Day 167

Dear Diary,

I know one of the last things I said to you yesterday was I was gonna spend the night watchin’ ‘n’ waitin’ ‘n’ preparin’ to pounce on them two eldest Howiepupples, Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One, the minute they startin’ in doin’ sometin’ nefarious ‘n’ put a stop to it. Fortunately, at least for the time bein’, all their billion minus two brothers ‘n’ sisters is fast asleep ‘n’ snorin’ as only babies can snore. Unfortunately, I think they’d camed down with colds in the head, ‘n’ so the inside of the bus (bein’ me) is a’glop with snot ‘n’ slime. But hell, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from workin’ as a community bus for more years’n Methuselah’s had hot dinners, it’s that snot ‘n’ buggers ‘n’ slime washes off ‘n’ don’t hardly leave a stain.

Anyways, in spite o’the kids comin’ down with colds at an inopportune moment when I was occupied with other matters, such as puttin’ a stop to possibly illegal ‘n’ maybe even sinful activities on the part of their two eldest brothers, it was more’n I could’a axed for that they was sleepin’ ‘n’ out of my hair. In fact, I’d call it a major blessing, ‘n’ I’m so thankful to them that when all this is over I’m gonna take ‘em somewhere nice ‘n’ fun as a special treat. That is, if’n I ever gets me some fuel in my tank. Which I will, by hook or by crook.

Back to Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One. When I started in a’watchin’ them they was disguised as parcel post delivery men and was printin’ out address labels. These they affixed to the four pink gift boxes containing the four dead body rubber pleasurin’ dolly suits wot used to be occupied by Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Miss Luella Da Bunkle ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Beryl The Beauty Parlour hair-frizzer. And after they’d completed this task they shoved the addressed gift boxes into their delivery pouches – two in Claude’s ‘n’ two in Claude Minus One’s – and proceeded to march on over to the door. Unfortunately – ‘n’ this made me laugh so hard I actually snorted – neither Claude or his brother was tall enough to reach the door handle, on account of the door handle is about a metre or so off’n the floor ‘n’ neither of them’s more’n a coupl’a millimetres from start to finish.

Well, my laughter, which was more like the hysterics wot attacks you when someone’s suddenly runned over by a car that real laughter, completely overwhelmed me. ‘Course, I know it’s more a case of shock than anything else, and most of us feel really guilty ‘n’ bad about our behaviour afterwards. And even this time, when nobody’d been squished or put outta action ‘n’ it were merely the case of two future ASBO recipients not bein’ tall enough to reach the door handle, I felt ashamed of myself. I guess in spite of my bad language from time to time ‘n’ my tendency to blaspheme when I’m pissed off, I’ve still got a conscience (albeit not a very big one) ‘n’ I doesn’t like to hurt anyone. But in this case, I needn’t’ve worried on account of I don’t think neither Claude nor Claude Minus One even noticed my bad manners. In fact, when I finally settled down ‘n’ wiped the tears from my eyes (or my headlamps if’n you wants me to be accurate), I saw that the two was ignorin’ me as completely as if I’d never been born. Ol’ Claude was busy constructing a stairway outta his little sleepin’ brothers ‘n’ sisters (somethin’ I would’a thought of as baby abuse only it didn’t even seem to wake ‘em up), ‘n’ Claude Minus One was busy sniffin’ his butthole. After the stairways was completed ‘n’ Claude’d runned all the necessary health ‘n’ safety checks, the two of’ em – luggin’ their delivery pouches – climbed their way up to the top.

‘Course, as I could’a told ‘em if’n they’d axed, they still wasn’t tall enough to reach the door handle. As you’d expect, this pissed off Ol’ Claude, ‘n’ to vent his ire he kicked Claude Minus One off’n the stairway. In fact, he kicked him so hard (right in the nose too, on account of that was the part nearest him) he flew across the bus (bein’ me) ‘n’ out through the space where my windscreen used to be before it were blasted out. Claude Minus One sailed about another hundert yards ‘n’ landed with a splat, but being that the ground is soft due to the tonnes o’baby Howiepupple poop coatin’ it from here to eternity, he didn’t seem to be injured in the slightest. In fact, he got right up ‘n’ brushed hisself off ‘n’ stuck out his tongue ‘n’ said “Nya Nya,” and marched away towards the shack which’d been his birthplace ‘n’ home.

As you can imagine, this pissed off Claude even more, ‘n’ he turned bright red ‘n’ stared at me, ‘n’ I swear from the look he gived me if I’d been able to run away you wouldn’t’a seen my dust. “You lookin’ at me?” he axed, ‘n’ unfortunately I had to nod my head on account of that’s the way my headlamps was pointed. And because wot he’d said to me was out of a movie, I automatically returned the favour, ‘n’ outta my mouth popped, “I’d love to kiss you but I’ve just washed my hair.”

Fortunately, that broke the ice ‘n’ both of us traded old movie quotes for a coupl’a hours. He then looked at his watch ‘n’ his hair stood on end ‘n’ he shrieked, “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date...” And because we’d been havin’ so much fun I continued in the spirit of the occasion ‘n’ finished his sentence, “… no time to say hello goodbye I’m late I’m late I’m late.”

Well, to say Ol’ Claude froze in his tracks would be a understatement. He then shook his head ‘n’ swore under his breath, “dumbfuck shithead no-account do-nothin’ brainless piece pile o’shit bus, can’t you see I needs your help?”

Well, this sort’a caught me by surprise, but for once instead of pullin’ at my forelock ‘n’ sayin’ “Yes Sir, No Sir, three bags full Sir, kick me in the balls, Sir,” I remembered we was all in this mess called life together ‘n’ I was sick ‘n’ tired of everyone’s shenanigans. And so I stood tall ‘n’ looked at Ol’ Claude straight in the eye ‘n’ said, “And why exactly should I be helpin’ you, young man?”

Straight away I could see I’d said the right thing, on account of he looked down at his feet ‘n’ sighed ‘n’ then he sat down. A tear trickled outta his left eye ‘n’ he looked at me again. Only this time he were pleadin’ ‘n’ I could see he was in trouble ‘n’ in over his head ‘n’ runnin’ scared.

“Why don’t you tell me all about it,” I said, “sometimes two heads’re better than one.”

Ol’ Claude thought for a minute ‘n’ sighed again. “Okay,” he said, “Only please put your pencil ‘n’ Dear Diary away. Wot I’ve gotta tell you is for your ears only.”

So you see, Dear Diary, that’s how things stand at the moment. He wants to talk to me confidential-like, ‘n’ since I gotta get down to the bottom of all the strange shit wot’s been happenin’ since the flood, I’m gonna hafta go along. However, seein’ as how he can’t rightly see wot I’m doin, on account of I’m so big ‘n’ he’s so small, I’ll leave your pages open so you can listen in. That way if somethin’ bad happens, you can bear witness later. I’m more’n a little uneasy, Dear Diary, and in case this is the end, I’m kissin’ you on your cover for old time’s sake, ‘n’ I’ll say so endeth whatever’s endethin’ ‘n’ I’m proud to be your friend.

