Pleased with what he's written, finishing his screenplay at 3 AM, having not slept for two days, Ned clicks on PRINT, but nothing happens. He sees the red LED on the printer blinking. He reaches for the RESET button, but instead knocks over a cup of coffee that spreads rapidly under the paper tray.
Ned leaps out of his chair, grabbing a wad of Puffs to soak up the coffee, but in doing so knocks over a water bottle that spills onto a stack of manuscripts lying on the floor, that were destined for the post office. He realizes that now he will miss all the deadlines for the screenplay competitions, as he's almost out of paper and Staples doesn't open for another 7 hours.
Cursing, he starts sopping up the coffee spill, splashing coffee onto the paper in the printer tray. Cursing vehemently now, he flings the coffee-soaked wad of tissues against the wall, ruining a brand-new calendar.
The coffee spill has now spread all the way under the printer. Fearing electrocution, Ned unplugs the printer, which causes his computer to crash. He realizes that he hasn't saved his work in over six hours.
"Sonofamotherfookingpissant!" he roars, kicking the trash can, which falls over, spilling its contents. In the beer-soaked trash, he sees an overdue bill and hones in on the words "A $35 fee will be charged for late payments." Ned realizes he's forgotten to pay his mother's electric bill.
"Shitpissfook****hoor!!" he screams, slamming his fist into the door, awakening his roommate who is recovering from a double hernia operation. Startled, the invalid falls out of bed, dislodging his catheter. He screams in agony, scaring the shit out of Ned, who is busy hopping from the pain of the now bleeding knuckles on his right hand.
Meanwhile, the coffee has flowed over the edge of Ned's worktable, spilling onto a power-strip, short-circuiting it. All the lights go out. Mindful of his roommate's continued screams, Ned rushes to his aid, in the dark, and trips over a bowling ball lying in the hallway.
Ned falls on his face, the bowling ball smacking him in the groin, causing him to go cross-eyed with pain as he gasps for air. At that moment, his telephone rings.
Ned drags himself to his feet, reeling with pain, disoriented in the dark. He stubs his toe on the bowling ball.
"Syphylliticafterbirthofagonarrheariddenhoorcow!!!" he screams. Furious, he kicks the bowling ball, breaking three toes, falling to the floor, with pain so intense he vomits all over himself.
Again dragging himself to his feet, Ned slips in his own vomit and falls on his back, on top of the bowling ball, fracturing three vetebrae. Adrenalin kicks in.
Ned leaps to his feet, grabs the phone, shouts "WHAT DA FOOK DO YOU WANT??" and hears his aged mother on the line, wheezing... "I... I... just wanted to know if your power is out, dear... ours is out here."
Ned rips the telephone from the wall and hurls it out the window. It falls on Mr. Kinderman, his 72 year old neighbor, who is out walking his dog, an asthmatic Cockapoodle named "Farley". Kinderman is knocked unconcious and falls into a cactus bed. Farley rushes to his aid, lapping Kinderman's bleeding scalp, the end result of being smacked in the head by Ned's telephone, and being impaled by a Barrel cactus.
Oblivious to the mayhem he has caused, Ned gropes around in the dark for a flashlight. He finds one, but the batteries are dead.
"Fook me," he murmurs, groping in the dark for a wall, to steady himself.
In the adjoining bedroom, his Indian roommate, Rigveda, is moaning in agony. His bloody cathether has leaked urine all over the carpet. The smell of vomit makes him nauseous. He upchucks on the carpet.
Outside, a burglar has found the unconscious Mr. Kinderman lying in the cactus bed. He ransacks Kinderman's pockets and steals his wallet. Finding Kinderman's cellphone, he calls 911 to summon the paramedics before fleeing the scene. Feeling sorry for poor Farley, he reaches down to pat him. Farley bites him.
Furious, the burglar flings Farley through Ned's open bedroom window. The yelping dog scares the bejesus out of Ned, who imagines that he's being attacked by a rabid wolverine. He freezes like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights.
The lights come back on. Ned sees Farley lapping up a puddle of vomit, which causes him to throw up again. Farley seems to think this is for his benefit and wags his tail in appreciation.
Ned hears something behind him. He turns and sees Rigveda crawling toward him, his face contorted with pain, his torso soaked in blood, reeking of vomit and urine.
Ned suffers a brain embolism and keels over, dead. Farley licks his face in sympathy. The power goes off again.
Film at eleven!
AND DON'T FURRGET TO BUY DA BOOK:
SHORT POETRY IN BRIEF
A Propinquitous Retrospective Vision Of The Octopiddles Expired
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
short poetry in brief... all hail the Octopiddles!
Er, buy this book on Kindle or the puppy gets it. REALLY gets it, geddit!
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
LESS AND MORE AND MORE
BUFFALO WROTE BUT DA UDDER DAY...
I like myself LESS, I like you LESS, I like this world LESS, I like drinking LESS, I like comments LESS, I like Obama LESS, I like legs LESS, I like wood LESS, I like pies LESS, I like ochre LESS, I like strangers LESS, I like cupcakes LESS, I like thinking LESS, I like Eliot LESS, I like Danton LESS, I like sincerity LESS, I like desire LESS, I like longing LESS, I like belonging LESS, I like compromise LESS, I like letters LESS, I like copies LESS, I like deadlines LESS, I like confessions LESS, I like confusion LESS, I like memories LESS, I like contact LESS, I like the truth LESS, I like the sky LESS, I like onions LESS, I like esteem LESS, I like values LESS, I like deals LESS, I like wisdom LESS, I like opinions LESS, I like moderation LESS, I like success LESS, I like mystery LESS, I like praise LESS, I like cars LESS, I like toys LESS, I like chaos LESS, I like feelings LESS, I like drains LESS, I like endings LESS, I like space LESS, I like sound LESS, I like contemplation LESS, but what I DO like is KISSING MORE and MORE in the MOST UNLIKELY PLACES.
Arf, arf!
Bird wrote "Read Middlemarch, ya jerk-berk! Nuff said!"
I like myself LESS, I like you LESS, I like this world LESS, I like drinking LESS, I like comments LESS, I like Obama LESS, I like legs LESS, I like wood LESS, I like pies LESS, I like ochre LESS, I like strangers LESS, I like cupcakes LESS, I like thinking LESS, I like Eliot LESS, I like Danton LESS, I like sincerity LESS, I like desire LESS, I like longing LESS, I like belonging LESS, I like compromise LESS, I like letters LESS, I like copies LESS, I like deadlines LESS, I like confessions LESS, I like confusion LESS, I like memories LESS, I like contact LESS, I like the truth LESS, I like the sky LESS, I like onions LESS, I like esteem LESS, I like values LESS, I like deals LESS, I like wisdom LESS, I like opinions LESS, I like moderation LESS, I like success LESS, I like mystery LESS, I like praise LESS, I like cars LESS, I like toys LESS, I like chaos LESS, I like feelings LESS, I like drains LESS, I like endings LESS, I like space LESS, I like sound LESS, I like contemplation LESS, but what I DO like is KISSING MORE and MORE in the MOST UNLIKELY PLACES.
Arf, arf!
Bird wrote "Read Middlemarch, ya jerk-berk! Nuff said!"
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
SLIGHT SLUT
SLIGHT SLUT
I'm a slight slut
I wink my way
through life
When times are hard
and the weather's bad
I lift my skirt
and feel so good
it almost hurts
When the bow anchor
rides on through
I'm a slight slut
I go to bed
in my socks
Well... why not?
I'm a slight slut
I wink my way
through life
When times are hard
and the weather's bad
I lift my skirt
and feel so good
it almost hurts
When the bow anchor
rides on through
I'm a slight slut
I go to bed
in my socks
Well... why not?
