SEX APPEAL, TO ALLEVIATE THE SUFFERING OF THOSE WHO WOULD RATHER LAUGH AT OLD BOB HOPE JOKES THAN FACE THE FUTURE WITH EYES WIDE OPEN, LEGS APART AND JAWS WIRED TO METAL POSTS? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE OPEN OUR HEARTS, AND OUR WALLETS, AND DONATE OUR MORE FANCIFUL DAUGHTERS TO THE BIRD & BUFFALO FOR ALL THE GOOD THAT THEY HAVE DONE AND SHALL CONTINUE TO DO UNTIL THEY RUN OUT OF CASH OR ARE CAUGHT FOR PREVIOUS MISDEMEANOURS AND INDISCRETIONS IN FAR OFF LANDS THAT HAVE NO NAME BUT A DEEP THIRST FOR VENGEANCE AND BRUCE WILLIS FILMS WITH LOTS OF BLURWURST? YES, WE CAN.

CAN WE GIVE THE BIRD & BUFFALO JUST ABOUT ANYTHING THEY WANT WHEN THEY WANT IT AND HOW THEY WANT IT AND KEEP A STRAIGHT FACE WHILST ALL OTHERS ARE LOSING THEIRS? WELL... YES, WE CAN.

AND WHERE THE BIRD & BUFFALO ARE MET WITH CYNICISM AND DOUBT AND FEAR AND THOSE WHO TELL US THAT WE CAN'T, WE WILL RESPOND WITH THAT TIMELESS CREED THAT SUMS UP THE SPIRIT OF THE BIRD & BUFFALO'S AMAZING COMEDIC GIFT IN THREE SIMPLE WORDS: YES, WE CAN.

ARF, ARF!

WITTER TWITTER & BUFFALO APPLES

YOU MAY HAVE BEEN WONDERING WHERE WE'VE BEEN ALL THIS TIME. WELL, TO FESS UP, WE'VE BEEN ON DA TWITTER, LIKE. BUT FRANK LEE, WE'VE HAD ALL THE IN-UR-EN-DO A BIRD & BUFF CAN TAKE. "AND I THOUGHT DOGGING WAS TEACHING YER DOG NEW TRICKS!" AND ALL THAT BLA.

WELL, FECKS, WE MEAN FOLKS, WE'RE BACK, BLEANER THAN EVER. AND WE'VE GOT SUMFINK TO GET YER TEETH INTO... AT A PRICE.

BUFFALO APPLES IZ DA BEST, WITH ADDED INGRATIENTS FOR XTRA FIZZ WHILE YA WHIZZ.

FOR MORE INFERNO ON HOW TO ODOUR, CONTRACT US NOW:

birdandbuffalo@hotmail.com

BUFFALO APPLES - WHEN A STROLL AND A ROLL JUST AIN'T ENUFF!

COMING SOON... BUFFALO BING CHERRIES TO ADORN ANY SUMPTUOUS BALCONY!

ARF, ARF!

THE WHITECHAPEL CAPER - PART 1

DUE TO ARTISTIC INFERENCES AND OTHER ANIMALS, THE AULD BIRD & BUFF HAVE BEEN ON A HIATUS HERNIA BUT NOW WE'RE BACK WITH THE SHERLOCK HOLMES CASE CONAN DOYLE NEVER DARED TO PRINT.

WARNING: FOR ALL THOSE WITH NUT ALLERGIES, LOOK AWAY NOW

WATSON: Good Lord, Holmes, have you read the Times this morning? There’s been a grisly murder in Whitechapel. Apparently some blighter has carved up a strumpet like a prize hog.

HOLMES: What? It actually says that?

WATSON: Poetic licence, Holmes, but that’s the gist of it. Nasty business, that.

HOLMES: Indeed. No doubt we’ll we hearing from that imbecile Inspector Lestrade at any moment.

WATSON: Dunno, Holmes, says here that Lestrade’s practically solved the case already. He’s confident that it’s the work of a Jewish butcher.

HOLMES: Absurd. No self-respecting boucher of the Hebrew persuasion would do such a thing. It’s not Kosher.

WATSON: I’m inclined to agree, but Lestrade thinks the fellow is a lunatic. One of the victim’s kidneys is missing, and a bit of her left flank as well. The Yard thinks the fellow has done a Sweeney Todd on her, and dined on steak and kidney pie.

HOLMES: Bestir yourself, Watson, we’re off to the morgue.

WATSON: Good God, Holmes, must we? I haven’t finished my kipper.

HOLMES: Sod your kipper, Watters, it’s imperative that we view the body before Lestrade mucks about with the corpse and makes a mess of it.