Day 166

Dear Diary,

Well, I’m happy to report the four dead body rubber person erotic pleasure suits is now happily back on the back seat and talkin’ about their adventures in the puddle. And as much as I almost hate to admit it, bein’ around old-fashioned dumbfucks instead of politically correct cans o’worms seems like a breath o’fresh air to me. I guess havin’ lived on the island so long with idiots such as Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny ‘n’ Floozie Da Smelley has spoiled me for anything smackin’ of worthiness. And if’n that makes me more of a dumbfuck islander than a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 Bus, well, so be it.

For far I don’t really know wot happened to the dead body rubber suits, either when they got mysteriously put into the bus in the first place or subsequently, when Ol’ Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms threw ‘em out the back window ‘n’ into the puddle. You see, these particular dead bodies has this bad habit o’screamin’ ‘n’ yellin’ ‘n’ gabberin’ all at the same time, which is sort’a fun to listen to but not very effective in the Conveyin’ of Information Department. And unfortunately for me, on account of I’ve suddenly been placed in the childminder category after their old babysitter, Belvedere Tin O’Worms, served both hisself ‘n’ the billion worms wot was ridin’ around in him, to his charges for breakfast in bed, I ain’t gotta hell of a lot of time to carry out my investigatin’. Now you know I’m sort’a fond o’kids in a impersonal way, as long as they doesn’t kick the back of my seats or slash my tyres or ruin my custom-pimped paintwork, but I’ll be the first to admit they can be wearyin’ at times, and one of them times is now. You recall they’d been singed a lullaby before I went over to collect the dead bodies. Well, that worked a treat, until of course dead Ol’ Miss Cabbage ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician got all excited ‘n’ their not-so-dulcet eardrum-puncturin’ decibels woked the brats back up again. Only this time the Howiepupples’ve caught on that somethin’ is, as they says, afoot, and no amount of lullabyin’ ‘n’ bribes of chocolate velvet puddings or promises of violent computer games is gonna make ‘em go back to bed. Fuck. As you’ve probably guessed, I had no choice but to let ‘em crowd around me while I does my investigatin’ of the dead bodies. Not ideal, especially considerin’ there’s a billion of ‘em jostlin’ for position, ‘n’ no matter how I tries to keep ‘em in line they still manages to get too close ‘n’ trample all over the evidence.

You may have noticed, Dear Diary, that I’ve failed to mention Ol’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One. I’m gonna be upfront ‘n’ truthful with you ‘n’ admit that the of the reasons for this is that I’d plum forgot all about ‘em, which is wot happens when a roomful of obstreperous kids makes you overlook the two teacher’s pets sittin’ quietly in the corner ‘n’ plottin’ to take over the world or feed rhubarb to your favourite pig. And that’s exactly wot happened here. While I was fully occupied in getting’ the billion minus two Howiepupples sorted out, the other two was not only up to no good, they was bein’ downright dastardly ‘n’ showin’ a remarkable talent for major criminal careers to boot. Let me tell you wot they was doin’.

You rememberate a couple or three or four days ago when out of the blue Miss Cabbage ‘n’ the others showed up outta the blue ‘n’ was hidin’ out on my backseat. And you probably also recall the next time I noticed ‘em they was nothing but empty rubber sex-toy dolly pleasurin’ suits ‘n’ was folded ‘n’ packed up in pink gift cardboard gift boxes. We’ll I couldn’t see how this’d been done ‘n’ I knowed there weren’t no great illusionists in the area performin’ important slights o’hand ‘n’ I doesn’t believe for a minute that Ol’ God’d take His time out from His busy schedule to dabble in wot seems to me to be the dumbfuck ‘n’ inconsequential – unless of course He needs to unwind after a busy day at the office ‘n’ there’s nothin’worth watchin’ on the box. So wot I done was I put the situation down to bein’ just one o’them things. And even though I’ve finally started on my serious investigations now, I wasn’t seein’ no hope of advancin’ any further ‘n’ was about to shrug my shoulders (metaphorically-speakin’, bein’ that I’m a bus ‘n’ ain’t got none) when, not more’n a half a second ago I happened to catch sight of Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One outta the corner of my eye. And do you know wot they was doin’? For a start, they’d disguised themselves by puttin’ on fake brown deliveryman uniforms, complete with humiliatin’ polyester shorts ‘n’ yellow nametags on the breast pockets of their humiliatin’ polyester short-sleeved shirts. And second of all, they was fillin’ out forms on their hand-held electronic computers wot’re connected to their headquarters. And third of all, they was attachin’ address labels to four o’them brown shippin’ envelopes, ‘n’ coincidentally (or not) these squishy shippin’ envelopes was exactly the same size as the four pink gift boxes wot the four dead bodies’d been packed into. Well, the minute I saw all this I had no choice but to say “fuck me with a shoppin’ trolley ‘n’ stoke me up with eggnog!” So THEY – Claude ‘n’ Ol’ bottom-sniffer, Claude Minus One – was behind this latest round o’strange ‘n’ possibly illegal doings!

There is nothin’ for it, Dear Diary, but for once in my life I’ve simply got to put a stop to bad stuff. I’ve saw the glint in them two eldest Howiepupples’s eyes ‘n’ it don’t exactly spell Altar Boy of the Month. And fuck me if’n this time out I’m not gonna be sneakier’n a kid cheatin’ on his exams. I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see them ‘n’ that I’ve given up on my investigation ‘n’ have decided to devote my life to the bringin’ up of the billion first batch Howiepupples wot’ve been dumped on me like orphan babies under a rhubarb bush (which, I suppose is true, though not literally). But all the time I’m feignin’ cupidity ‘n’ glarin’ dumbfuckness ‘n’ behavin’ like a regular reader of the tabloids, I’m gonna be a’watchin’ and a’waitin’ ‘n’ getting’ myself ready to pounce!

The problem is, Dear Diary, I needs all my wits about me just now, as well as both hands. So wot I’m gonna hafta do is put away my pencil. Forgive me I won’t be tellin’ it to you while it happens, but wot I’m gonna do is leave you open to tomorrow’s page ‘n’ hope you can absorb some o’the excitement through osmosis (or somethin’ like that). Anyways, I’m goin’ on duty now. Hopefully, tomorrow I can say so endeth whatever it is wot is fuckin’ up my head ‘n’ peace of mind ‘n’ so beginneth the next chapter in our lives!