Thursday, May 05, 2011
TALES OF THE ATOMIC AGE
Tales of the Atomic Age
by Buffters
In July of 1945, near Los Alamos, New Mexico, there existed a secret government research facility where the best minds in Physics had been assembled in order to beat Hitler to the punch, by engineering the first atomic bomb. On the morning of July 16th, the following incident occurred at this facility.
Neils Boorish, a young scientist, had been working all night at his drafting table to finish a design for a device that would be critical for the mass production of Uranium-238 and Plutonium. Just before dawn, he finally completed his drawing and rushed with it to his supervisor, Dr. Ricardo Frumenti, who was having a discussion with other physicists gathered around another drafting table. Dr. Boorish's excitement was palpable, and everyone was practically drooling in anticipation. The drawing was spread out on the table, and eager hands reached out to place heavy paperweights on the corners of the large drawing, to hold it in place.
"Gentlemen," Boorish said. "This is a preliminary design for a nuclear refracting facility that will enable us to increase our production of fissionable materials by, conservatively, a thousand percent." Neils had them at "Gentlemen."
But, Dr. Frumenti was not impressed with Boorish's drawing. He pointed at the drawing with his pipe and said, "Is this some kind of joke, Dr. Boorish?" The room went stony silent, as Frumenti ripped the drawing from the table and held it up to Boorish's face. The other scientists realized that something was terribly wrong.
"This is a drawing of a circle," Dr. Frumenti said. "Nothing more. Please explain yourself, Dr. Boorish."
Boorish, however, was not intimidated. "That is a drawing of a... cyclotron," Boorish said.
"A cyclotron?" Frumenti asked, his bushy eyebrows raised in disbelief, threatening to become airborne. "A cyclotron? Have you gone mad? This is a circle, pure and simple. Either that or a large zero. Yes, that is precisely what it is. . . a zero."
The other scientists, none of whom had ever liked Boorish, began shouting at him. Dr. Robert Kroppenheimer went so far as to tell Boorish that he was "a fooking idiot."
At this point, Frumenti placed Boorish's drawing back on the drafting table, spread it out, and rolled it into a cone shape. He then inserted the tip of the cone into a nearby pencil sharpener, and turning to Boorish, said "This is what I think of your stupid drawing, Boorish." Frumenti then began cranking the pencil sharpener, jamming the end of the paper cone into the sharpener with all his might, while his colleagues continued to heap abuse upon Boorish. The razor sharp jaws of the pencil sharpener ground Boorish's drawing into fine shavings.
At that moment, the facility was vaporized by the first nuclear explosion in recorded history. A giant mushroom cloud rose from the desert floor. It was visible in Las Vegas, over a hundred miles away. The explosion produced temperatures that exceeded the core temperature of our own Sun. The resulting heat and shock wave, bristling with radioactivity, spread out at supersonic speed in all directions, obliterating every living thing for a radius of five miles, leaving the desert floor contaminated with radioactivity for weeks to come, before it would be safe to approach the site of the blast.
To this day, that is what always happens whenever a critical mass is formed at a ground zero. Arf, arf!
by Buffters
In July of 1945, near Los Alamos, New Mexico, there existed a secret government research facility where the best minds in Physics had been assembled in order to beat Hitler to the punch, by engineering the first atomic bomb. On the morning of July 16th, the following incident occurred at this facility.
Neils Boorish, a young scientist, had been working all night at his drafting table to finish a design for a device that would be critical for the mass production of Uranium-238 and Plutonium. Just before dawn, he finally completed his drawing and rushed with it to his supervisor, Dr. Ricardo Frumenti, who was having a discussion with other physicists gathered around another drafting table. Dr. Boorish's excitement was palpable, and everyone was practically drooling in anticipation. The drawing was spread out on the table, and eager hands reached out to place heavy paperweights on the corners of the large drawing, to hold it in place.
"Gentlemen," Boorish said. "This is a preliminary design for a nuclear refracting facility that will enable us to increase our production of fissionable materials by, conservatively, a thousand percent." Neils had them at "Gentlemen."
But, Dr. Frumenti was not impressed with Boorish's drawing. He pointed at the drawing with his pipe and said, "Is this some kind of joke, Dr. Boorish?" The room went stony silent, as Frumenti ripped the drawing from the table and held it up to Boorish's face. The other scientists realized that something was terribly wrong.
"This is a drawing of a circle," Dr. Frumenti said. "Nothing more. Please explain yourself, Dr. Boorish."
Boorish, however, was not intimidated. "That is a drawing of a... cyclotron," Boorish said.
"A cyclotron?" Frumenti asked, his bushy eyebrows raised in disbelief, threatening to become airborne. "A cyclotron? Have you gone mad? This is a circle, pure and simple. Either that or a large zero. Yes, that is precisely what it is. . . a zero."
The other scientists, none of whom had ever liked Boorish, began shouting at him. Dr. Robert Kroppenheimer went so far as to tell Boorish that he was "a fooking idiot."
At this point, Frumenti placed Boorish's drawing back on the drafting table, spread it out, and rolled it into a cone shape. He then inserted the tip of the cone into a nearby pencil sharpener, and turning to Boorish, said "This is what I think of your stupid drawing, Boorish." Frumenti then began cranking the pencil sharpener, jamming the end of the paper cone into the sharpener with all his might, while his colleagues continued to heap abuse upon Boorish. The razor sharp jaws of the pencil sharpener ground Boorish's drawing into fine shavings.
At that moment, the facility was vaporized by the first nuclear explosion in recorded history. A giant mushroom cloud rose from the desert floor. It was visible in Las Vegas, over a hundred miles away. The explosion produced temperatures that exceeded the core temperature of our own Sun. The resulting heat and shock wave, bristling with radioactivity, spread out at supersonic speed in all directions, obliterating every living thing for a radius of five miles, leaving the desert floor contaminated with radioactivity for weeks to come, before it would be safe to approach the site of the blast.
To this day, that is what always happens whenever a critical mass is formed at a ground zero. Arf, arf!
Friday, April 08, 2011
FINLAND: A CAUSATIONAL TAIL
(for those thinking of visiting da land of da Finns, a brief intro-vitro)
FINNISHED? NOT YET
The delicious diversity and impenetrable solipsitic yearning of the people make Finland a must-see colony. Getting there is easy. Leaving is a spiritual and conjugational dilemma. Finland was founded around the time of the Second Great Ice Age. Since no records remain of this cataclysmic event, which both shaped and destroyed that which we think of as the Northern Cratersphere, and also gave birth to the Finns' undying devotion to coats of arms and questionable rituals of the nether regions, the founding of Finland is shrouded in mystery and revelatory intrigue. It is a land of sweeping landscapes and inter-bred towns, villages and sticky communities. Each population settlement looks different, feels different, smells different and washes different. Physically, Finland is the land that rhyme forgot, historically, the land of rotting Swedes and rutting Russians, the land that refused to be conquered, except for half a dozen bags of gold and a couple of crates of vodka, with a few plates of chips thrown in.
Finland is harsh but fair. Hoary winters lasting five months, with more snow than you can shake an ice cap at and sub zero temperatures which have frozen many a pair of active balls. The summers are mild but frenetic due to all the catching up on lost rogering time. Travellers intending to visit Finland in the summer are strongly advised to watch the Acclimatise To Finland In Summer video provided free at FinnTube.com in which the most noticeable feature of the landscape are the stray bonking couples in every public and private place you can think of. Please note that during the summer months there is a temporary lifting on the ban on mutual orgasmic activity in a neighbour's shed, tractor or sled. Reindeer are fair game too.
The Finnish people are nothing if not unique, thoughtful, wistful, playful, patriotic and totally insane. The traveller who has not enjoyed a Finn's company obviously has no social skills to speak of, is rightly shunned by his own people and will be spotted immediately at the airport, port, border crossing point and will not be granted entry into the colony, and/or may be arrested and flogged in an ancient ceremony which may involve cruelty to fruit and the shelling of assorted nuts and some nudity and follicle mutilation.