WATSON: According to this, the killer’s beaten him to it. Says here there’s hamburger all over the alley behind Murcheson’s Dross House. Sounds as if she’s been gutted like a mackerel.

LATER, AT THE MORGUE, VIEWING THE MURDER VICTIM’S BODY

WATSON: Gad, Holmes, I’m after losing my breakfast.

HOLMES: Steady on, Watson. I need your cold objective eye at the moment. Am I mistaken or is this the work of a skilled surgeon and not a hacker of veal cutlets?

WATSON: Bless me, Holmes, but I believe you’re right. These incisions were made with great precision, and the stitching is nothing less than exquisite.

HOLMES: What do you make of this vertical incision, Watson?

WATSON: Eh? Oh, egad, Holmes, I do believe the blighter has nicked her womb!

HOLMES: Nicked it, my Aunt Fanny, Watson. The bounder has absconded with it!

WATSON: But why, Holmes? For what diabolical purpose?

HOLMES: There is insufficient evidence to support any conclusions as yet - but look here, Watson. Do you notice these curious initials on the autopsy report?

WATSON: Hmm. PM.

HOLMES: What do you make of it, Watters?

WATSON: Post Mortem, I would imagine, Holmes.

HOLMES: Or “Professor Moriarty”.

WATSON: Holmes, have you been at the Peruvian nose powder again?

HOLMES: I’m chagrined. Upon my honour, I haven’t touched the filthy stuff in a fortnight. Don’t you see it, Watson? Who BUT Moriarty could have committed such a heinous crime?

WATSON: Eh? Well, I don’t know, Holmes - Jack the Ripper?

HOLMES: Oh, sod the Ripper, Watson! The Ripper was a dunce compared to the evil genius who dissected this diseased harlot.

WATSON: Holmes, confidentially – the Ripper – is it true that he was actually the Duke of Clarence?

HOLMES: My lips are sealed, Watson. Out of respect for the sovereign I can say no more.

WATSON: The degenerate swine, I knew it!

HOLMES: What?! How dare you speak of the Queen in such a manner, you disgusting, flatulent old reprobate! I should thrash you to within an inch of your life!

WATSON: Eh, what? No, dammit, Holmes, not the QUEEN – the RIPPER, you horrible mutt sniffer! The Cocoa Powder has addled your brains again, man. Here, have a swig of this Laudanum to calm you down while I stuff your calabash with some of this loverly Afghan ganga.

HOLMES: Very well, Watson, but you’ll not dissuade me from my deduction that Moriarty is behind all this.

WATSON: Eh, behind all WHAT, Holmes?

HOLMES: The repetitious slaughter of all these bloody TARTS, of course! It HAS to be Moriarty, man – the Duke of Clarence is on holiday in Provence.

WATSON: Provence, you say? Odd, there’s been a series of gory mutilations in Provence the past few days. Oh, well, the French, y’know, a degenerate race.

HOLMES: True. Good God, Watson but this Laudanum is filthy-tasting offal. It’s like gargling with the liver bile of a goat.

WATSON: Eh? Oh, yes, quite. Here, rinse your palate with this Absinthe, Holmes.

HOLMES: Thanks, Watters.

HE DRINKS, CHOKES, SPITS.

HOLMES: Gawd, Watters, it’s as bitter as wormwood!

WATSON: Yes, that’s right, Holmes. A dreadful libation, properly served diluted with rain water and strained over a semi-melted cube of sugar. Damned near unpalatable otherwise. Killed that French artist bugger, what’s his name, the chap with the sawed-off legs.

HOLMES: Sawed-off legs? Did he by any chance consort with prostitutes?

WATSON: Holmes, I told you already, he was French, and an artist to boot. Need I say more?

HOLMES: Is there NO limit to Moriarty’s infamy? Now he’s mutilating French cripples, for God’s sake! We must stop him at all cost, Watson!

WATSON: Yes, of course, Holmes. Here, have some more Laudanum, there’s a good lad.

HOLMES: We need Toby, Watson. Go and fetch him at once and take him to Baker Street.

WATSON: But Holmes, surely you remember that Hudders has vowed to make geldings of us both if ever we bring Toby to our residence again.

HOLMES: Oh, sod Mrs. Hudson! Disguise the poor creature if you must, but bring him post haste. How else can we be expected to track that fiend Moriarty?

WATSON: Frankly, Holmes, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone that expects us to track Professor Moriarty. Besides, you know very well that Moriarty is a retired mathematics teacher who lives in a modest cottage in the Cotswolds.