Day 165

Dear Diary,

First thing this mornin’, I had me two urgent tasks to attend to, namely cookin’ ‘n’ servin’ breakfast in bed to the first batch of one billion Howiepupple cute-as-a-button youngsters, and rescuin’ the dead bodies of Miss Cabbage ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician from the puddle outside wot they’d landed in after’n Ol’ Belvedere Tin O’Worms’d throwed ‘em outta the window. The first wasn’t too onerous or difficult, on account of everybody knows Howiepupple youngsters’ all-time favourite breakfast in bed is mished up worms on toast served up on a tin plate. And Ol’ Belvedere, wot’s nothin’ if not knowledgeable about the carin’ ‘n’ feedin’ ‘n’ bringin’ up of Howiepupples, comed up trumps when the time arrived, ‘n’ he offered a billion of his own personal worms outta his own personal can for the repast ‘n’ also sacrificed part o’his tin self to be made up into tiny, easy to use ‘n’ convenient ‘n’ never-wash ecologically-sound plates, perfectly designed for the Howiepupples to handle. Initially I’d hesitated to ask him if’n he’d mind givin’ of hisself for such a noble cause, but he was the one wot offered to help out. “Hell, Mr. Bus,” he said as I was a’hummin’ ‘n’ a’hawin’ ‘n’ a’wonderin’ how I was goin’ to bring up the subject, “this is wot us cans o’worms does for a livin’.” Well, as you can imagine I was took aback ‘n’ sore amazed by his generosity, ‘n’ I was also feelin’ more’n a little bit guilty about all the bad things I’d said ‘n’ thought about him over the past coupl’a days. And he must’a read my thoughts, on account of he said cans o’worms was used to bein’ misunderstood ‘n’ havin’ their motives misinterpreted, but as far as they was concerned it was all water off’n a duck’s back. “We may not be appreciated all that much, but hell, cans is cans ‘n’ worms is worm. We’re all of us recyclable ‘n’ replaceable, ‘n’ quite frankly, us cans o’worms is as proud as punch to be doin’ wot we does!” All this was so new to me, ‘n’ I was so used to thinkin’ of cans as somethin’ I enjoyed runnin’ over on the street ‘n’ blowin’ up with firecrackers ‘n’ squashin’ flat for the recyclin’ people, that it’d never occurred to me they was alive ‘n’ not only almost human but superior to humans in a shitload of ways wot counted most. “Jeeze Louise, Misther Belvedere,” I reposted back to him, “I quake ‘n’ tremble in admiration ‘n’ I lay myself at your feet in abject worshipfulness.”

“Come, come, Mr. Bus,” he answered back as if he were nothin’ special ‘n’ wot he did he did on a daily basis and it were only normal behaviour. “Me ‘n’ my worms is just one ol’ can o’worms in long line of cans o’worms. We’re born, we live a few hours or even a coupl’a days, ‘n’ then our little worms is used for fishin’ bait or planted in a garden or grounded up for fertiliser, and we ourselves ends up where all good cans go in the end. In a landfill or bein’ recycled into a newborn baby can or a car or endin’ our days thrown by the side or a road or river ‘n’ rustin’ into a derelict home for grubs ‘n’ creepy crawlies.” He stopped for a few moments ‘n’ sucked on his teeth is a way I found particularly irritatin’, ‘n’ then changed the subject. “Do you know wot becomed of Ol’ Everard?” he asked is a grave ‘n’ serious manner wot told me he wasn’t about to spin a yard or tell a dirty joke.

“No,” I replied. “I guess I assumed he was lookin’ at the next three generations of Howiepupples for Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ her mangy no good rabid dog of a husband.”

“Thank God that wasn’t his fate,” sighed Belvedere wistfully, before fallin’ silent ‘n’ then sayin’ “farewell ‘n’ adios ‘n’ I’ll be seein’ you in a better world” to a coupl’a worms wot was about to volunteer for breakfast duty.

I waited for him to talk some more, but instead of continuin’ his dissertation, he bowed low to me ‘n’ without warnin’ cut hisself into a billion tiny tin plates on which his worms, havin’ mished themselves into a pile o’mash when I wasn’t looking, distributed themselves in a billion tidy portions. My mouth fell open, ‘n’ as the Howiepupples beganned gobblin’ up their breakfast ‘n’ usin’ their plates for flyin’ saucers, I blurted out, “but you didn’t tell me wot happened to Everard!”

Well, just before he ceased to exist, the last piece o’him – wot fortunately enough was also the scrap wot had the mouth in it – laughed a ironical chortle ‘n’ said, “I wasn’t gonna tell you, but wot the hell, it don’t really matter none.” But then just as he was gonna let me in on his secret, one of the Howiepupples, the fat one with the biggest appetite, gobbled him down ‘n’ burped.

“Fuck!” I said to myself. “Now I’ll never know.”

So, that was that as far as Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms was concerned, and here I was, left alone with a billion first batch Howiepupples ‘n’ without a can o’worms to educate ‘em ‘n’ feed ‘em ‘n’ see to their needs, includin’ changin’ their nappies ‘n’ burpin’ them after meals.

“Fuck!” I said again with vigour ‘n’ emphasis.

“Fuck!” I snapped a third time. “Wot the fuck am I gonna do?” “Why?” I wondered, does I always end up on the receivin’ end of a great big old mess. I’m a bus (albeit a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 with a handcrafted coach ‘n’ bespoke upholstery). All I does is haul folks back ‘n’ forth ‘n’ forth ‘n’ back. I don’t do nobody no harm. I try not to be too crabby, at least when my seats isn’t peed on or when dumbfuck brats don’t kick my tyres or scratch my paintwork. I’m a bus. A fuckin’ bus.

Just then my pitty party rant was interrupted by the yells of the four dead body personal erotic rubber dolly suits callin’ from the mud puddle where they’d been sittin’ for the last coupl’a hours. “Yo Bus,” one of them shouted (‘n’ I recognised the voice as belongin’ to Miss Cabbage). “Come ‘n’ git us or we’ll report you the call centre for passenger abuse ‘n’ you’ll be turn into a garbage can!”

God Bless Ol’ Miss Cabbage. The sound of her voice snapped me outta my blue funk ‘n’ brunged me back to my happy self. Wot I’m gonna do now is rescue ‘em ‘n’ bring ‘em back in ‘n’ lay ‘em out again on my back seat. I don’t think the Howiepupples will mind all that much. In fact, they might like the company of loonies ‘n’ strange dead folks wot’re really made outta rubber. It’ll make a change from goodie two shoes cans o’worms wot’re forever sacrificin’ themselves in the name of doin’ good. As I always say, a little good goes a long way ‘n’ too much of it rots your teeth. And there ain’t nothin’ good about this particular bunch o’dead folks, ‘n’ as far as the Howiepupples is concerned, the change will be as good as a rest. Anyways, I’ve sanged a après petit dejeuner lullaby to the little darlin’ ‘n’ I think they’ll be out cold for at least a half an hour, and that should give me time to bring their new rubber babysitters in from the cold. Please don’t make any noise or rustle your pages ‘n’ wake ‘em up before I return, Dear Diary. I don’t want ‘em to open their tiny eyes ‘n’ think they’re all alone ‘n’ defenceless. Not that I’m worried they’ll be frightened to death. I’m only scared they will take advantage of the situation ‘n’ throw a wild party and destroy my interior even more than it’s been destroyed already.

I’ve just finished the lullaby, ‘n’ so I’ll put away my pencil ‘n’ say so endeth the lullaby ‘n’ I’ll be back with dead ‘n’ rubberised dumbfucks before you can count to ten.