Finland is awash with festivities and dubious practises which either put hair on your chest or take it off, so it is irrelevant what time of year you choose to visit. As long as you enter Finland with an open mind and easily removable clothing, you are guaranteed a warm reception and a mind altering, possibly brain damaging experience. Come on in!
COMING SOON: SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE BLACK COCK OF KESKI (dat's in Finland, d'uh!)
FINNISHED? NOT YET
The delicious diversity and impenetrable solipsitic yearning of the people make Finland a must-see colony. Getting there is easy. Leaving is a spiritual and conjugational dilemma. Finland was founded around the time of the Second Great Ice Age. Since no records remain of this cataclysmic event, which both shaped and destroyed that which we think of as the Northern Cratersphere, and also gave birth to the Finns' undying devotion to coats of arms and questionable rituals of the nether regions, the founding of Finland is shrouded in mystery and revelatory intrigue. It is a land of sweeping landscapes and inter-bred towns, villages and sticky communities. Each population settlement looks different, feels different, smells different and washes different. Physically, Finland is the land that rhyme forgot, historically, the land of rotting Swedes and rutting Russians, the land that refused to be conquered, except for half a dozen bags of gold and a couple of crates of vodka, with a few plates of chips thrown in.
Finland is harsh but fair. Hoary winters lasting five months, with more snow than you can shake an ice cap at and sub zero temperatures which have frozen many a pair of active balls. The summers are mild but frenetic due to all the catching up on lost rogering time. Travellers intending to visit Finland in the summer are strongly advised to watch the Acclimatise To Finland In Summer video provided free at FinnTube.com in which the most noticeable feature of the landscape are the stray bonking couples in every public and private place you can think of. Please note that during the summer months there is a temporary lifting on the ban on mutual orgasmic activity in a neighbour's shed, tractor or sled. Reindeer are fair game too.
The Finnish people are nothing if not unique, thoughtful, wistful, playful, patriotic and totally insane. The traveller who has not enjoyed a Finn's company obviously has no social skills to speak of, is rightly shunned by his own people and will be spotted immediately at the airport, port, border crossing point and will not be granted entry into the colony, and/or may be arrested and flogged in an ancient ceremony which may involve cruelty to fruit and the shelling of assorted nuts and some nudity and follicle mutilation.
Finland is awash with festivities and dubious practises which either put hair on your chest or take it off, so it is irrelevant what time of year you choose to visit. As long as you enter Finland with an open mind and easily removable clothing, you are guaranteed a warm reception and a mind altering, possibly brain damaging experience. Come on in!
COMING SOON: SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE BLACK COCK OF KESKI (dat's in Finland, d'uh!)
Thursday, April 07, 2011
THE CURIOUS CASE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE COSTLY COCA
BACK ON BAKER STREET, OUR ILLUSTRATIVE DETECTIVE AND WATTERS HAVE BEEN OVERINDULGING THEMSELVES WITH SOME PRIME PERUVIAN COCOA POWDER. CLUMSY OAF THAT HE IS, WATSON HAS SPILLED A COUPLE OF GOOD LINES ON MRS. HUDSON'S PRECIOUS AFGHAN. THEN COMES AN OMINOUS SNIFFING SOUND FROM THE ENTRANCE DOOR, FOLLOWED BY FURTIVE SCRATCHINGS.
HOLMES: I say, Watters, be a good fellow and get the door, will you?
WATSON: Eh? Oh, I see. Precisely. My pleasure, old fellow.
WATSON ATTEMPTS TO RAISE HIMSELF FROM HIS CHAIR, BUT ONLY SUCCEEDS IN FALLING ASS OVER TEAKETTLE, GRABBING THE TABLECLOTH AND PULLING EVERYTHING ONTO THE FLOOR WITH HIM, INCLUDING HALF A TIN OF BOLIVIAN MARCHING POWDER.
HOLMES: (groaning) Watson, you fool! There's twenty pounds worth of the finest Colombian blow splattered all over the flogging carpet!
WATSON IS ON HIS KNEES NOW, CRAWLING TOWARD THE PARLOUR DOOR, TRAILING WHITE POWDER, MUCH TO HOLMES' CONSTERNATION. JUST AS WATSON REACHES THE DOOR, THERE IS A BLOOD-CURDLING HOWL FROM THE OTHER SIDE, AND THE SOUND OF FURIOUS SCRATCHING. WATSON HUNKERS DOWN, NOSE TO THE CARPET, AND SEES A BLOOD-CHILLING SIGHT THROUGH THE GAP AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DOOR.
WATSON: Good lord, Holmes, I've nearly soiled myself! There's an enormous deranged ant-eater trying to rip its way through the door with his gigantic talons!
HOLMES: Balderdash, Watson, don't you recognize Toby's plaintive baying? Get up, man, for God's sake, and let him in before Mrs. Hudson arrives brandishing a gelding knife!
WATSON: For Toby?
HOLMES: No, for US!
WATSON: Oh, right, I see... very well, then.
WATSON PULLS HIMSELF TO HIS KNEES AND USES THE ELEPHANT LEG UMBRELLA STAND TO GET TO HIS FEET. WITH SOME TREPIDATION, HE OPENS THE DOOR A FRACTION OF AN INCH AND IS IMMEDIATELY TRAMPLED BY TOBY THE LOVESICK BLOODHOUND, WHO BOUNDS INTO THE ROOM, DROOLING, KNOCKING HOLMES OUT OF HIS CHAIR. FROM DOWNSTAIRS, COMES THE FRANTIC GONAD-SHRIVELLING SCREECHING OF MRS. HUDSON, WHO HAS JUST DISCOVERED TOBY'S MUDDY PAWPRINTS IN THE VESTIBULE AND ON THE STAIRWAY LEADING TO HOLMES' APARTMENTS.
HUDDERS: Mr. Holmes, this is the absolutely the final straw! I forbid that filthy creature to invade the sanctity of my home one more time! Remove that wretched beast from the premises immediately or I'll call the constable!
HOLMES: Cripes, now we're for it... Watson, get this deranged canine off me, at once!
BUT WATSON IS FLAT ON HIS BACK, SUDDENLY ABSORBED IN THE INTRICATE STAMPINGS OF THE TIN CEILING, LISTENING TO THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES. HE DOES NOT HEAR HOLMES' ANGRY ENTREATY. MEANWHILE, TOBY HAS STARTING SNIFFING THE AFGHAN FOR FLEAS AND DISCOVERS INSTEAD, TO HIS INFINITE DELIGHT, THE TRAIL OF NEARLY PURE COCAINE THAT LITTERS THE FLOOR. BEFORE HOLMES CAN RESTRAIN THE BEAST, TOBY SNIFFS UP SEVERAL TABLESPOONSFUL OF THE COSTLY COCA, AND LOOKS AN ABSOLUTE FRIGHT, HIS MOIST NOSE RESEMBLING A SUGAR PLUM. TOBY WAVERS FOR A MOMENT, AS IF ABOUT TO KEEL OVER BUT THEN THE COCA COURSING THROUGH HIS VEINS CAUSES HIS HEART NEARLY TO BURST AT THE SEAMS. WITH A LEAP AND A BOUND WORTHY OF AN OLYMPIAN, HE POUNCES UPON WATSON'S PRONE FORM AND BEGINS ENERGETICALLY HUMPING HIS LEG.
WATSON: Eh? What is this, then? Toby, you mangy hound! I say, Holmes, this wretched fleabag is dry humping my good leg!
HOLMES: Brilliant deduction, Watson. And well-deserved, if you don't mind me saying so. It's a wonder his heart hasn't exploded. He's just snorkled up five quid worth of prime Brazilian nose whiskey.
