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.

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.

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!

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!

THE TEMPTATION OF A CLERGYMAN

THE TEMPTATION OF A CLERGYMAN

The pimple
of her
smile
led him
to
an
entirely
new
altar

THOUGHTS ON A BUS - FEAR

FEAR

I fear
You fear
We fear
How
BIG?

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!

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

UP CHUCK AND DI

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!

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

OF GAY DOGS AND COCAINE

WATSON: I've been thinking, Holmes...

HOLMES: Steady on, old chap, you might blow a blood vessel, and we wouldn't want that.

WATSON: No, really, I've been thinking about Toby.

HOLMES: Oh, dear. I do wish Hudders would fix the inflatable doll so I could distract myself from your daily dollop of mind-numbing claptrap.

WATSON: Seriously, Holmes, do you think Toby's, well, you know, sniffing up the other leg?

HOLMES: What on earth are you raving on about now, Watters? Have you been at the aniseed cake again?

WATSON: I mean, well, to put it bluntly, do you think his canine excitement lies elsewhere?

HOLMES: Oh, for Hudders sake, of course Toby's gay. I can't believe you've only just cottoned on to that fact.

WATSON: You knew? But when? How? With...

HOLMES: It was elementary, my dear quack, from the moment he started rising to the occasion on Primrose Hill whenever he saw Butch the Bulldog stomp by. Why, he even tried to mount Inspector Lestrade outside Scotland Yard last Christmas, if you recall.

WATSON: Oh, come now, he was only being playful. I mean, are you sure he barks for the other side? He seemed so fond of Clarissa, the poodle at number eight.

HOLMES: As sure as I am that that Moriarty partakes of an unsuspecting goat every now and then.

WATSON: No, Holmes! Tell me it isn't so! Why, the fiend. How utterly revolting. Does he, you know, dress her up and whatnot? In stockings and suspenders?

HOLMES: Watson, I have long suspected you of extreme perversity and unhealthy proclivities but this takes the Digestive. I can only say that it is better if you do not pursue this particular avenue of inquiry for your own sake.

WATSON: Yes, of course. All this talk of depravity is making me feel rather faint, old thing. I think I'll just go and have a lie down.

HOLMES: I fear, old chum, that that would not be a sensible course of action at this juncture. You might be tempted to have a flick at the old Freddy, what what what. Here, sniff this. It might quieten him down for a while.

WATSON: Holmes, you know I can't partake of intoxicating substances. It plays havoc with my bladder. And I'd be struck off in a whisker if the Medical Council ever found out.

HOLMES: For Pete's sake, it's only a pinch of coke. Never hurt anyone. Good stuff too, by all accounts. Fresh from the docks.

WATSON: Confound it, Holmes, what on earth would the great British public think if they knew that the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson were discussing gay dogs and goats in stockings and suspenders and cocaine?

HOLMES: Watson, I strongly suspect that if they knew, book sales would go through the roof and we'd become a global brand. Then we'd be able to retire to sunnier climes, with totty and booze and barbiturates beyond our wildest dreams.

WATSON: Oh, abomination, sugar and spice! Are the public so puerile, so base, so corrupted that moral upstanding has no place in society any more?

HOLMES: Never did, Watty Poos. It is but a meaningless, stifling veneer through which we breathe. Now feast your hooter on this. Go on.

(TOBY HOWLS IN DELIGHT IN THE DISTANCE)

WATSON: Oh, Toby! We're going to hell in a basket for this, Holmes, mark my words.

(BUTCH THE BULLDOG GRUNTS LOUDLY IN DELIGHT IN THE DISTANCE)

WATSON: Oh, woe are we. (SNIFFS COKE) Oh... Great shit, Holmes.

HOLMES: Indeed, Watson. Gay dogs on cocaine at eleven.

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

The milk of human kindness
Doth runneth over
And turneth sour
And clot
And stinketh to high heaven.

PUBISTAN WRITERS SUPPORT CAMPAIGN TO REVIVE INSOLENT RUDDER

COMMUNIQUE FROM COLLECTIVE OF WRITERS OF THE PUBISH TO THE GREAT INQUISITOR ON INNER NET:

My Dear!

Please release great comrade and eternal friend of Pubish revolution, Tim Ljunggren, to continue on the paths - revolutionary, economic, social, five year orientated and promulgated through institutional instruments of rehabilitation - to the glory of the worldwide creative thrust!

Thank you!

We kiss you!

But not your ass!

Verdimita "Steve" Ripyorebollokov

PS Is me, Maxim. Ha! Pull finger out, Tim. Let sun shine in!