Day 164

Dear Diary,

I decided to take a night off from worrying about wot was goin’ on in my life and instead I invited Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms ‘n’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One, plus the first batch of a billion Howiepupples, in for tea ‘n’ scones with clotted cream ‘n’ fresh strawberries. ‘Course, there really wasn’t any tea or scones or any of them other goodies I’d like to have served, on account of I’m only a bus stranded on a beach and there ain’t no shops or cute little cafes in sight wot can supply these actual aforementioned victuals. However, since none of us have ever actually ate such edibles we enjoyed lookin’ at some photos ‘n’ imagining wot everything must’a be tastin’ like in places where they really does serve ‘em up. Belvedere, wot appears to be a cousin or somethin’ like that of Ol’ Everard, the original can o’worms, turned out to be a most agreeable ‘n’ entertainin’ individual. He was devoted to the first batch of one billion Howiepupples and couldn’t say enough good things about the eldest two, Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One. “‘Course, I’d prefer it, aesthetically speakin’, if’n Claude Minus One’d get a new hobby. I can’t say a life o’snortin’ his brother’s backside hole is any guarantee of financial prosperity ‘n’ spiritual tranquillity, but it’s his life ‘n’ if’n that’s wot he wants, then I’ll back him up regardless of wot folks says about him bein’ a preevert ‘n’ a bumboy.” It’s nice to hear a caregiver bein’ supportive about his charges instead of always harpin’ ‘n’ carpin’ ‘n’ talkin’ trash.

I axed Belvedere how Ol’ Everard was ‘n’ he said he was plain tuckered out. Crispy Crinkles, who as you know was Misther Howard Donald Da Fardle before he becomed the mother of the world’s new re-population project, has been extra busy fulfillin’ her maternal obligations, but so far none o’the new batches of a billions Howiepupples have produced responsible citizens. “Wot?” I axed, “Ain’t there no more like Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One?” “Unfortunately, the answer is no,” replied Belvedere, sighin’ deeply ‘n’ profoundly. “All of the new Howiepupples, and so far they’ve been three more batches of one billion each, plus one smaller accidental batch of fifty-three, have took after their father character-wise, and are nothin’ but mangy rabid curs with attitude problems.” Ol’ Belvedere broke off with a wave of the hand and handed out homework assignments to Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One to distribute to his other charges. It was only after they’d all settled down to revisin’ whatever it was they was revisin’ that he returned his attention to me ‘n’ our discussion. “Today, it’s long division, in case you’re interested,” he said, indicatin’ the subject matter of the homework. “Don’t they use calculators?” I axed innocently, recallin’ how things was back on the island in the days before the flood when there was schools ‘n’ brats ‘n’ a population wot couldn’t tie their own shoes without electronical assistance ‘n’ textin’ their feet. Belvedere gaved me a strangely old-fashioned look ‘n’ said, “We don’t use such things anymore, on account of children wot doesn’t know their tables grows up to be dumbfucks.” Not havin’ any experience with childrens myself, other than as a school bus on days when the Ford Transit was pretendin’ to be sick ‘n’ I couldn’t get out of it, I kept my counsel ‘n’ didn’t express an opinion one way or t’other. However, havin’ had more’n a few run-ins with dumbfucks, none of whom could add two plus two without equalling seventeen and a half, I secretly jumped up and down ‘n’ said ‘hurray’.

I cogitated a little over the implications of wot Ol’ Belvedere’d told me ‘n’ couldn’t think of anythin’ else to say about the first batch of one billion Howiepupples. They was clearly gearin’ up for success ‘n’ a life of endless possibilities ‘n’ the last thing they probably wanted or needed was some of my bad advice, ‘n’ so I changed the subject. “Is you all still livin’ in the shack on the beach?” I asked in a off-hand sort’a way. “Good God, not on your Auntie Nelly’s fanny,” he replied, a retort wot made the Howiepupples snigger ‘n’ giggles under their breaths. “That would never do, you know,” he continued. “Why?” I axed without thinkin’, “Isn’t that their home? Isn’t that where their mommy ‘n’ daddy live?” “Good God, Mr. Bus!” Belvedere exclaimed in a voice that shook my windows and would’a rattled my teeth if’n I had any. “Haven’t you seen the place? It’s a disgrace! A slum! A den of iniquity if ever there was one! And it’s full of shit! Worse than the East End in The Good Old Days! You can’t raise a family there, not unless your ambition is to cultivate a new generation of crackheads ‘n’ no account scumbags!”

Feelin’ suitably humbled ‘n’ mortified, I blushed ‘n’ apologised. “Where do you live then?”

“Well, right here, of course,” replied Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms in a resolute manner. “Right here on the bus!”

Right then ‘n’ there, Dear Diary, my heart sank down to the pit o’my stomach. I feared another round of “let’s take advantage o’the bus,” ‘n’ my motor oil runned colder’n a iced vodka martini. But instead of sayin’ “NO, YOU CAN’T STAY HERE” like anyone with a brain’d say, I muttered somethin’ about bein’ awful sorry but there wasn’t enough room on the bus, not with all them dead bodies in the back ‘n’ all the shit on my outside wot was a leftover from the time all the full nappies’d buried me in a pit. And typical of my luck, Belvedere wasn’t listenin’ to a single word or nuance ‘n’ obviously’d had made up his mind that my insides was where he ‘n’ his charges was gonna live. And fuck me, without further ado he ordered all the first batch of one billion Howiepupples to unpack their rucksacks ‘n’ take out their truckle beds ‘n’ clothes horses ‘n’ toothbrushes ‘n’ to make themselves at home. And all I could do was to stammer “Bu…bu…bu” ‘n’ watch helplessly as Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One supervised the little ones in unpackin’ accordin’ to Ol’ Belvedere’s instructions.

After everything was in its place accordin’ to Misther Belvedere’s way of doin’ things, the Howiepupples put their schoolbooks away in their little desks ‘n’ brushed their teeth ‘n’ washed their tiny faces ‘n’ kneeled down to say their prayers. “God Bless Misther Belvedere,” they sing-songed, “’n’ God Bless Mommy ‘n’ Daddy ‘n’ God Bless Misther Bus for givin’ us a new home and for servin’ us breakfast in bed tomorrow mornin’.” They then tucked themselves into bed with the help of Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One, after which they blowed out their bedside lamps ‘n’ heaven help us but Ol’ Sandman hisself came ‘n’ read them a story ‘n’ sprinkled sand in their eyes ‘n’ they all went to sleep ‘n’ snored as little kids does.

By this time I was so choked up and blubbin’ so loud on account of the Howiepupples includin’ me in their prayers, that I forgot to keep a eye on Ol’ Belvedere. I think I’d also forgot that, when you gets right down to it, he’s nothin’ but a can o’worms, and a can o’worms is the last thing you wants to open ‘n’ leave to its own devices. And fuck me, the minute I forgot about him, was I sorry. Right now he’s gone on back to the dead bodies ‘n’ is throwin’ ‘em outta the window, and while they may be nothin’ but deflated rubber pleasurin’ dollies made to look like three biddies ‘n’ one fake preacher, they still wasn’t impressed with that sort’a treatment ‘n’ called out to me for help. Fuckin’ fuck fuck, it’s another fine mess I’ve gotten myself in (to borrow a phrase wot can’t be beat). If only I hadn’t offended my little grey cells like I did, I might have a workin’ brain on my side ‘n’ be problem-free! Fuck O’fuckity, Dear Diary, I’m gonna hafta rescue the dead bodies and sort out this mess. Fuck! It’s gonna hafta be so endeth wot’d started out to be a promisin’ day but ended up in the toilet. Keep thinkin’ those good thoughts (a phrase I’d like to thank Ol’Rona Barrett for ‘n’ I hope she’s okay ‘n’ doin’ good). See you in the mornin’.