HOLMES: Balderdash, Watson! That fiendish degenerate lives in an ostentatious townhouse on Charing Cross Road. But we won’t find him THERE. He’s gone to ground somewhere in Whitechapel, and soon he’ll be slaughtering strumpets by the barrowful. Where’s that ganga?

WATSON: Sorry, Holmes, here ‘tis.

HOLMES: Splendid, now go fetch Toby and meet me at Baker Street.

WATSON: But Holmes, what about Hudders? If you recall, the last time we attempted to smuggle poor Toby onto the premises, disguised as a libertine nun, she wasn’t fooled for a moment.

HOLMES: Oh, that’s easily fixed. While you’re out procuring Toby I’ll lace her filthy Jasmine tea with some of this Laudanum. By the time you return with our stalwart bloodhound she’ll be safely dreaming in Xanadu. Then you can have your way with her as usual.

WATSON: Good heavens, Holmes, I’m trying to digest my kipper!

HOLMES: Eh? Oh, quite, quite. Sorry, Watters. Well, perhaps Toby would like a go at her, eh, what?

WATSON: That’s quite enough ganga for you, Holmes.

TO BE CONTINUED...

BIRD & BUFFALO WIN NOBEL PRIZE FOR LITERATURE

IN AN UNPRECEDENTED MOVE BY THE PEOPLE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER WHEN IT COMES TO THE WRITTEN WURST...TURD, SORRY, WORD, THE NOBEL PRIZE FOR LITERATURE HAS ALMOST BEEN AWARDED TO THE BIRD & BUFFALO. HERE ARE THE REASONS WHY THE JUDGES CHANGED THEIR COLLECTIVE SPLIT MIND AT THE LAST MINUTE:

1. Judge Klaus Von Schtikiarschen had to declare a precarious connection to the auld Buff. Apparent Lee, he laid a certain Cindy Spreadumwider shortly after the auld Buff did. Buff's name was subsequently mentioned by the harlot to him as a possible future literary genius in a postcoital Scrabble game.

2. No-one with above average sized testicles has EVER been awarded this prize. The Bird & Buffalo BOTH have scientifically-verified larger than life balls.

3. The book submitted on behalf of the Bird & Buffalo by an anonymous admirer entitled FEK-U: THE COLLECTED WORKS OF BIRD & BUFFALO DURING THE SPLODGE WARS - 2001-PRESENT was considered to be so devoid of any real meaning - roughly 98.8888% blabbermouth trash and inventive obscenities - that it was deemed unfair to the other authors, who wrote 100% meaningful prose, and nay, a travesty of all the core values and underlying principles behind the Nobel Movement.

4. The judges didn't like the cover.

5. The one and only copy of the aforementioned book had to be shared by the judges and being badly bound was all but physically unreadable once it had been retrieved from the outside toilet in Budapest by the anonymous admirer.

6. It was getting late and Singalong-A-Beethoven was on TV.

7. The Prime Minister of Bouvet Island was insulted no less than five times, and I quote: "He is wanton." "That wanton man." "Wanton is he!" "Oh, so - wanton." "Wanton? He. Is?"

8. The aforementioned authors can't add up.

9. Persistent fart jokes about Sherlock Holmes are not funny.

10. We are all going to die.

SO WE SAY F-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-X!

SARAH PALIN IN TEN SECONDS

Today, we turn our quandaries to Sarah Palin. Yes, mons amiss, it is time to get poetical.

SARAH PALIN is hot BUT...

she is not...

worthy.

The auld Buff devoted a poem to this very subject but ten seconds ago.

It's called

SARAH PALIN IN TEN SECONDS
O
Sarah
In ten seconds
No
Make that five
No
Two
No
One
Be gone
Diaphoretic
Strumpet

OF PROBITY AND UDDER BLUNDERS

BUFFALO: The udder day, my head doc Maxine said, "You know, Buff, I'm not sure who's probing who here any more." So I said... "Shouldn't that be whom." A cheap shot, I know, but hey, it's not every day Maxine probes so deep. Oooh la la.

THE CRUSTYCOK SCANDAL AND OTHER FLAKERIES

BIRD: Dude, you'll have to say something sooner or later.

BUFFALO: What's the point?

BIRD: So Hollywoody nicked your idea. Get over it.

BUFFALO: But instead of my name in big lights it'll be Norman Crustykok. It took me 30 years to come up with that gem. And they stole it, dude. Ripped me off as if I was a log chopper at Stuckey's. Fookin' fookers.

BIRD: But it was hardly an original idea, wazzit? I mean, a film within a film within an ice cream. It's been done before, innit.

BUFFALO: You mean, Fellini?

BIRD: Nah, Crinkletit. Back in the '50s.

BUFFALO: Yeah. The Flying Cone From Rectal Levity. Starring Charles Batty. It was never released, remember?