You remember this below?


NOTES FROM PUBISTAN PART 3 – by Maxim Ripyorebollokov
Translated by Stewart Sumner

Dear readers, it is me again, Maxim Ripyorebollokov, the future of literature in the unfree world! Greetings to you all! As I squeeze the final drops of fervent dew from the horn of the affair with Larissa, Miss Pube 2007, a vegetarian, I thus seek the ultimate clarity (Trans – the Pubish word for red wine and lucidity are the same – klarkost. It is unclear what Maxim means to convey here). But where to find clarity? To shout loudly from the tree branch? To shudder in front of farmyard animal traffic? To pluck hair from a rabbit till the bladder is on display? “Drink to thine clarity”, the great Pubish poet Dmitri Ripyorebollokov – no relation – proclaimed as night was drawing in over State Rabbit Farm 6.5 one hoary night post-Revolution (Trans – you’re on your own here, the meaning is all but lost on a non-Pube).

O Sweet clarity, come forth to me. Show yourself, if thou’st dare. I was deep in thoughtfulness at the office yesterday when I was approached from behind by the man they call Spider. Officially, he is chief of quality control and a fine sculptor, which is a amplitudinous shame since sculpture was banned in the Second Decree of the Post-Revolution Phase of Our Great Revolution. So Spider – genuine name Richard but Spider since he is full of mischief and malice and crawls rather than walks. Also, he is deceptively quick to pounce. “So,” I said, “Spider, you are here!” “Yes,” Spider said, “I am. I have recipe for rabbit cake. You want?” I suspected a trap. “Yes, all right, Spider. Please.” Ha! He gave me no recipe, just the price to pay for such top secret information. You know, the last time rabbit cake was made in Pubistan was in the cruel, foreboding, winter of ’76. That was when we still had an abundance of cream. For your intrigue, now a bowl of imported cream cost 2 Pubes on blackest market. That is roughly 10 million of your American dollars! So anyway, I watched intently Spider with his hairy legs as he slowly crawled back to his darkened corner by the trap door to the exit used for employees who have displeased the furtherance of the glorious State of Pubistan in some despicable way. Sometimes, it is possible to believe Spider is indeed a spider and that it is my self-deception which maintains him to be a human being, but that way madness lies, and the trap door.

What does Spider want in life? What can he hope for? Will he fall through the trap door before he has realised his dream of assembling the greatest collection of octopedes the world outside Pubistan has never seen? Despite the fact that he is truly creepy and smells like a rabbit’s genitals after a prolonged session of heightened activity, I wish him only happiness and a resolution of his mother’s gender reassignment issues.

But sorry. Really. Where is the literature? You ask. I present you with two paragraphs of my novel, which unfortunately, do not follow sequentially, consequentially or even logically from what has gone before. You like? There is hope.

Night fell. The burrowing began. He stretched his arm out. The hand was not there. Just the newspaper with no news and the walking stick with no handle. They would find him. Soon. The trail of imported peanut butter would lead them to his resting place. His movements were slight. More twitching than calculated. The in-tray of despair mounted ever higher.

Were you gripped? And this paragraph. I think this might be the end. We shall see. Forgive me, for it is short.

The words tumbled. The wind blew. The extremely happy rabbit clucked. A pause. A heartbeat. Silence.

Oh, joy extended beyond, my friends. The literary journey continues. I must extinguish the candle now and think of Marsha, Miss Pube 2008, a carnivore. She could partake of my meat any day.

Long live The Pubish Writers Union!

Hail words together! May they never be parted!

I kiss you!

Maxim

THE CUCUMBER OF LOVE ONCE SCORNED

WINNER OF THE 2009 PROMOTING THE RESPONSIBLE USE OF CUCUMBERS AND OTHER VEGETABLES IN LOVING RELATIONSHIPS POETRY PRIZE

THE CUCUMBER OF LOVE ONCE SCORNED

I offered her
my great throbbing
cucumber of love
But she didn't carrot all for it.

AND THE WINNER OF THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE 2009...

BARACK OBAMA REFUSES TO ACCEPT THE PRIZE AND INSTEAD GIVES IT TO THE BIRD & BUFFALO, FOR EXTRAORDINARY EFFORTS TO PROMOTE PEACE AND MUTUAL WARM GOAT SACKS IN FINLAND IN OUR LIFETIME.

IN AN ABORTED ACCEPTANCE SPEECH, DUE TO INTERNECINE FIGHTING, WOLVERINE INDIFFERENCES AND FERAL FESTERINGS, THE AULD BUFF SAID...