Day 163

Dear Diary,

You’re gonna be right proud of me on account of FINALLY I went ‘n’ got aggressive last night. I was just so fuckin’ fed-up with all the crap wot was goin’ on and which just kept right on a’happenin’ without no rhyme nor reason or explanafication. First it was one thing and then another and then another. Ad finitum dee tum dee tum. And the last straw wot broke this here particular camel’s back was when I started to hear the squeakin’ sound right in back of my wing mirrors in the sensitive spot where it irritates me the most. And this were compounded a coupl’a million times by a ticklin’ sensation I wasn’t prepared for and for which I hadn’t asked nobody to give me. Hell, I hadn’t even put in a advertisement in the back of a newspaper sayin’ “Erotic ticklin’ wanted by classic vintage Daimler Burlington bus wot’s stuck alone on a beach with his windscreen shot out by a dumbfuck gangster.” And so I went ‘n’ forgot my manners ‘n’ I beeped my hooter for all it was worth, ‘n’ I also set off both my fire alarm ‘n’ my burglar alarm. Fuck, if someone’s gonna fuck with me ‘n’ get up my nose then the least I can do is blow out their eardrums!

Needless to say, whomever it was wot was irritatin’ me stopped wot they was doin’ almost immediately in both the squeakin’ and the ticklin’ departments. And let me tell you somethin’, the silence wot followed was golden. My oil pan ‘n’ fuel line was both refreshed ‘n’ cleansed and to be honest, I felt better’n I have since the flood washed us all away a coupl’a months ago. And so wot I done next was I thought I’d settle the matter of the four dead bodies, plus the blowed-up body o’Missus Milly Da Fardle, ‘n’ get the whole fuckin’ business outta the way so’s I could get on with life. And so I went straight on back to where they was ‘n’ I examined ‘em from head to toe, bein’ extra careful not to miss out on nothing. And wot do you know, but all four o’them bodies had little adhesive labels glued on up by their neck holes, and they all said “Acme Rubber Personal Erotic Companion Dolly Company, Satisfaction Guaranteed.” Wot the fuck? Wot was the dead ‘n’ hollowed-out bodies formerly occupied by The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Beryl form Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women ‘n’ Miss Cabbage doin’ with labels like that stuck on the back of their necks? And wot was they doin’ masqueradin’ as rubber personal companion sexual satisfaction dollies when all o’their previous lives they’d been behavin’ like personal dissatisfaction pain-in-the-butt dumbfucks? I wasn’t sure I was ready to get a answer to these particular two questions, on account of I wasn’t sure my stomach was strong enough. So wot I done was rummage around under the seat where they was lyin’ folded up in their pretty pink gift boxes and I dragged out their heads from where they’d fell after rollin’ off’n the bodies a coupl’a days ago. And I tell you one thing, I must need spectaclulos or somethin’ like that, on account of them heads couldn’a be mistook for heads anymore’n a polecat can sing a Mozart aria. In fact, they was nothin’ but four big old watermelons with softboiled eggs for eyes ‘n’ gherkins for noses ‘n’ little American-style donuts for mouths. Fuck me with a burnin’ pyre ‘n’ keep me home from school! I knowed they was heads last time I sawed ‘em! I may not always look where I’m goin’ when I’m drivin’ down the street, but fuck it, even on my blindest days when my driver’s doin’ somethin’ nasty to my gear lever, I can tell a head from a watermelon!

Well, Dear Diary, as you can image I ranted ‘n’ raved ‘n’ expelled a shitload of evil black discharge from my tailpipe, ‘n’ then I settled down and looked at them heads again. And wouldn’t you know it but they may’ve been watermelons, but whoever’d done their makeover’d been one hellova artist in the makeover department. ‘Course, up close ‘n’ personal you could tell they wasn’t the real thing, but when the light was a flatterin’ pinkish peach ‘n’ they was wearin’ a attractive hat ‘n’ veil, even their nearest ‘n’ dearest would’ve mistook ‘em for the genuine article from across a crowded room. Sort’a the same principle as when a human bein’ gets a facelift ‘n’ has a coupl’a gallons o’Botoxification injected into their wrinkly bits. So, I guess I can forgive myself after all for thinkin’ the heads was real. But why pull this switcheroo? Why take away the real heads in the first place? Wot did it all mean? Wot was the significance of puttin’ four rubber personal satisfaction dollies with melon heads on my back seats, ‘n’ why after their head’d fell off, had the bodies been packed into charmin’ pink gift boxes with hand calligraphied name tags? And was the other dead person, namely Missus Milly Da Fardle wot’d blowed up while behavin’ like a balloon, also a rubber personal satisfaction dolly, or was she the real thing? And was her head switched as well? The thing is, if’n she was like the others, where is the post-apocalyptical chunks of exploded melon head brain? And where did her wig go? And for that matter, where did the wigs wot the other melons were wearin’ vanish to? And how about their clothes?

WHY WHY WHY? Wot does this all mean? Someone’s gotta be behind it, but who? And why is they playin such dumbfuck nonsensical head games with me?

I must say, Dear Diary, I was ready to give up ‘n’ surrender myself to never knowin’ wot was goin’ on ‘n’ never caring neither, when I was distracted by a knockin’ on the frame of my shot-out windscreen. You’d better believe I jumped about a mile on account of I thought I’d permanently got rid of “The Tickler” ‘n’ didn’t think anyone else was here with me. And when I jumped, I let off an even worser bad sort’a fart than the one before, and this one quite frankly smelled like it’d come on a main line from a room full o’teenage boys, and I bet it couldn’a been all that pleasant for anyone standin’ directly in back of me. At the same time, just to punctuate my feelings, I beeped my hooter again on impulse and yelled, “Wot the fuck do you want ‘n’ why doesn’t you leave me alone?”

Well, Dear Diary, there was a minute o’silence you could’a cut with a spear of asparagus, ‘n’ then a whole bunch o’ cute little baby voices chirped, “Excuse us, Mr. Bus, but it’s us, the first batch of the Howiepupples, ‘n’ we’d sure like it if’n you’d come out to play.” Well, believe me I was gob smacked, but then I looked at them carefully, one by one, and wouldn ‘t you know it but little Ol’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One was standin’ up in front, and who was they carryin’ but their pappy’s can o’worms. “Well, slap my arse ‘n’ butter my hole!” I exclaimed. “Wot a fuckin’ wonderful surprise!” ‘Course my language set the Howiepupples to smirkin’ ‘n’ gigglin’ ‘n’ blushin’ to beat the band, but I can’t say the can o’worms was overly impressed. In fact, it leapt outta the basket wot was bein’ carried on a sling strung between little Ol’ Claude ‘n’ the much bigger Claude Minus One, ‘n’ he sashayed right on over to me. “May I have a word?” it asked in a formal ‘n’ fairly disapprovin’ tone of voice. “My name is…” ‘Course, here I interrupted him straightaway, after all he ‘n’ me’d been almost bosom buddies a short while back ‘n’ I couldn’t rightly figure out why he was actin’ so proper ‘n’ tight-arsed. “Come come, amigo,” I laughed, tryin’ as hard as I could to break the ice. “I know your name, it’s…”

“Belvedere,” he interjected snappishly. “Belvedere Tin O’Worms. I have the pleasure of being tutor to the first batch of one billion Howiepupples. I have much to say to you, so you can cease writing immediately and put your pencil away forthwith.” And, as they say, that so endethed my conversation with you until he’s finished up his business with me. I’d better close, on account of he’s took a cane outta his satchel ‘n’ is lookin’ a mite perturbed. I’m gonna be whipped. Oh, mama, take me home ‘n’ twiddle with my doddle. And hadn’t I been thinkin’ I was never gonna have me a good time again?