WATSON: Good Lord, Holmes! We must evacuate the premises at once. If his liver blows, we're mincemeat! Get off me, you degenerate flea-bag!
MRS. HUDSON NOW STORMS INTO THE ROOM BRANDISHING A COAL SHOVEL AND A BULLWHIP.
HUDDERS: There he is! Your days are numbered, you filthy brute! Hold him, Dr. Watson, while I bash his filthy brains in!
HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson, calm down for God's sake. The situation is well under control, I assure you.
HUDDERS: Under control my bloomin' arse! There's mud and doggy effluent all over my parlour and stairs, that filthy animal is dry-humping poor Dr. Watson, and what in the name of the Queen is all this white muck all over my costly Afghan?!
WATSON: Eh? Oh, that's just a bit of white gold dust, Hudders. Don't worry, we'll sweep it up in a jiffy. Toby! No crotch nibbling!
HUDDERS: White gold dust, is it? Hmph. Looks suspiciously to me like some of that filthy gutter glitter them whoors down in Soho use to powder their noses with. I've told you before, Mr. Holmes, this is a good clean Christian house and I won't tolerate no drug addicted canines in here.
HOLMES: No need to worry about that, Hudders, it belongs to Watson. It's entirely his fault. Toby was just helping him tidy up a bit.
TOBY STOPS DRY-HUMPING WATSON, STARTS SNIFFING THE AIR, AND HONES IN ON HUDDERS.
WATSON: Thank God, I thought I was going to be humped to death. God Lord, Holmes, I'm covered in drool.
TOBY SNIFFS THE EDGE OF HUDDER'S SKIRT, POKES HIS POWDERED NOSE UNDERNEATH, FEELING HIS WAY THROUGH LAYERS OF PETTICOATS. HUDDERS FINALLY TAKES NOTICE.
HUDDERS: Here, what's all this, then?
HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson, I suggest that you stand perfectly still.
HOLMES PULLS HIMSELF TO HIS FEET AND LOADS WATSON'S GREAT WEBLY REVOLVER. WATSON LOOKS ON IN HORROR.
WATSON: Holmes, I say, you're not going to shoot Toby, are you? We'll lose the deposit, you know.
TOBY HAS WORKED HIS WAY THROUGH ALL THE PETTICOATS AND STARTS LICKING HUDDERS' BLOOMERS. SHE STARTS TO SWOON.
HOLMES: Don't move, Hudders. Unless I'm mistaken, Toby is zeroing in on your peach basket. Watson, sneak up on the depraved creature and grab him by the hind legs.
WATSON: Are you mad, Holmes? He'll rip my throat out.
HOLMES: Nonsense, Watson, he's snorted enough Argentinian bouncing powder to render a rhinoceros comatose.
WATSON: True, Holmes. He should be experiencing rigor mortis by now. Most peculiar.
HUDDERS SCREAMS AS TOBY RIPS THE CROTCH OUT OF HER BLOOMERS AND SHOVES HIS COLD, POWDERED NOSE UP HER TREMBLING LOVE MUFFIN.
HUDDERS: Mr. Holmes, help! Toby's slurping at me!
WATSON: Probably thinks he's found an oyster, what what, what!
AT THIS MOMENT A MESSENGER ARRIVES WITH AN URGENT MESSAGE FROM MYCROFT HOLMES.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
HOLMES: I say, Watters, be a good fellow and get the door, will you?
WATSON: Eh? Oh, I see. Precisely. My pleasure, old fellow.
WATSON ATTEMPTS TO RAISE HIMSELF FROM HIS CHAIR, BUT ONLY SUCCEEDS IN FALLING ASS OVER TEAKETTLE, GRABBING THE TABLECLOTH AND PULLING EVERYTHING ONTO THE FLOOR WITH HIM, INCLUDING HALF A TIN OF BOLIVIAN MARCHING POWDER.
HOLMES: (groaning) Watson, you fool! There's twenty pounds worth of the finest Colombian blow splattered all over the flogging carpet!
WATSON IS ON HIS KNEES NOW, CRAWLING TOWARD THE PARLOUR DOOR, TRAILING WHITE POWDER, MUCH TO HOLMES' CONSTERNATION. JUST AS WATSON REACHES THE DOOR, THERE IS A BLOOD-CURDLING HOWL FROM THE OTHER SIDE, AND THE SOUND OF FURIOUS SCRATCHING. WATSON HUNKERS DOWN, NOSE TO THE CARPET, AND SEES A BLOOD-CHILLING SIGHT THROUGH THE GAP AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DOOR.
WATSON: Good lord, Holmes, I've nearly soiled myself! There's an enormous deranged ant-eater trying to rip its way through the door with his gigantic talons!
HOLMES: Balderdash, Watson, don't you recognize Toby's plaintive baying? Get up, man, for God's sake, and let him in before Mrs. Hudson arrives brandishing a gelding knife!
WATSON: For Toby?
HOLMES: No, for US!
WATSON: Oh, right, I see... very well, then.
WATSON PULLS HIMSELF TO HIS KNEES AND USES THE ELEPHANT LEG UMBRELLA STAND TO GET TO HIS FEET. WITH SOME TREPIDATION, HE OPENS THE DOOR A FRACTION OF AN INCH AND IS IMMEDIATELY TRAMPLED BY TOBY THE LOVESICK BLOODHOUND, WHO BOUNDS INTO THE ROOM, DROOLING, KNOCKING HOLMES OUT OF HIS CHAIR. FROM DOWNSTAIRS, COMES THE FRANTIC GONAD-SHRIVELLING SCREECHING OF MRS. HUDSON, WHO HAS JUST DISCOVERED TOBY'S MUDDY PAWPRINTS IN THE VESTIBULE AND ON THE STAIRWAY LEADING TO HOLMES' APARTMENTS.
HUDDERS: Mr. Holmes, this is the absolutely the final straw! I forbid that filthy creature to invade the sanctity of my home one more time! Remove that wretched beast from the premises immediately or I'll call the constable!
HOLMES: Cripes, now we're for it... Watson, get this deranged canine off me, at once!
BUT WATSON IS FLAT ON HIS BACK, SUDDENLY ABSORBED IN THE INTRICATE STAMPINGS OF THE TIN CEILING, LISTENING TO THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES. HE DOES NOT HEAR HOLMES' ANGRY ENTREATY. MEANWHILE, TOBY HAS STARTING SNIFFING THE AFGHAN FOR FLEAS AND DISCOVERS INSTEAD, TO HIS INFINITE DELIGHT, THE TRAIL OF NEARLY PURE COCAINE THAT LITTERS THE FLOOR. BEFORE HOLMES CAN RESTRAIN THE BEAST, TOBY SNIFFS UP SEVERAL TABLESPOONSFUL OF THE COSTLY COCA, AND LOOKS AN ABSOLUTE FRIGHT, HIS MOIST NOSE RESEMBLING A SUGAR PLUM. TOBY WAVERS FOR A MOMENT, AS IF ABOUT TO KEEL OVER BUT THEN THE COCA COURSING THROUGH HIS VEINS CAUSES HIS HEART NEARLY TO BURST AT THE SEAMS. WITH A LEAP AND A BOUND WORTHY OF AN OLYMPIAN, HE POUNCES UPON WATSON'S PRONE FORM AND BEGINS ENERGETICALLY HUMPING HIS LEG.
WATSON: Eh? What is this, then? Toby, you mangy hound! I say, Holmes, this wretched fleabag is dry humping my good leg!
HOLMES: Brilliant deduction, Watson. And well-deserved, if you don't mind me saying so. It's a wonder his heart hasn't exploded. He's just snorkled up five quid worth of prime Brazilian nose whiskey.
WATSON: Good Lord, Holmes! We must evacuate the premises at once. If his liver blows, we're mincemeat! Get off me, you degenerate flea-bag!