BIRD: Maybe not, but it was reworked and remade as The Way We Were.

BUFFALO: That's bullshit and you know it. For a start, where was the ice cream?

BIRD: As a metaphor, it didn't cut it, so they cut it.

BUFFALO: And where was Big Tim Dangling, the guy who couldn't go to the bank without pissing his pants?

BIRD: He was a minor character and the producers instructed the writers that there must be no bodily functions in the final script. Robert Redford and Barbra Streisand don't do toilets.

BUFFALO: Poisonally, I'd like to see Babs do her stuff in the bathroom, but that's just me. And anyhoo, what about the central premise of the plot which involved a spaceship depositing the rectal object on an unsuspecting water hog in North Carolina?

BIRD: OK, OK. They were making the film at a time when the water hog, and for that matter North Carolina were protected. They had to improvise.

BUFFALO: And there was no writer or political activist in the original. They were store workers. Women. Lesbians. No less.

BIRD: Maybe, but you must admit the original WAS a love story.

BUFFALO: It was not. It was about the exploitation of Mongolian migrant workers in the wine industry in the Napa Valley.

BIRD: Oh, come on. Nobody had even heard of the Napa Valley then. Or of Mongolian migrant workers.

BUFFALO: Well, they've heard of the Napa Valley now. And as for the Mongolian migrant workers... they were all shafted, dude. Disappeared overnight in August '50 after they asked for blankets to sleep in. How the United Nations left them to their plight is a sin!

BIRD: Dude, are we talking about the same film?

BUFFALO: How the hell do I know? I've seen so many and written so many I have no idea what is and isn't a film. But I know they stole my idea.

BIRD: Which was for a modern romance based on the story of Albert Einstein and Charles Dickens.

BUFFALO: Genius, don't you think?

BIRD: Both heterosexual, from different continents, and because Charlie pops his clogs in 1870 and Albie was born in 1879, were destined never to meet.

BUFFALO: That's where the spaceship comes in, dude.

BIRD: Ohforfukksake, Buff, you know it was a ripoff of Dynasty.

BUFFALO: Dude, I've got one word for you - Rosebud.

BIRD: Don't go there, dude. Just don't. Don't drag Orson Welles into this. He has nothing to do with the Hollywood swindle.

BUFFALO: Dude, he was the one who made it possible to introduce fantastical elements into a linear narrative. He opened it wide open. Without him, there'd be no Lynch. Or Buttmuncher.

BIRD: How dare you mention Buttmuncher's name in the same line as Lynch! Have you no shame?

BUFFALO: Buttmuncher's underrated. Everybody knows it.

BIRD: Not just underrated. Unheard of.

BUFFALO: He's a genius.

BIRD: Who never made a film and ended up in a high-security facility for nutjobs.

BUFFALO: He had his flaws. But we all do. That's no reason to bang him up for the rest of his life.

BIRD: Dude, when they caught him he was about to demolish his father's house with his father in it.

BUFFALO: They had a disagreement. Don't all families? All he wanted was an apology.

BIRD: Yeah, in his dad's blood. Why don't you write a screenplay about him? Nobody would steal that.

BUFFALO: Nah, fuggit. I ain't writing no more screenplays. I'm thru with all that pseudo mutilation. I've got myself some wood and I'm gonna use it.

BIRD: Eh?

BUFFALO: Well, OK, it's a plank. But it'll do the trick.

BIRD: What the hell are you going to do with a plank of wood?

BUFFALO: It's got Buzz Hathawaynutz's name on it - the fookwad in Tinsel Town who robbed me of my rightful heritage. I'm going teach him a lesson.

BIRD: Oh, for Freddy's sake, violence is not the answer.

BUFFALO: You're right, cos I ain't asking any questions. And neither is he once he gets a head full of finest North American oak.

BIRD: They'll lock you up, dude.

BUFFALO: Whatever.

BIRD: You'll never see your family or loved ones again.

BUFFALO: Let's hope, huh?

BIRD: It'll be the end of the blog too, dude.

BUFFALO: Really? You mean no more you and me?

BIRD: That's right.

BUFFALO: Seems like a high price to pay, donnit?

BIRD: Sure is.

BUFFALO: Sorry, Birdy. Gotta stick up for my principles. Buzz Hathawaynutz is going daaahhhhn! So long, Birdman, pray for my mammary.

BIRD: Bye, then.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

BIRD: Oh, and don't forget to check out the latest issue of Insolent Rudder. It's a corker. You can find it here:
http://www.insolentrudder.net/fall2008_home.html

A BLOG WITHIN A BLOG, OR IZZIT THE?