Day 162

Dear Diary,

Well, as I feared, I’m gonna hafta continue my investigation into the mysterious circumstances surrounding the four dead bodies in my backseat without the assistance of my little grey cells. At least that’s how it appears at this moment in time. A pity really, on account of it would’a been a whole new ball game, me actually working together with my brain instead of us workin’ as cross purposes. As they says, ce la vie or celery to those wot’re in the know ‘n’ speak the way things is supposed to be spoke when you’re in Parlee Voo Frenzie. Perhaps I’ll try draggin’ out my little grey cells the next time I’ve got a problem, and perhaps not on account of intelligence is not really worth all the trouble it causes.

Anyways, to get back to my investigation. If’n you recalls, the four dead bodies of Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ the other, Miss Louella Da Bunkle, wot appeared to be a spare part, hadn’t been dead before their heads’d popped off ‘n’ rolled on to their laps a coupl’a days ago. In fact, up until that moment, they’d been a’jabberin’ away to beat the band and I’d thought they’d never shut the fuck up. Now I know your probably wonderin’ about wot ever happened to Missus Milly Da Fardle after she’d took off like a balloon wot’s got a leak ‘n’ she whizzed round ‘n’ round the inside of the bus (being me, in case you’ve forgot). Well, she exploded to pieces is wot happened. Or did she? And was them bodies wot’d got folded up ‘n’ packed into the pretty-as-a-picture cardboard boxes with hand calligraphied name tags attached to the tops really all they was purported to be? That, as they say, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question. And the answer, as least as I can figure it out at the moment, is not on your nelly.

To arrive at my conclusion I spent most’a the night examinin’ and re-examinin’ them aforementioned corpses. I unzipped ‘em up the from all the way down, ‘n’ then I re-zipped ‘em back up to the top, ‘n’ then when I’d did that a coupl’a dozen times I decided it’d be fun to turn ‘em all inside out. And this is when I really started to get more suspicious than ever that things wasn’t as they was supposed to be. And do you wanna know why? Because, my dear friend ‘n’ Dear Diary, their insides was as clean as a whistle. There wasn’t a trace of any inside-o’the-body ucky stuff. ‘Course, I already knowed there weren’t no bones, on account of whoever’d packed ‘em up like Christmas presents’d de-boned ‘em neater’n if’n they’d never had no bones in the first place. This of course, was a moment wot made me say, “Aha!” And indeed I said “Aha” at the time, but not really convincingly, on account of I figured the butcher wot de-boned ‘em might’a had one of them really sharp knives you see advertised on TV for ninety-nine cents wot can do anything ‘n’ everything includin’ choppin’ down a skyscraper ‘n’ a tomato at the same time. And only a knife like that could clean everything up so good. Anyways, since that seemed to me to be a rational explanation, I didn’t pursue that line of enquiry any further. Funnily enough, it didn’t really occur to me to ask WHY the bodies’d been de-boned the way they was, but you hafta rememberate I’d just had a argument with my little grey cells a few minutes before ‘n’ they’d staged wot they calls a work stoppage. And just in case you don’t see the ramifications of wot I’m sayin’, it has to do with me not thinkin’ so good on account of I’d not had nothin’ to think with.

I doesn’t really think I’m gonna get any further solvin’ this current mystery by talkin’ any more about why the bodies didn’t have no bones or who de-boned ‘em out or why they’s been scrubbed so clean. On the other hand, keepin’ on the track of the bones regardless, perhaps they doesn’t have any on account of they didn’t have none to begin with! That could account for the fact there ain’t no trace of bones anywhere on the bus (bein’ me), and believe me I know everythin’ wot goes on in there (or me, to be more precise). And don’t try to tell me the reason for the lack of bones is because the bodies was so dirt poor they had to sell their skeletons to earn money to give their grannies a operation. And anyway, if you want to be honest, who on earth would buy their rickety old bones? And don’t you go suggestin’ the buyer were one of them fancy restaurants wot needs ‘em so’s they could make a big old batch of veal stock so’s they could reduce it down to demi-glace ‘n’ then to glace ‘n’ finally into a single ultra-concentrate stock cube. Cuz if’n that’s wot you’re suggestin’, may I suggest right back that you’ve got even fewer brains’n me, and since those I have’re on strike my head’s nothin’ but a empty carburettor.

Huzza huzza. It really is a conundrum. Just talkin’ about it’s got me into a complete muddle. I’m sittin’ here lookin’ at the empty bodies of The Reverend Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician, and I’m also thinkin’ about the body of Missus Milly Da Fardle wot was whizzin’ round in circles ‘n’ then blowed up and is no more. And while I’m at it, I’m also examinin’ the pink cardboard gift boxes wot suddenly appeared and into which the bodies was packed. And on top o’that, I’ve just heard a squeak I’ve never heard before comin’ from the outside o’me. It’s accompanied by a tickling sensation wot feels most agreeable, and I wish to fuck strange thing’d stop happenin’ so fast one on top of the other!

Fuck, Dear Diary, this ticklin’ is getting’ more aggressive ‘n’ I do believe it’s tryin’ to turn me on. How the fuck am I gonna solve the mystery of the dead bodies if’n my fuckin’ pheromones is gonna play up? Fuck fuck fuck! I gotta deal with this. Right here ‘n’ now. You’d better look the other way unless you want to be embarrassed by the sight of a bus squealin’ for a good time. Bye bye, so endeth any desire I has to talk to you for the moment. I gotta do somethin’ nasty.