MRS. HUDSON NOW STORMS INTO THE ROOM BRANDISHING A COAL SHOVEL AND A BULLWHIP.
HUDDERS: There he is! Your days are numbered, you filthy brute! Hold him, Dr. Watson, while I bash his filthy brains in!
HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson, calm down for God's sake. The situation is well under control, I assure you.
HUDDERS: Under control my bloomin' arse! There's mud and doggy effluent all over my parlour and stairs, that filthy animal is dry-humping poor Dr. Watson, and what in the name of the Queen is all this white muck all over my costly Afghan?!
WATSON: Eh? Oh, that's just a bit of white gold dust, Hudders. Don't worry, we'll sweep it up in a jiffy. Toby! No crotch nibbling!
HUDDERS: White gold dust, is it? Hmph. Looks suspiciously to me like some of that filthy gutter glitter them whoors down in Soho use to powder their noses with. I've told you before, Mr. Holmes, this is a good clean Christian house and I won't tolerate no drug addicted canines in here.
HOLMES: No need to worry about that, Hudders, it belongs to Watson. It's entirely his fault. Toby was just helping him tidy up a bit.
TOBY STOPS DRY-HUMPING WATSON, STARTS SNIFFING THE AIR, AND HONES IN ON HUDDERS.
WATSON: Thank God, I thought I was going to be humped to death. God Lord, Holmes, I'm covered in drool.
TOBY SNIFFS THE EDGE OF HUDDER'S SKIRT, POKES HIS POWDERED NOSE UNDERNEATH, FEELING HIS WAY THROUGH LAYERS OF PETTICOATS. HUDDERS FINALLY TAKES NOTICE.
HUDDERS: Here, what's all this, then?
HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson, I suggest that you stand perfectly still.
HOLMES PULLS HIMSELF TO HIS FEET AND LOADS WATSON'S GREAT WEBLY REVOLVER. WATSON LOOKS ON IN HORROR.
WATSON: Holmes, I say, you're not going to shoot Toby, are you? We'll lose the deposit, you know.
TOBY HAS WORKED HIS WAY THROUGH ALL THE PETTICOATS AND STARTS LICKING HUDDERS' BLOOMERS. SHE STARTS TO SWOON.
HOLMES: Don't move, Hudders. Unless I'm mistaken, Toby is zeroing in on your peach basket. Watson, sneak up on the depraved creature and grab him by the hind legs.
WATSON: Are you mad, Holmes? He'll rip my throat out.
HOLMES: Nonsense, Watson, he's snorted enough Argentinian bouncing powder to render a rhinoceros comatose.
WATSON: True, Holmes. He should be experiencing rigor mortis by now. Most peculiar.
HUDDERS SCREAMS AS TOBY RIPS THE CROTCH OUT OF HER BLOOMERS AND SHOVES HIS COLD, POWDERED NOSE UP HER TREMBLING LOVE MUFFIN.
HUDDERS: Mr. Holmes, help! Toby's slurping at me!
WATSON: Probably thinks he's found an oyster, what what, what!
AT THIS MOMENT A MESSENGER ARRIVES WITH AN URGENT MESSAGE FROM MYCROFT HOLMES.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Monday, April 04, 2011
BEAUTIFUL SEEDS REVERSE
BEAUTIFUL SEEDS REVERSE
Beautiful seeds reverse
Beautiful seas converse
Beautiful bees traverse
Skyline so shrewd
Skyline so lewd
Beautiful seeds reverse
Beautiful weeds in verse
Beautiful people obverse
Skyline so true
Skyline so cruel
Beautiful seeds reverse
Oh orchidaceous universe
copyright 2011 Birdy
Beautiful seeds reverse
Beautiful seas converse
Beautiful bees traverse
Skyline so shrewd
Skyline so lewd
Beautiful seeds reverse
Beautiful weeds in verse
Beautiful people obverse
Skyline so true
Skyline so cruel
Beautiful seeds reverse
Oh orchidaceous universe
copyright 2011 Birdy
Monday, March 28, 2011
THE BLOB AND KNOB
BUFFALO: Any buddy home?
BIRD: Well, actually there is.
BUFFALO: Where ya bin?
BIRD: Out and about, like. Anyway, thing is, dude, we've been a bit remiss.
BUFFALO: Sorry bout dat. Blame it on da hooring.
BIRD: The hiring?
BUFFALO: Nicht, meine Pickle Schapper. Hooring. Yesterday. Today. Tomorra. Forever.
BIRD: Insatiable. Incredible. Isn't it ever enuff?
BUFFALO: Nope. Tank's still empty. More, und more und more again, ja? And what about you, dude? Ain't seen ya around since December.
BIRD: I've had issues.
BUFFALO: What kinda issues? Why didn't you Skype, e-mail, phone even?! I've been missin' ya.
BIRD: Missed you too, buddy. But I needed to get away, to find myself again.
BUFFALO: Best not to look for yourself, dude. There's only a shadow there, or a shadow of a shadow, or a little dark blob with a knob, so to speak.
BIRD: Well, I found a lot more than that. I found F sharp 9 for starters.
BUFFALO: What dafukk are you on about now, Birdman?
BIRD: It's a chord. It's great. I've been playing gee-tah again.
BUFFALO: Nice one.
BIRD: I sing whenever the spirit moves me, any time of day or night.
BUFFALO: Rock and roll!
BIRD: When I'm in the song, I'm in another world. It's a different me, ascending, descending, on the puff of a melodic wave, floating in aural delight on the musical ocean deep.
BUFFALO: Cripes! Sounds like an out of body experience. Have you been sniffing the curry powder agin?
BIRD: Dude, it's beautiful. It's just me, the music, the shapes and curves and shimmering surfaces.
BUFFALO: Hmm.
BIRD: I tell you, I saw my true blob last night, with his knob, and his knob was radiant, tall and true.
BUFFALO: You darty auld bird.
BIRD: And I said to him... knob, lay thee down to slumber. And the knob of my true blob lay down and slumbered. And then I said... knob, beware of blobs bearing false knobs.
BUFFALO: Deep, dude, deep.
BIRD: Be true to your blob and he shall be trueth to you, oh true knob. Soon, you and I shall witness rebirth. Soon, the angels shall fall, the kettle shall boil, and we shall sip tea aplenty perched high on the stars. Just one step and we shall be free. Free! No more blobs. No more knobs.
BUFFALO: No more blobs! No more knobs!
BIRD: No more blobs! No more knobs!
BUFFALO: Blobs and knobs, out, out, out!
BIRD: Blobs and knobs, out, out, out!
BUFFALO: Blobs knobbed!
BIRD: Blobs knobbed!
BUFFALO: Out, out, out!
BIRD: Out, out, out!
BUFFALO: You did it, dude. You banished the blob with a knob. Maxi mummy respect O!
BIRD: Thanks, dude.
BUFFALO: Better go sort me own blobby knob out now. Blobby knob, come out, come out, wherever ya are?
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BIRD: Well, actually there is.
BUFFALO: Where ya bin?
BIRD: Out and about, like. Anyway, thing is, dude, we've been a bit remiss.
BUFFALO: Sorry bout dat. Blame it on da hooring.
BIRD: The hiring?
BUFFALO: Nicht, meine Pickle Schapper. Hooring. Yesterday. Today. Tomorra. Forever.
BIRD: Insatiable. Incredible. Isn't it ever enuff?
BUFFALO: Nope. Tank's still empty. More, und more und more again, ja? And what about you, dude? Ain't seen ya around since December.
BIRD: I've had issues.
BUFFALO: What kinda issues? Why didn't you Skype, e-mail, phone even?! I've been missin' ya.
BIRD: Missed you too, buddy. But I needed to get away, to find myself again.
BUFFALO: Best not to look for yourself, dude. There's only a shadow there, or a shadow of a shadow, or a little dark blob with a knob, so to speak.