FINLAND, LAND OF THE FINN, THEY SAID YOU WERE FINNISHED, THEY SAID FINNS WEREN'T GOING SO GREAT, THEY SAID YOU COULD NO LONGER ENJOY THE FINNER THINGS IN LIFE, THEY SAID THE FINN STOPS HERE... NO, HERE! NO, HERE! OH, HERE THEN! THEY SAID HUCKLEBERRY FINN WAS NO FINN AT ALL. BUT AS THE OLD FINNISH SAYING GOES, TO CRACK A RABBIT YOU MUST FIRST GREASE THE PITCH FORK AND LOWER THE RUMP VERY GENTLY. FINN OF ME WHENEVER YOU'RE LONELY. HELL SINK YE NEVER! BURY YOUR IRREVERENCES AND PREPARE THE BOAT. THE RUDDER IS STIRRING, TOGETHER YOU CAN BE INFATUATED. LIVE O FINNICLE ONES! AND THRIVE IN YOUR FORESTS SO DARK! FLY! FLY! FLY... FINNAIR!!!

THE REAL STEWART SUMNER REPOSED TO PROFANITY FAIR

BUFFALO: Is dat you, dude?

BIRD: WotdaFachenbach! My own mother, selling the family jewels to Profanity Fair. Does family honour mean nothing in a rectal world?

BUFFALO: So you ARE Stewart Sumner!

BIRD: Merely a Doppelganger.

BUFFALO: Dude, that IS you!

BIRD: OK, OK, OK! It's me. Yes, I am THE Stewart Sumner, the writer. Happy now?

BUFFALO: I don't believe you.

BIRD: The camera doesn't lie.

BUFFALO: Dude, I've never met you. You could like the way this guy looks and pretend to be him, because you like the glamour and intrigue that goes with being a writer.

BIRD: Dude, I'm tired of the centrifuge. Maybe if I just fess up, MI5, the CIA, the FBI, Interpol, the Women's Institute and the Jehovah's Witnesses will finally leave me alone, already.

BUFFALO: Un-ber-feck-Inn-B-leave-ab-all. So you really are THE Stewart Sumner! I've read all your stuff. You're a friggin' genius!

BIRD: Thanks, Buff. You're not so bad yourself. I especially liked Moose Turd Pie. A modern classic of scatological entropy.

BUFFALO: Blushing here, dude.

BIRD: Ha! So you are THE Marcel DeClercq, literary powerhouse of Michigan.

BUFFALO: 'Fraid so.

BIRD: Wow. So they were right. I don't get it. Who did we think we were fooling?

BUFFALO: Our lovers, mostly. But that's another inventory.

BIRD: But dude...

BUFFALO: Yes, dude?

BIRD: You're always be da auld Buff to me.

BUFFALO: And you'll always be Birdy to me.

BIRD: Phew. So nothing's changed.

BUFFALO: Apart from the global recognition, ya mean? Nope.

BIRD: And the blog goes on.

BUFFALO: Yarp.

BIRD: Excrement.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

WARNING: The previous conversation does not constitute irreputable proof that the above individuals are who they say they are. And since the advent of PhotoShop, photographic evidence don't mean badgershit. You have been fooled. I mean warned.

COMING SOON: What Stewart Sumner said to his mum when he went home for tea to confront her over selling explicit images to reductable publications. INCLUDES FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY AND EXPLICIT LOW-FLYING SCONES.

THE SHIT SANDWICH GOES ON...

BUFFALO: Dude, I've just been told I have a 5% chance that I'll live.

BIRD: Well, don't blame me that you're on the CIA shit list. I mean, those fooklars have NO sense of humour whatsoever.

BUFFALO: How da fawk was I to know they'd tap our Skype? I mean, you and me, we're just shootin' the breeze, innit. Messin' with the pessin'. Rumping the trumpet.

BIRD: Jealousy, dude. There are some comedians out there that can't take our cult status. They'll ask you a few questions, take a few jugshots, shove a meerkat up yer arse then toss you back where you belong.

BUFFALO: You don't understand, I've been implicated. I'm heading for the state penal tensionary.

BIRD: Dude, you're innocent.

BUFFALO: I know, but they need someone to take a hit.

BIRD: A fall guy?

BUFFALO: You got it.

BIRD: I see. So the shit sandwich goes on...

BUFFALO: Jeez. I need this as much as I need another asshole. Maybe we should come clean about Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner.

BIRD: It won't make any difference.