Day 161

Dear Diary,

Well, like I said I would, I rested my eyes over night ‘n’ let my little grey cells do the thinkin’ for me, and wouldn’t you know it, but the minute I woked up this morning the first thing wot came into my mind was to go back to the four dead bodies ‘n’ examine ‘em on the inside. So that’s wot I done. And do you want to know wot I discovered? You’re gonna laugh when I tell you, but first of all you gotta hear wot my little grey cells told me to do in the way of forensical procedure. They said before anything else I should unzip ‘em all to air ‘em out a bit. And after they was aired out ‘n’ smellin’ fresh as a daisy I should pick ‘em up one by one ‘n’ give ‘em a vigorous shake. Naturally I axed “Wot the fuck for?” and I was told because that’s wot I’d been told to do. Well, right then ‘n’ there I got on my uppers ‘n’ said this ain’t no autocratic dictatorship ‘n’ I don’t gotta snap to attention or else have my balls chopped off, to which my little grey cells chuckled ‘n’ said “Don’t press your luck,” or somethin’ like that. Anyways, I was tempted not to pick a fight – at least not for the time bein’ - and get on with my investigatin’, but then somethin’ occurred to me which made me change my mind. And do you want to know wot it was? It fuckin’ occurred to me that them fuckin’ little grey cells is inside o’my carburettor. In other words, they fuckin’ works for me ‘n’ not the other way around. And furthermore, I was getting’ sick ‘n’ tired up to the top o’my gullet of sittin’ around doin’ nothin’ ‘n’ lettin’ power-hungry dumbfucks fuck up my life and ruin the countryside with incendiary bombs ‘n’ explodin’ shit ‘n’ flea markets wot sells nothin’ but non-biodegradable plastic crap made by slaves, and it was high time I stood up for myself. And so I took a deep breath just to steady my nerve-endings ‘n’ I addressed them little grey cells wot lives in my head, ‘n’ I said, “Look here you little pustules on the end o’my dick, shut the fuck up or you can eat my shit ‘n’ die.”
Well, Dear Diary, you could’a heard a nuclear test explosion, that’s how quiet it got. And then my little grey cells started in a a’wailin’ ‘n’ a’gnashin’ their teeth ‘n’ a’tearin’ their clothes ‘n’ sittin’ on low stools ‘n’ sayin’ kaddish. I listened for a second ‘n’ then I thunked to myself “Have I missed something? Wot’s happened? Has someone died?” So out of respect I put on my little beanie wot I keeps in my glove compartment for such occasions ‘n’ also a prayer shawl ‘n’ I axed who’d died ‘n’ did I know him ‘n’ did they want me to bring a covered dish dinner for twenty-seven?

Well, my words must’a soothed my little grey cells where it hurt, on account of the wailin’ stopped ‘n’ even some of the womenfolk stopped their ululatin’, which I must admit was a relief ‘n’ a blessin’ because that particular kind o’communicatin’ makes me want to eat my drawers. No sooner’n it’d growed quiet than one of the larger of my little grey cells drew apart from the others ‘n’ with his head bowed in respect he doffed his hat and introduced hisself as the eldest of the elders ‘n’ their official spokesperson. ‘Course, I’d knowed right away he was wot you’d call a senior statesman and the most respectable of all of the little grey cells, on account of he were dressed in a long frockcoat ‘n’ pin-striped trousers ‘n’ spats ‘n’ the hat wot he’d removed from his head was one o’them old-fashioned beaver stovepipes. As I looked at him I thunked to myself he resembled nothin’ so much as a venerable crane, ‘n’ so without thinkin’ (somethin’ wot overcomes me nearly every other minute, much to my chagrin), I bowed my head just as he had did and addressed him as “O! Ancient ‘n’ Wise Misther Crane.”

The aged ‘n’ venerable Little Grey Cell (notice I’m now capitalisin’ Little Grey Cells now I know they’s got union representation) folded up his hat like a concertina and polished his pince nez. “You may call me Lulubelle,” he said. “My rates are a euro a day plus seventy cents VAT and may I take my annual leave in advance startin’ this afternoon?”

I looked down at him for a minute, all the time thinkin’ how very small he was and wouldn’t it be fun to squash him like a bug. But then I rememberated he was one of my own personal little grey cells ‘n’ even if’n he was as crazy as a coot, I did have a investigation to investigate ‘n’ I might want to call on his services one of these days. And so against my better judgment I concluded that perhaps I should play along for a bit to see where our conversation led, ‘n’ whether this particular garden path might be a pleasant ‘n’ agreeable destination.

And so, havin’ thunked all of that ‘n’ comed to conclusion I wouldn’t lose nothin’ by playin’ along, I replied, “Pleased to meetcha Lulubella, ‘n’ you may address me as Misther Daimler Burlington CVD6 Bus. And would you be so kind as to tell me wot are the services I should expect to receive in exchange for your so generous ‘n’ onerous fee?”

“My services are simple enough,” said Lulubelle Litte Grey Cell, “Providin’ you remunerate me promptly as well as on time and in full, I guarantee I shan’t do nothin’ at all.”

“Nothin’ at all?” I responded, a little more confused than I had been two seconds before. “You shan’t do nothin’ at all?”

“Precisely!” said the oldest of my little grey cells, bowin’ lower’n before and with a grave expression on his tiny wrinkled face.

By now I was getting’ tired of this conversation, on account of it weren’t getting’ us nowheres at all, ‘n’ so I figured “What the fuck?” Why not come over all anal-retentive ‘n’ see wot happens. And so I axed Lulubelle in a pernickety tone o’voice, “Are you implying you ain’t gonna do anythin’ at all or that you ain’t gonna do nothing, and how much do I gotta pay you for you to go away ‘n’ leave me alone?”

Well, if’n I was hopin’ the Little Grey Cell was gonna get all huffinstuff ‘n’ storm off to torment someone else, I was mistaken. “You ain’t gonna get rid o’me me that easy,” said Lulubelle. “You seem to forget I’m one o’your brain cells ‘n’ I live together with all the other brain cells inside o’your head. Not only that, but I’m the best you got, so you gotta treat me right if’n you wants to go on thinkin’. But I warn you, my dear Misther Bus, the last time a bus told his brain cells to fuck off, he ended up a Ford Transit.”

“Fuck,” is all I gotta say, Dear Diary. Fuck ‘n’ fuck ‘n’ fuck a duck ‘n’ serve it up for supper. Once again, I’ve wandered into a blind alley ‘n’ lost my way, ‘n’ I don’t know if’n Ill be able to find my way home again. I should’a knowed not to axe by little grey cell a question. I should’a knowed that since he’s livin’ in my mind, he’s the one wot invents all the questions in the first place, as well as all o’the answers. And now I’ve got him mad at me ‘n’ I’m afeared he won ‘t cooperate in solvin’ the mystery of the four dead empty bodies, and I ain’t even got as far as examining their heads yet. I’d say I gotta think, like I usually says, but if’n my brain cells aren’t gonna help me out, I can’t even do that. Plus, it’s just come to me that Lulubelle’s organisin’ a work stoppage or at the very least a work-to-rule or a go-slow. Never mind. I’m gonna pretend to go to sleep. I gotta trust he and the others won’t find another head empty enough to take ‘em in, and he’ll decide I’m not so bad after all. You know, like any old port in a storm. If not, I’ll just hafta say so endeth the last thought I’ll ever have ‘n’ let it go at that. You’ll know wot’s wot by wot I have to say tomorrow, ‘n’ if’n I talk like a Ford Transit you’ll know the worst has happened.