BIRD: Dude, I've got an idea for a blog within a blog.

BUFFALO: I'm all ears.

BIRD: It's about this poor fookwad who's got bipolar disorder, sleep apnea and narcolepsy, right? He's coming off two weeks of Horrormania and is as depressed and suicidal as dried shit on a potting stick. You know, seriously fugged up, like.

BUFFALO: Hold the jiminy, Roger. I've got all those things, innit?

BIRD: Blimey, so you have! But this guy is a fictional character.

BUFFALO: But I know this guy. Fook, I AM this guy. I should write his dialogue. Lemme write his dialogue. I'll portray him in the film too. But only online. Those movie fuggsters are way too fond of early starts.

BIRD: Wizard. It'll be authentic, like, woenit?

BUFFALO: Fook the Casbah, Nigel. Now, what we've gotta decide is, does this poor shitfook loosely based on this here poor shitfook dribbling here before you live or die?

BIRD: Well, he can live till he dies, like. Long as you're still breathing, the dialogue'll be flowing like cat piss in a dog fight, innit. You can't make up shit like that. I mean, you're crazier than a shit-house rat, right?

BUFFALO: I sure am. Off the scale. A lost fruit and nut. TOTALLY screwed in all orifices, off the record, like. So we'll make him a regular character. Hey, wait, does he get shagged or not?

BIRD: Possibly.

BUFFALO: I think he should get shagged.

BIRD: Yeah, well, you would, wouldn't you?

BUFFALO: A lot. Till his brains splatter on life's sullied sidewalk.

BIRD: Harelip! Harelip!

BUFFALO: Get us another coupla pints, willya?

BIRD: Toppo idea, Buff. Now, this wacko has a buddy, right?

BUFFALO: Right.

BIRD: A very clever buddy who through the power of superior intellect and all manner of trickery and chemical concoctions gradually brings this guy back from the brink into what unwittingly turns out to be something much worse.

BUFFALO: I see. But what could possibly be worse?

BIRD: Ah, now that's where the dancing Rottweilers and lyrical rabbits trapped in the theatre of the Ab-Turd come in.

BUFFALO: The what?

BIRD: But is it real or in his head?

BUFFALO: Dude, I can't write dialogue for that. I don't know nobody who's got a dancing Rottweiler or a lyrical rabbit.

BIRD: Dude, the Theatre of the Ab-Turd is a metaphor.

BUFFALO: A metaphor for wot?

BIRD: Dunno yet. We'll think of something. Anyway, this nutjob gets treated by the genius guy who despite his best efforts can't save him.

BUFFALO: You mean, the loon snuffs himself?

BIRD: Yeah. Or does he?

BUFFALO: And that's it, is it, the idea in full elaboratory splendour?

BIRD: Reassuringly simple yet empirically elusive, doncha think?

BUFFALO: It's not without intrigue and confusion, I'll give ya that. OK, let's try it. When do we start?

BIRD: We already have.

BUFFALO: Huh?

BIRD: See those dancing Rottweilers?

BUFFALO: And the lyrical rabbits... behind the red curtain. Omifook. It really has started. But when's it going to end?

BIRD: When the dialogue runs out, dude. I already told you.

BUFFALO: If only Audrey Horne were here...

BIRD: Oh, but she is.

BUFFALO: Audrey?!

BIRD: Behind the red curtain. Blog da blog at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

IFFY - INLAND EMPIRE REVISITED

Computer. Monitor. Satellite receiver. Desk. Microphone. TV. Lights. Tape. Handle. Paper. Remote control. Bin. Plastic cup. Speaker. Headphones. Chair. Jacket. Bag. Pen. Clock. Poster. Thermostat. Coat hanger. Mouse. Carpet. Blinds. Grille. Cable. Book. Memory stick. Door. Iffy.

THE END OF THE NITE SHIFT... ISH

BIRD: Got my sleeping bag and the whisky and the spliffs. I’ll claim back the expenses, natch. I was gonna raid the cookie jar over by booth 21 but all the best biccies have gone. Bloody editorial! Greedy buggers. Bunch of shite buckets. For some reason, they leave the ginger biscuits behind, even though ginger is supposed to stop you having heart attacks. Fookin’ racists. When I look at a ginger biscuit, I see a thing of beauty. When they look at it, all they see is something that's the WRONG colour. Bastids. How soon can I escape? Well, my pal says I can go now… ish. Wonder what’s going on at the Olympics. Team GB’s doing OK but ladies fooked up the archery and the men fooked up too. Felt doozy just now. As if I’d sniffed the dishwasher. Which of course I wouldn’t, cos she’s too nice to be subjected to such inhumanity. But spanking’s not out of bounds. At a price. Stuff this. I’m outta here. Ish.

