Beastmaster's Not Realistic, Apparently

After a late night spent at Ukrainian Hank's club, he, myself, Mads, my Norwegian companion, and a bunch of chicks came back to the apartment for the afterparty. In true afterparty style, I grabbed a bunch of two-buck chuck and cheap champagne, and snacks of all sorts, including some 6-year aged parm. I switched on the TV, and after searching for a second, stopped on The Beastmaster. I figured it was the only thing good on at 3 AM, considering I didn't see She Spies anywhere. Everyone seemed fine with the decision of TV show, except Mads.

"Did he just talk to a bird? You can't talk to a bird."

"He's The Beastmaster," I said. "He talks to all animals."

"Yeah, but birds don't talk. They don't have the brain capacity to develop language like we do. All he'd get is a pattern of instincts like: must eat now, must fly away, must build nest..."

"I don't think he talks to them, per se, but sees what they see."

"No, he was talking to that one."

"That could mean anything. He could've been talking to it as we would any pet. Or I think in this case the bird is a guy that a sorcerer turned into a bird, so there's a human in there."

"Yeah, but just because a human was turned into a bird, it doesn't mean he's got a human's consciousness. You can't fit a 1400 cc brain into a bird's."

"He's a sorcerer, he can do anything. I think you need to just chill out and watch the hot chicks."

"That's another thing. No woman would wear a skimpy outfit like that living in the forest. There's bugs, it's cold, she could get sunburn..."

I picked up the knife I was using for cutting the parm.

"Mads, I'll fucking kill you."