BUFFALO: But the intercepts...

BIRD: Hearsay. Coded messages at best.

BUFFALO: Dude, if I'm Marcel DeClercq...

BIRD: A-ha.

BUFFALO: And you're Stewart Sumner...

BIRD: Right.

BUFFALO: Then who are the Bird and Buffalo?

BIRD: Oh, yeah. That's a good one. Well... they might just be the guys that Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner aspire to being when the constraints of a tyrannical imaginary delusionary non-participatory gyratory construct are set free.

BUFFALO: Or total impostors who deserve all the fame and recognition that comes their way.

BIRD: Or a satirical monolithic retrospective vision of the future in the past tense.

BUFFALO: Wotdafachenbach! You've got it, dude.

BIRD: Collateral thinking, doncha know.

BUFFALO: Rock on, Marcel and Stewie!

BIRD: Seize the whey!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

CIA INTERCEPT LEAKED TO WORLD MEDIA - CODENAME ARF, ARF TEMPLATE 28871593 DONUT

REPRODUCED HERE VERBATIM.

"Dude, they're on to us. From now on, to evade capture, or any responsibility for our actions or thoughts or our debt to society bullshit, we MUST, repeat MUST talk in code. Dude, are you there? How's the scooter? Still on holiday? Eh? Eh? Arf, arf! Shit. Shouldn't have said that. Arf, arf! I mean. Come in, autumn! Dude! This is beyond an enclosure, innit. What's the title? Quick. We don't have much time. I'm telling you, that Marcel DeClercq is a frigging genius. Learn more, compose edit, preview. Dude, you're fading. Html! H-T-M-L! Fugget! Whither the REAL Stewart Sumner? Moderation posts. Comment. Monetise. Template. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Dashboard free. Repeat DASHBOARD FREE. Dude? Dude?"
END OF TRANSMISSION

SO YOU'RE TELLING US THAT WE'RE MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND STEWART SUMNER! HA! HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW MUCH PUBLICITY MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND STEWART SUMNER ARE GOING TO GET OUT OF YOUR ILLEGAL WIRE TAPPING? HMM? HMM??? THESE TWO, BY ALL ACCOUNTS, EXTREMELY TALENTED WRITERS AND THOROUGHLY NICE CHAPS ARE GONNA MAKE MILLIONS OUT OF THIS.

EGG ON YOUR FACE, CIA!

EGG ON YOUR FACE.

HEAR THAT GUFFAWING?

'TIS THE GREAT MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND THE FAB STEWART SUMNER LAFFING ALL THE WAY TO THE BANK.

ARF, ARF!

THE BIRD & BUFFALO FINALLY EXPOSED?

SPECULATION IN THE WORLD MEDIA IS RIFE THAT FINALLY, AFTER YEARS OF INVESTIGATIONS AND TIP OFFS, THE TRUE IDENTITY OF THE BIRD & BUFFALO CAN NOW BE REVEALED...

ACCORDING TO CIA AND MI5 INTERCEPTS, A CERTAIN MARCEL DeCLERCQ & AN ALLEGED STEWART SUMNER HAVE BEEN COMMUNICATING "IN A WAY NOT UNLIKE THE BIRD & BUFFALO". THE EVIDENCE GOES ON... AND ON...

MEANWHILE, EXHIBIT A...

Kite Flyer from Michelle Ouellette on Vimeo.

Illustration & Animation - Michelle Ouellette
Story by - Marcel DeClercq
Edit & Sound - Chad Dogby

IS THIS WORK OF THE AULD BUFF? YOU, CITIZENS OF B&B WORLD MUST DECIDE.

WE, BIRD & BUFFALO, KNOW THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH, BUT OUR LIPS ARE SEALED BY AN INTERNATIONAL GAGGING ORDER 2134564a PENDING.

BUT WE ASK YOU... CAN THIS POETRY...

I am
On the top
Looking down
Wondering
Why
I
See
Only You
And your
Trout

..WRITTEN BY AN 10-YEAR-OLD STEWART SUMNER TO IMPRESS HIS PRIMARY SCHOOLTEACHER, Ms JUMPMEE - WE KID THEE NOT, TRUE NAME! -

CAN THIS POSSIBLY BE COMPARED TO BIRDY'S RECENT BITINGLY SATIRICAL POETIC SPIN ON ANGST IN INNER CITY LONDON?

In the city
Inner
Bitter
Chewy
Bluey
Fooey
Inner
City
Angst

WELL????

EXPOSED? WE SHALL SEE!

ARF, ARF!