RAZOR BLADDER

BUFFALO: Muddily bloodily indomitably irrevocably presumably imperceptibly exponentially existentially verily merrily quite contrarily incredibly sparingly artificially incomprehensibly intoxicatingly lonely and...

When the senator known as Barack
Gave a speech from the back of a yak
Though try as he might
The yak was so tight
That his speech came out yakkity-yak.

BIRD: Dude, you need to get laid.

BUFFALO: The Lonely Adverb... does anyone REALLY care?

BIRD: Is that the Michigan Laffing Academy? Yeah, you need to get an ambulance to the auld Buff's place quick. The adverbs are flowing and he hasn't got a stick.

BUFFALO: Arf-ily, barf-ily, carf-ily, diddly, dee, ly.

BIRD: Hang on, Buffters. They're coming.

BUFFALO: Lone-ily. SO lone-ily. Piddle me biddle ly. Eeee. See that asparagus. It's stalking me!

BIRD: Rimshot! But is it too late?

MICHIGAN LAFFING ACADEMY

BIRD: Dude, I hear they've closed the Michigan Laffing Academy. We could erect it in here, innit.

BUFFALO: Nein, mein Klockenspilengrossengrupenfuhrer. Der Laffing Academy ist Kaput, capice?

BIRD: Al zo... Ja, ist sehr geshitten zu offen, like.

BUFFALO: In der Toileten, liken ein Vogel scheissen.

BIRD: Mit der grosse fudgepacken gewipen nichts.

BUFFALO: Ja, ja, das is sehr gut, mein kleine schickelgrubber. Der Laffen Academie oder den Michigan Scheissehausen ist sticken up der arschen mit der weinerschnitzel und der roladen, mit der dillpicklen und der mustard, upen in den grossenintestin ver der solarligthen ist nicts zo gershinen.

BIRD: Film bei elf stunde.

BUFFALO: Arfe, arfe!

LONG LOST RELLY

BUFFALO: Dude, I woke up this mawnin' and found this fooker at the bottom of my bed. I'm askin' ya, IS IT A SIGN?

ZAFTIG CARLOTTA

FIFI: It's called Zaftig Carlotta.

A zaftig young singer, Carlotta
Excelled when she sang a cantata
Once felled by the flu
She knew what to do
And used her vagina dentata.

BIRD & BUFFALO: Mah-vellous!

MEET ME LITTER RARE E AGENT - MR I CHING

BIRD: Strap yourself in, dude, and listen in to me chewin' da breeze wid mah homey litter rare E agent, like.

BUFFALO: Dude, wot the fook are you talking about?!

BIRD: You, me, the universe and uddery. We got an agent, innit. After all these years of obscurantory.

BUFFALO: Woo-hoo! Nice! What'shisname?

BIRD: Mr I Ching. Dunno wot the I stands for, but dude, we're in! Pour yerself a strong one, lean back and listen to the chat we had but one hour ago.

BUFFALO: Cracking open a bottle of Muscatel as I lower myself into the recliner...

BIRD: Here goes!

Um, er, is that Mr Ching?

I CHING: Ask I Ching.

BIRD: Mr I Ching. Excellent. I've been trying to reach you for some time.

I CHING: Perseverance furthers.

BIRD: Sure does. Da auld Buff and I have been looking for an agent to publish our book, Tails From The Bird And Buffalo: The Walrus Years, like.

I CHING: If someone is not as he should be, He has misfortune, And it does not further him, To undertake anything.

BIRD: Well, yeah, I used to think that but now I've finally got through to you, hopefully, all that is about to change.

I CHING: Under heaven thunder rolls, All things attain the natural state of innocence.

BIRD: My thoughts entirely. So you're happy to represent us?

I CHING: The great departs; the small approaches.

BIRD: Absolutely. I can't tell you how excited we are about this.

I CHING: The superior man falls back upon his inner worth, In order to escape the difficulties.

BIRD: Oh, wow! Hey, could you hang on? I need to grab a pen. Just to jot down the basic elements of the contract, like.

I CHING: He does not permit himself to be honoured with revenue.

BIRD: Yes, well... So you think you can place our book?

I CHING: The superior man keeps the inferior man at a distance, Not angrily but with reserve.

BIRD: A-ha. So how long do we have to wait before we hear something?

I CHING: In the midst of the greatest obstructions, Friends come.

BIRD: So, what are we talking, a few weeks?

I CHING: Joy comes softly, It furthers one to make offerings and libations.

BIRD: Brill! So I'll be waiting for your call. An email even.