BIRD: Well, I found a lot more than that. I found F sharp 9 for starters.
BUFFALO: What dafukk are you on about now, Birdman?
BIRD: It's a chord. It's great. I've been playing gee-tah again.
BUFFALO: Nice one.
BIRD: I sing whenever the spirit moves me, any time of day or night.
BUFFALO: Rock and roll!
BIRD: When I'm in the song, I'm in another world. It's a different me, ascending, descending, on the puff of a melodic wave, floating in aural delight on the musical ocean deep.
BUFFALO: Cripes! Sounds like an out of body experience. Have you been sniffing the curry powder agin?
BIRD: Dude, it's beautiful. It's just me, the music, the shapes and curves and shimmering surfaces.
BUFFALO: Hmm.
BIRD: I tell you, I saw my true blob last night, with his knob, and his knob was radiant, tall and true.
BUFFALO: You darty auld bird.
BIRD: And I said to him... knob, lay thee down to slumber. And the knob of my true blob lay down and slumbered. And then I said... knob, beware of blobs bearing false knobs.
BUFFALO: Deep, dude, deep.
BIRD: Be true to your blob and he shall be trueth to you, oh true knob. Soon, you and I shall witness rebirth. Soon, the angels shall fall, the kettle shall boil, and we shall sip tea aplenty perched high on the stars. Just one step and we shall be free. Free! No more blobs. No more knobs.
BUFFALO: No more blobs! No more knobs!
BIRD: No more blobs! No more knobs!
BUFFALO: Blobs and knobs, out, out, out!
BIRD: Blobs and knobs, out, out, out!
BUFFALO: Blobs knobbed!
BIRD: Blobs knobbed!
BUFFALO: Out, out, out!
BIRD: Out, out, out!
BUFFALO: You did it, dude. You banished the blob with a knob. Maxi mummy respect O!
BIRD: Thanks, dude.
BUFFALO: Better go sort me own blobby knob out now. Blobby knob, come out, come out, wherever ya are?
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Thursday, November 25, 2010
A FOETAL MISTAKE
BIRD WRITES:...
I have long suspected that my actuation into being was not of the intelligent design category, if you get my midriff. In the eternal search for meaning and the ever elusive obelisk of strife, I have mused over many a Smoothie and tea with honey about my beginnings. After several phone calls... well, one, actually, in which my mother feigned bad hearing AGAIN, I established that "We really can't remember, dear," in answer to my question "Was I planned?" The version of what really happened has changed so much over the years that I may as well conclude that my parents have never been in control, shall we say, of either their respective destinies or mine. It is with a heavy heart that after all these long years of enquiry I must conclude that, well, basically, my parents were "only in it for the nookie", and considering that by all accounts it was probably their last nookie, I am certainly not going to do any finger pointing. Indeed, I feel guilty that my conception led directly to a loss of interest in what is clearly one of the most pleasurable gifts from the gods.
So... why does it matter? Planned? Unplanned? It doesn't. Intention is overrated. I intend, and have intended, to do many, many things. Intention is an illusory tromtopolomorphous construct if ever there was one. Ha! Try Googling that, my bloggy fiends, and see what you get. At the end of the daze, haze, maze, whatever, I am. And I assert myself, or wound myself as best as I can. As we all do. Or should do. Life... is the opposite of death. None of us should forget that. I am reminded of the words of the great Poe in that old cheesy '70s TV series Kung Fu:
The sage has said "Others are contented, I alone am drifting. Not knowing where I am. I am different. I am nourished by the great mother. In an uncertain hour, the wise man acknowledges uncertainty."
Live well, and all.
Arf, arf!
OTHER FOETAL MISTAKES...
Stephen Fry
Lance Armstrong
Britney Spears
John Cleese
Jonathan Ross
Al Gore
Russell Brand
Alan Carr
Demi Moore
Arnold Schwarzenegger
Snoop Doggy Dogg
Paulo Coelho
Mischa Barton
Yoko Ono
Will Self
Will Smith
Will Conquer
Will Power
THE LATEST TWEET...
Click many, many. But where's the button? Feck, it's cold in here. Time for a mug of tea, methinks.
I have long suspected that my actuation into being was not of the intelligent design category, if you get my midriff. In the eternal search for meaning and the ever elusive obelisk of strife, I have mused over many a Smoothie and tea with honey about my beginnings. After several phone calls... well, one, actually, in which my mother feigned bad hearing AGAIN, I established that "We really can't remember, dear," in answer to my question "Was I planned?" The version of what really happened has changed so much over the years that I may as well conclude that my parents have never been in control, shall we say, of either their respective destinies or mine. It is with a heavy heart that after all these long years of enquiry I must conclude that, well, basically, my parents were "only in it for the nookie", and considering that by all accounts it was probably their last nookie, I am certainly not going to do any finger pointing. Indeed, I feel guilty that my conception led directly to a loss of interest in what is clearly one of the most pleasurable gifts from the gods.
So... why does it matter? Planned? Unplanned? It doesn't. Intention is overrated. I intend, and have intended, to do many, many things. Intention is an illusory tromtopolomorphous construct if ever there was one. Ha! Try Googling that, my bloggy fiends, and see what you get. At the end of the daze, haze, maze, whatever, I am. And I assert myself, or wound myself as best as I can. As we all do. Or should do. Life... is the opposite of death. None of us should forget that. I am reminded of the words of the great Poe in that old cheesy '70s TV series Kung Fu:
The sage has said "Others are contented, I alone am drifting. Not knowing where I am. I am different. I am nourished by the great mother. In an uncertain hour, the wise man acknowledges uncertainty."
Live well, and all.
Arf, arf!
OTHER FOETAL MISTAKES...
Stephen Fry
Lance Armstrong
Britney Spears
John Cleese
Jonathan Ross
Al Gore
Russell Brand
Alan Carr
Demi Moore
Arnold Schwarzenegger
Snoop Doggy Dogg
Paulo Coelho
Mischa Barton
Yoko Ono
Will Self
Will Smith
Will Conquer
Will Power
THE LATEST TWEET...
Click many, many. But where's the button? Feck, it's cold in here. Time for a mug of tea, methinks.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
INDENTATIONS AND THE DANCE OF THE TICKLE
INDENTATIONS AND THE DANCE OF THE TICKLE
Push
that
tab
far enough
and it
will
tut tut
tickle
ickle
fickle
tab bab
volumanoid
***
CURRENTLY ON TWITTER:
I have always felt twiddle is an underrated word. What's that bird doing on my window? O yuck.
Push
that
tab
far enough
and it
will
tut tut
tickle
ickle
fickle
tab bab
volumanoid
***
CURRENTLY ON TWITTER:
I have always felt twiddle is an underrated word. What's that bird doing on my window? O yuck.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
OF TWITTER AND WIKILEAKS
NEW! EXCITING! NEW! STEAMING! NEW! JAMMING! NEW! NEW! NEW! NEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
FOLLOW US NOW ON TWITTER:
"I watched the bubbles on my coffee fade. H2O doesn't get better than this."
AND...
WIKILEAKS.
You can now find 300,491 PRIVATE documents from Buff''s TOP SECRET collection of e-mails, post-it notes, scribbles on cigarette packets and toilet paper. It is claimed that had some of these documents been released earlier, perhaps... the invasion of Iraq would never have happened, George Bush would never have been elected, the global financial meltdown could have been avoided, peace between India and Pakistan could have been achieved, and the mystery of what really happened to Buff's neighbours' budgerigars would finally be solved. And more.
WIKILEAKS... because there just ain't enough hours in the day to waste on waste.
Arf, arf!
FOLLOW US NOW ON TWITTER:
"I watched the bubbles on my coffee fade. H2O doesn't get better than this."
AND...
WIKILEAKS.