I CHING: The light has sunk into the earth, The image of Darkening of the Light, He veils his light, yet still shines.

BIRD: Right O! It's been a pleasure talking to you, Mr Ching. Um, just curious. What does the I stand for?

I CHING: The Clinging, The Arousing.

BIRD: I see. Waiting for your call.

I CHING: Above the arousing, Below the Abysmal.

BIRD: Bye then.

I CHING: Oppression. Success. Perseverance.

BIRD: Right back at ya!

*****

BUFFALO: Wow! This I Ching dude is well cool. Well done, Birdy. You have done well.

BIRD: Tanks, Buff. Onwards and upwards.

BUFFALO: Success on a plate.

BIRD: Gotta run. The Orifice beckons.

BUFFALO: Watch out for low flying.

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

THE MISSING P-COCK

BUFFALO: Dude.

BIRD: Yes, dude?

BUFFALO: I've lost the fookin' peacock!

BIRD: Eh?

BUFFALO: The one we were gonna use for the pilot episode. Zip. Ka-kronken-ho! Vanished.

BIRD: Dude, you can't just lose a peacock without a trace. Try and think. When did you see it last?

BUFFALO: Well, I gave it a shower, like, after a hearty meal of Spam and sardines and a fossilized mouse I found behind the cupboard in Sparky's room, all washed down with a Bud, you understand.

BIRD: OK. Then what?

BUFFALO: Then I kicked that jerk-berk Sparky out of his room and put Ms Paycock to bed, tucked her in, an' all.

BIRD: A-ha. And in the morning?

BUFFALO: Da peacock was gone.

BIRD: Have you checked the balcony?

BUFFALO: Yep.

BIRD: The kiddies' playground?

BUFFALO: Yah-p.

BIRD: The shooting range.

BUFFALO: O fahhhh-k. The shooting range. Those guys, the ones with the fahhhh-k off Uzis... They like to take pot shots at things and animals... And in her burst for freedom... Wot time is it? There may still be hope. Pray for me birdy, Birdy!

BIRD: Crossing everything that doesn't snap here, dude!

SOME TIME LATER...

BUFFALO: Birdy, it's OK.

BIRD: Thank Gosh!

BUFFALO: Ms Paycock ain't at the shooting range. All I found were a coupla stray hogs and a trunk with a dozen dead parakeet in and a ransom note.

BIRD: Phew!

BUFFALO: But the range was sans peacock. Now wot?

BIRD: Gotta phone the cocks... I mean cops.

BUFFALO: Yeah, right. No, wait. It's just recurred to me that Sparky may have mistaken it for an ostrich, what with his lumbago an' all.

BIRD: An ostrich? Nice, lean meat. Very nutritious!

BUFFALO: I wondered what that was roasting on the spit while I was stirring me porridge. The stoopid bat-twat. The waxwork shagger's fookin' munched our peacock, dude.

BIRD: Omigosh! Fukkit! Where are we gonna get another peacock in time for the shoot this afternoon?

BUFFALO: I'm gonna kick that bastid's ass so hard, he'll wish he was born a nun.

BIRD: We're fooked. Finished before we started.

BUFFALO: No, no, no, no. Wait. For 50 clams we can have the perfect peacock that never was. If Sparky can mistake a peacock for an ostrich...

BIRD: Brillo, dude.

BUFFALO: And with a little make-up... We're gonna do this, dude. Nothing's gonna stop us now. Woo-hoo! Buff does it again.

BIRD: Great. Once you swish open that red curtain and...

BUFFALO: Red curtain...

BIRD: You have got the red curtain?

BUFFALO: Not egg sack Lee. Cindy's still working on it.

BIRD: Oh, for Freddy's sake. The best laid lambs an' all.

BUFFALO: Fukkit, dude. We'll go cgi. Nobody'll know. It's all cgi these days. Even the actors. I've got Photoshop and Adobe and shit, MS Word even. I'll do the whole thing on my laptop.

BIRD: Brilliant! Dude, you're a genius! Let's run thru the script one more time and then hit those pixels!

BUFFALO: Hmm. The script...

BIRD: You did save it?

BUFFALO: I er... it's nearly there, Birdy. I mean, it's so close I can lick it.

BIRD: How close?

BUFFALO: VERY close. Just needs tweaking.

BIRD: Out of a 30-minute pilot, how many minutes would you say are missing?

BUFFALO: Um... well... uh...

BIRD: How many?

BUFFALO: About 29.

BIRD: Ofukkit!

BUFFALO: But we can improvise. Some of the best comedy is improvised, innit. Look at Curb Your Enthusiasm. It's all spontaneous. It's great stuff. We can do this, dude. Just keep the faith.

BIRD: Dude, I'm going back to the Bore Fest now, the Orifice that must be obeyed, the place where I will eke out the rest of my days because you decided to fookup the only real chance we ever had of stardom. Thanks, dude. It was mammorable.

BUFFALO: Dude... Dude? You don't understand. Dude? So that's it. The only true friend I ever had. The one guy who stood by me no matter what. I haven't felt this bad since I had a "venous Doppler scan" done of my "lower extremities" including my Freddy. I'll talk him round. I know I will. Tomorrow's another day, right? Arf, arf!

TO BE CONTINUED...

BIRD:

COMING SOON: B&B THE SITCOM

I was at the Bore Fest doing captions for "Juno and the Paycock" when I suddenly became aware that I was surrounded by red curtains -just like in the Black Lodge from "Twin Peaks". It hit me then that I had stumbled into the auld Buff's dream in which he fancied himself to be Special Agent Dale Cooper, having breakfast with Audrey Horne at the Great Northern. This wigged me out a bit. I tried to shake off the feeling of impending doom but then I began to get rather peggish. I had a sudden craving for a bucket of hot black coffee and a cherry pie and sent the gopher out to fetch them.

About an hour later as I was finishing off the pie, Caroline (our receptionist and office tart) buzzed me. She was all in a dither about some cheeky bloke who'd wandered into the lobby and made a pass at her after introducing himself as my uncle from America - Professor Splendor G. Mainwaring. This was a bit odd seeing as how I don't have a fookin' uncle in America, so I asked her to describe the fellow and then realized that the mystery man could be no other than the auld Buff himself, who'd been threatening for months to cross the pond and drop in on me in London when I least expected it.

The auld lunatic told Caroline that I should meet him after work at the Hound & Hare, just around the corner from the Bore Fest. Caroline asked if she could come along, as she seemed to fancy the Buff, proving once again that there is no accounting for taste.

At the stroke of five Caroline and I made our way to the pub, she as happy as a lark - but myself dreading that the Buff might try to ram his great woolly, horned head up Caroline's skirt. Thus did I prepare myself for the wurst... or the blutwurst, if you get m'drift.


AND DON'T FORGET DA RUDDER UNLIKE NO UDDER AT...

http://www.insolentrudder.net/

MORE THRUST INSOLENT RUDDER, SCOTTIE!

BUFFALO: So tell me again, dude, why should I read Insolent Rudder at http://www.insolentrudder.net/?

BIRD: Cos it's jam packed with lots of goodies.

BUFFALO: Oh, yeah? Like wot?

BIRD: The Body Psalms Promo for a start. Made by the janitor.

BUFFALO: Wow. What happened to the editor, like?

BIRD: He is the editor.

BUFFALO: Shucks. And he's gotta clean up afterwards too?

BIRD: Feeds 'em too.

BUFFALO: Must be a Nordic ting. And wot else?

BIRD: Stories by Nonnie Augustine, Sydnee Elliot, Susan Elmendorf, GC Smith, Craig Terlson, Foster Trecost and Donna Vitucci. All at http://www.insolentrudder.net/

BUFFALO: Salivating loudly here, dude.

BIRD: Rightfully so. These guys is premier league. Wanna hear about the rest?

BUFFALO: There's more?

BIRD: You betcha. There's that crazy Pube Maxim Ripyorebollokov trying to get reverb before the lights go out.

BUFFALO: Oh, I like him. He's well wacko.

BIRD: And some great cartoons by Marja Hagborg. And she's written a column too about NNS.

BUFFALO: Woo-hoo to dat! NNS, wot's dat?

BIRD: Non Native Speakers.

BUFFALO: Nice!

BIRD: And...

BUFFALO: More? No way!

BIRD: Way! There's a novel excerpt from Bonnie ZoBell's excellent Blue Jay. And a review of Liesl Jobson's 100 Papers. And check out Beth Thomas in the Author Spotlight.

BUFFALO: Omigod! I can't take much more. My ickle heart's about to burst! And it's all at Insolent Rudder, you say, at http://www.insolentrudder.net/?

BIRD: That's right, dude.

BUFFALO: Checking it out right now!

BIRD: You'd be a fool not to.

BUFFALO: Hey, dude.

BIRD: Yes, dude?

BUFFALO: How come I'm not there?

BIRD: You will be, dude. But ya gotta write something first, innit.

BUFFALO: OK. So that's Insolent Rudder.

BIRD: At http://www.insolentrudder.net/. Yep.

BUFFALO: Reading it as we speak. Omigod! I think I've just soiled myself.

BIRD: Insolent Rudder. The Write Choice. Don't Judder Da Rudder.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!