You can now find 300,491 PRIVATE documents from Buff''s TOP SECRET collection of e-mails, post-it notes, scribbles on cigarette packets and toilet paper. It is claimed that had some of these documents been released earlier, perhaps... the invasion of Iraq would never have happened, George Bush would never have been elected, the global financial meltdown could have been avoided, peace between India and Pakistan could have been achieved, and the mystery of what really happened to Buff's neighbours' budgerigars would finally be solved. And more.
WIKILEAKS... because there just ain't enough hours in the day to waste on waste.
Arf, arf!
Saturday, October 23, 2010
IT TAKES A TWITTER TO KNOW A TWITTER
BUFFALO: Dude, you dere?
BIRD: Halfway between the here and the chow.
BUFFALO: I think I've done it, I think I've found love, Birdy.
BIRD: Great! At last! What's her name?
BUFFALO: It's not a she, it's an it.
BIRD: Oh, you mean a Herman Afro Deity?
BUFFALO: No, dude, you berkoff, a philosophy.
BIRD: Oh, really? Forgive me while I yawn.
BUFFALO: Dude, it's called Wantism, and it really works. All you have to do is want something real bad and hey per-resto, you get it!
BIRD: And what is it exactly you want, dude?
BUFFALO: For fudge rocket's sake, dude, open yer lugholes - LOVE!!! And what's more, I got it. You see, I now realise, having signed up to Wantism Global thru Twitteroo that EVERYTHING is love. Look around you, everywhere you turn, whaddya see? Huh? LOVE, dude. As much as you or me or anyone will ever need. I'm tellin' ya, since this morning I have not touched my todger once.
BIRD: Whoa, a world record. Congrats. I'm really happy for you, but just tell me one thing - how does this LOVE love you back, hmmm? Hmmm?
BUFFALO: Dude, that's the old love, the one about give and take and all that outmoded bull. This is the real thing. LOVE IS... That's all.
BIRD: No subject, no object.
BUFFALO: Dat's right. Just the cosmic continuum, innit.
BIRD: Wow. I'll have to tell me missus about this. No more tantrums, no more heated arguments, no more disharmony, no more wounded egos, no more... us.
BUFFALO: You got it.
BIRD: Hmm... You know what, I don't think she'll go for that, and hactually, dude, when it comes to snuggling up in bedders, if it's a choice between the cosmic ultimatum and me dearly beloved, I'm going for the latter.
BUFFALO: Oh, farkwit! You've done it again, you've blown wide apart the best idea for inner peas EVER by introducing that which only speaks its name in the damnedest of terms - LONELINESS. You fudging fecker, dude! Thanks a lot.
BIRD: Takes a Twitter to know a Twitter, dude.
BUFFALO: Condemned to another night with Doris. Jeez...
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BIRD: Halfway between the here and the chow.
BUFFALO: I think I've done it, I think I've found love, Birdy.
BIRD: Great! At last! What's her name?
BUFFALO: It's not a she, it's an it.
BIRD: Oh, you mean a Herman Afro Deity?
BUFFALO: No, dude, you berkoff, a philosophy.
BIRD: Oh, really? Forgive me while I yawn.
BUFFALO: Dude, it's called Wantism, and it really works. All you have to do is want something real bad and hey per-resto, you get it!
BIRD: And what is it exactly you want, dude?
BUFFALO: For fudge rocket's sake, dude, open yer lugholes - LOVE!!! And what's more, I got it. You see, I now realise, having signed up to Wantism Global thru Twitteroo that EVERYTHING is love. Look around you, everywhere you turn, whaddya see? Huh? LOVE, dude. As much as you or me or anyone will ever need. I'm tellin' ya, since this morning I have not touched my todger once.
BIRD: Whoa, a world record. Congrats. I'm really happy for you, but just tell me one thing - how does this LOVE love you back, hmmm? Hmmm?
BUFFALO: Dude, that's the old love, the one about give and take and all that outmoded bull. This is the real thing. LOVE IS... That's all.
BIRD: No subject, no object.
BUFFALO: Dat's right. Just the cosmic continuum, innit.
BIRD: Wow. I'll have to tell me missus about this. No more tantrums, no more heated arguments, no more disharmony, no more wounded egos, no more... us.
BUFFALO: You got it.
BIRD: Hmm... You know what, I don't think she'll go for that, and hactually, dude, when it comes to snuggling up in bedders, if it's a choice between the cosmic ultimatum and me dearly beloved, I'm going for the latter.
BUFFALO: Oh, farkwit! You've done it again, you've blown wide apart the best idea for inner peas EVER by introducing that which only speaks its name in the damnedest of terms - LONELINESS. You fudging fecker, dude! Thanks a lot.
BIRD: Takes a Twitter to know a Twitter, dude.
BUFFALO: Condemned to another night with Doris. Jeez...
BIRD: Film at eleven.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Thursday, May 13, 2010
THE TEMPTATION OF A CLERGYMAN
THE TEMPTATION OF A CLERGYMAN
The pimple
of her
smile
led him
to
an
entirely
new
altar
The pimple
of her
smile
led him
to
an
entirely
new
altar
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
HERPES, OMIGOD
BUFFALO: U der?
BIRD: Yep. Frazzled.
BUFFALO: Watching a brillo movie on TCM - old Brit flic with Michael Redgrave set in a boys’ prep school. Worn out from the shoot yesterday.
BIRD: Creative worn out is da best. Mine is just stuck at the Bore Fest worn out.
BUFFALO: Well, shit...
BIRD: On a stick. How much footage did you get?
BUFFALO: Me and Ken got blitzed after the shoot, was tripping, like. It was good though.
BIRD: Fookin’ fairies.
BUFFALO: Huh?
BIRD: You being spaced out, off with the fairies, innit.
BUFFALO: Ah. Got hours of footage, four cameras.
BIRD: You’ll have fun putting that together.
BUFFALO: Caught hell from Osbee…
BIRD: Oh?
BUFFALO: Missed her dad’s birthday party.
BIRD: Shite.
BUFFALO: 85, like.
BIRD: Dude, she’s gonna kill ya.
BUFFALO: But she didn’t tell me about the party!
BIRD: Well, that’s different.
BUFFALO: She gets worse by the day. She's trying to kill me, dude. Just like the gal in the movie is out to kill her husband.
BIRD: What’s the latest with Pammy?
BUFFALO: Been avoiding her like the plague. She has a boyfriend.
BIRD: Bummer. Nay fair.
BUFFALO: And I noticed something that kinda spooked me.
BIRD: Oh?
BUFFALO: She had a cold sore on her lip... and I'm thinking HERPES.
BIRD: You didn’t snog her, didya?
BUFFALO: Feck, no! NO…
BIRD: Knobbed her?
BUFFALO: NO.
BIRD: HERPES is my least favourite god.
BUFFALO: Do you know the difference…
BIRD: Nope.
BUFFALO: Between love and HERPES?
BIRD: Nope.
BUFFALO: HERPES is FOREVER.
BIRD: Ah, yes. No cure?
BUFFALO: Nope. This is a great fookin’ movie. It has adultery for one thing, with a seriously hot bitch, tho she really IS a bitch. I have to go drop a load on the toad now, dude. Those beans went right through me.
BIRD: Fair nuff. And I need a slash. And maybe some food.
BUFFALO: A slash?
BIRD: Piss.
BUFFALO: Gotta go.
BIRD: Enjoy.
BUFFALO: Hope I’m not conster-pated. That sucks. Right, got a turtle poking his head out, dude. Which rewinds me, some fookwit was supposed to call me today for an online training session.
BIRD: Oh, yeah?
BUFFALO: Hang on, that’s him now.
(PAUSE)
BUFFALO: He had a family emergency, was at the horse pistol. He’s gonna call back at six. Breaking Bad tonight, dude.... Gonna get high for that, have to smoke up me weed cuz after the 19th I can’t smoke for a year… condition of the oral surgery. So it’s gonna be brownies for me after the 19th. So I’m staying ripped until the weed runs out or I croak. Nap time. Maybe flog der weasel first, like.
BIRD: Later, dude.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
BIRD: Yep. Frazzled.
BUFFALO: Watching a brillo movie on TCM - old Brit flic with Michael Redgrave set in a boys’ prep school. Worn out from the shoot yesterday.
BIRD: Creative worn out is da best. Mine is just stuck at the Bore Fest worn out.
BUFFALO: Well, shit...
BIRD: On a stick. How much footage did you get?
BUFFALO: Me and Ken got blitzed after the shoot, was tripping, like. It was good though.
BIRD: Fookin’ fairies.
BUFFALO: Huh?
BIRD: You being spaced out, off with the fairies, innit.
BUFFALO: Ah. Got hours of footage, four cameras.
BIRD: You’ll have fun putting that together.
BUFFALO: Caught hell from Osbee…
BIRD: Oh?
BUFFALO: Missed her dad’s birthday party.
BIRD: Shite.
BUFFALO: 85, like.
BIRD: Dude, she’s gonna kill ya.
BUFFALO: But she didn’t tell me about the party!
BIRD: Well, that’s different.
BUFFALO: She gets worse by the day. She's trying to kill me, dude. Just like the gal in the movie is out to kill her husband.
BIRD: What’s the latest with Pammy?
BUFFALO: Been avoiding her like the plague. She has a boyfriend.
BIRD: Bummer. Nay fair.
BUFFALO: And I noticed something that kinda spooked me.
BIRD: Oh?
BUFFALO: She had a cold sore on her lip... and I'm thinking HERPES.
BIRD: You didn’t snog her, didya?
BUFFALO: Feck, no! NO…
BIRD: Knobbed her?
BUFFALO: NO.
BIRD: HERPES is my least favourite god.
BUFFALO: Do you know the difference…
BIRD: Nope.
BUFFALO: Between love and HERPES?
BIRD: Nope.
BUFFALO: HERPES is FOREVER.
BIRD: Ah, yes. No cure?
BUFFALO: Nope. This is a great fookin’ movie. It has adultery for one thing, with a seriously hot bitch, tho she really IS a bitch. I have to go drop a load on the toad now, dude. Those beans went right through me.
BIRD: Fair nuff. And I need a slash. And maybe some food.
BUFFALO: A slash?
BIRD: Piss.
BUFFALO: Gotta go.
BIRD: Enjoy.
BUFFALO: Hope I’m not conster-pated. That sucks. Right, got a turtle poking his head out, dude. Which rewinds me, some fookwit was supposed to call me today for an online training session.
BIRD: Oh, yeah?
BUFFALO: Hang on, that’s him now.
(PAUSE)
BUFFALO: He had a family emergency, was at the horse pistol. He’s gonna call back at six. Breaking Bad tonight, dude.... Gonna get high for that, have to smoke up me weed cuz after the 19th I can’t smoke for a year… condition of the oral surgery. So it’s gonna be brownies for me after the 19th. So I’m staying ripped until the weed runs out or I croak. Nap time. Maybe flog der weasel first, like.
BIRD: Later, dude.
BUFFALO: Arf, arf!
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
LATE BUT FOREVER
IN AUTUMN 1990, SOMETHING HAPPENED IN CHERRY PIE WOOD. MRS BARFAWAY REFUSES TO TELL & HER DOG LICKSPITTLE SIMPLY RAN AWAY. TEN YEARS ON, STEWART SUMNER ASSESSES THE INFLATORY IMPACT OF THE MYSTIFYING EVENTS THAT DAY ON POST-MODULATORY, MULTILITERAL, PREAMBULATORY CROSSOVER POETRY PERTAINING TO EXPRESS THE SHIT SANDWICH IN NON-GASTRONOMIC TERMS. THE FOLLOWING POEM HAS BEEN ENTERED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL SELF-FLAGELLATING AUTOMATED GARGOYLE ON A STICK AWARD 2010.
LATE BUT FOREVER
by Stewart Sumner
As the rain splashes
I see the cradle
To the grave
In scintillating shades
Of colour and dialogue
Freeze framed and clipped
To slip in my back pocket
On the way to the doc
Forwards, backwards then stop
A juddering footnote
To the incoming saline
As blue as the midnight
As fake as the PhotoShop
I say, did you hear that plop?
That was me
LATE BUT FOREVER
by Stewart Sumner
As the rain splashes
I see the cradle
To the grave
In scintillating shades
Of colour and dialogue
Freeze framed and clipped
To slip in my back pocket
On the way to the doc
Forwards, backwards then stop
A juddering footnote
To the incoming saline
As blue as the midnight
As fake as the PhotoShop
I say, did you hear that plop?
That was me
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Friday, February 05, 2010
Avitan Demotional! Me, Me, Now!
(to the tune of "Jingle Bells")
words - Marcel DeClercq
Ativan
Ativan
Atta girl, you go
Take a chill pill everyday
Lest you go insane, hey!
Stop yer cryin'
Drink more wine
And beer and whiskey, too
Once you're tranked
Or mildly tanked
Your troubles melt away.
Dashing through the blow
Cocaine all the way
Oh what fun it is to ride
In a souped-up Chevrolet
Bell's High-Octane Ale
Gets you fookin' tight
What fun it is to smoke a joint
And get ripped every night!
Oh, Ativan, Ativan, trankers all the way
Oh what fun it is to chill
'Til your troubles melt away!
words - Marcel DeClercq
Ativan
Ativan
Atta girl, you go
Take a chill pill everyday
Lest you go insane, hey!
Stop yer cryin'
Drink more wine
And beer and whiskey, too
Once you're tranked
Or mildly tanked
Your troubles melt away.
Dashing through the blow
Cocaine all the way
Oh what fun it is to ride
In a souped-up Chevrolet
Bell's High-Octane Ale
Gets you fookin' tight
What fun it is to smoke a joint
And get ripped every night!
Oh, Ativan, Ativan, trankers all the way
Oh what fun it is to chill
'Til your troubles melt away!
Saturday, January 23, 2010
DELETED AND PURGED, THE UNHOLY TRILOGY
DELETED AND PURGED, THE UNHOLY TRILOGY
by Donia Carey, Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner
(From a most unlikely thread about the future. Dedicated, as always, to the genius of the one and only Donia Carey)
Whilst exploring my genome
Inexplicably aroused
I prematurely
Creamed my genes
It stopped
So sudden
I got whiplash
Of the emotions
With this pistol
I thee deface
O future tense
Deleted and purged
Make bunions
On the bum
History
Wear lace
COMING SOON: THE OLD TESTAMENT, DIONYSUS, ITALIAN CULTURE, UNCONSCIOUSNESS, PREMONITIONS OF THE ULTIMATE EROTIC KISS, AND WHAT HAPPENED WHEN DA AULD BUFF DISCOVERED HUSSERLIAN PHENOMENOLOGY ON HIS BEDROOM DOOR
by Donia Carey, Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner
(From a most unlikely thread about the future. Dedicated, as always, to the genius of the one and only Donia Carey)
Whilst exploring my genome
Inexplicably aroused
I prematurely
Creamed my genes
It stopped
So sudden
I got whiplash
Of the emotions
With this pistol
I thee deface
O future tense
Deleted and purged
Make bunions
On the bum
History
Wear lace
COMING SOON: THE OLD TESTAMENT, DIONYSUS, ITALIAN CULTURE, UNCONSCIOUSNESS, PREMONITIONS OF THE ULTIMATE EROTIC KISS, AND WHAT HAPPENED WHEN DA AULD BUFF DISCOVERED HUSSERLIAN PHENOMENOLOGY ON HIS BEDROOM DOOR
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