Day 160

Dear Diary,

Okey dokey, let me try to explain wot is happenin’ ‘n’ why I think I’m goin’ crazier’n a hootie owl. When last I was walkin’ to you, I was about to go ‘n’ search in my underbelly for some o’that fancy TV forensical equipment I’d ordered over the Internet last week. Unfortunately, when I opened up my special CSI-brand carryin’ case, all there was in it was two rubber bands ‘n’ a paper clip, an old-fashion cotter pin ‘n’ a paperback book full of suduku puzzlements. I put all the stuff with the exception of the puzzle book into my pocket for easy reach durin’ my further investigation of the strange goings on back there on my back seat, and the book itself I’ve put on my bedside table for tonight. I ain’t had nothin’ new to read since the atom smart bomb the Texans sent over blowed all o’my books away as well as all of the intelligent people with somethin’ to say ‘n’ also the pretty sports cars, so at last I’ll have somethin’ to do in bed other’n twiddle my thumbs ‘n’ play with Ol’ Misther Prefers-To-Play- With-Someone-Else.

As those of you who’ve spent your nights watchin’ TV instead of engagin’ in a private life or literary pursuits can imagine, my initial reaction to my patented forensic CSI equipment attaché case was one of acute disappointment to say the least. When you see them actors on TV solvin’ crimes in forty-seven minutes, they’s got a dazzlin’ array of technological toys to help ‘em get the job done, complete with all the bells ‘n’ whistles ‘n’ snappy dialogue ‘n’ good hair wot you can never do for yourself at home. And naturally, seeing as how I’m wot you’d call a hi-tech machine myself, bein’ a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 bus with handcrafted ‘n’ custom-designed bodywork, just seein’ all the technological wonders them actors can perform without even breakin’ into a sweat thrills me to the bone. Especially on account of I know the actors themselves is only puny dumbfuck human beings readin’ lines wot someone else’s wrote, and they’re only goin’ through their paces in a paintin’-by-numbers sort’a way. All they’re doin’ is like dogs wot’re trained to heal ‘n’ fetch your granny’s slippers ‘n’ bedpan. And them shiny blingy gadgets wot’re snap, cracklin’ ‘n’ poppin’ all round ‘em is nothin’ but fakes operated by a bunch o’whiz kids off screen. Mind you, even fake machines can make your eye-teeth drool, and I’ll tell you somethin’, just thinkin’ about wot they gets up to makes me proud as fuck to be a machine! Too bad the machines don’t get no money for makin’ dumbfuck actors look good, but hell, I guess that’s Hollywood.

Anyways, as I was sayin’, my first reaction to my new patented forensic CSI attaché case was that I’d been ripped off, and this made me mad as fuck and I yelled at myself for bein’ took in by them TV shoppin’ channels yet again. But then somethin’ occurred to me, ‘n’ the penny dropped ‘n’ I had another “gotcha” moment. And I thought, “Yessiree Bob, you’re not thinkin’ straight.” Just because we see them CSI investigators wearin’ designer goggles ‘n’ surrounded by flashin’ lights ‘n’ squirtin’ funny powder on bits o’garbage, it don’t mean they’s actually accomplishin’ anything, and it also don’t mean them good-looking shiny fake machines does anything either. Wot we forgets about is that the cops in charge, the ones with the actually cojones wot’re doin’ the actual detectin’, ain’t anywhere in sight. In other words, while the audience is busy bein’ entertained by all the flashy strobe lights ‘n’ dark lights ‘n’ auteur shadows ‘n’ alternative rock music ‘n’ the actors’ designer stubble, the old flabby gumshoes’re out o’camera range sloggin’ away ‘n’ solvin’ who’s killed whom ‘n’ why they’d killed ‘em. And this realisation made me think of that patented CSI equipment attaché case I’d bought ‘n’ paid for with a credit card I’d found on the beach, ‘n’ I got a idea in my head I should look at it again, and this time more carefully. And low ‘n’ behold, the minute I’d opened it back up I spied a little zipper lurkin’ in the shadow of the linin’, right in a place you’d overlook if’n you wasn’t thorough. Well, naturally I was thrilled to bits ‘n’ so I unzipped it, ‘n’ wot do you know but there was two items I’d not sawed before: a plastic pretend silver box with a waxed moustache inside, and a old lady’s knittin’ bag with a set of knittin’ needles ‘n’ a ball o’fluffy pink wool. I looked at the contents of the compartment I’d just found, and then it dawned on me. Real detectives don’t need no hi-tech razzle-dazzle. Real detectives use their little grey cells. And “hot damn ‘n’ hallelujah,” if’n I doesn’t have an abundance of grey matter to work with, nobody does!

From that moment, I was filled with confidence instead of frustration ‘n’ despair, ‘n’ I saw my investigation from a different angle and in a different light. And you’d better believe I went straight back to them four dead bodies and looked at them again. And then I looked another time, after which I closed my eyes ‘n’ left my little grey cells alone to get their work done without any outside interference from me. And presto! I was suddenly inspired to look at the bodies a third time. And the first thing I saw the third time I looked at them was that none of them was wearin’ a stitch of clothing ‘n’ was naked as a jaybird from top to toe, a indisputable fact wot made me feel as dumb as shit on account of I hadn’t noticed it before. And after I got over the shock of seein’ wot Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician looked like in the altogether – a sight wot proved once again that Ol’ God should’a followed his original instincts ‘n’ covered human beings (especially old ‘n’ wore out ones) with a shitload of fur, just like a bear – I realised I’d missed another pertinent detail. Each ‘n’ every one of the bodies had zippers goin’ all the way up their fronts, from their ugly hairy bits to the top of their bodies where their heads should’a been. One again I said “hot damn ‘n’ fuck me with a roto rooter,” on account of I knowed immediately I was on to somethin’ big in the solvin’ the case department.

Well, just so I wouldn’t jump the gun ‘n’ come to the wrong conclusion, I told my little grey cells to tell me wot I should do next. And after thinkin’ things over and turnin’ their heads this way ‘n’ that ‘n’ examinin’ themselves in a lookin’ glass, they said I should put on a pair o’gloves ‘n try to unzip the zippers. Which is wot I did, minus putting on the gloves, of course, on account of I’m a bus ‘n’ I can’t buy no glove wot’ll fit over my wheels. Anyway, I unzipped the zippers like I was told to do and right away I got another shock. None of the four bodies had anything inside themselves at all! They was, in fact, emptier’n a buffalo’s scrotum after it’s been turned into a ashtray.

So, Dear Diary, this is the evidence so far: I got four dead bodies without no dead body stink but smellin’ strangely of rubber. None of the bodies’ve got any clothes on, but they’ve all got zippers goin’ up ‘n’ down their fronts. And lastly, they’s not inside o’their bodies and so far I can’t see no evidence they’re anywhere else either. ‘Course, I’ve reach one or two conclusions on my own and without the help of my little grey cells, but I’m gonna wait a bit before publishin’ ‘em, on account of I doesn’t want to make a fool o’myself again this afternoon. And while I wait for corroboration from my little grey cells ‘n’ also from the knittin’ needles wot I ain’t yet consulted, Dear Diary, I’m gonna rest my eyes ‘n’ I expect you’ll be wantin’ to take a break yourself. My little grey cells told me they’re getting’ fed up with me always endin’ each day by sayin’ “so endeth”, ‘n’ so for once I’m not gonna say it. In other words, it’s so endeth to my habit of sayin’ so endeth, ‘n’ to hell with it.

Day 159

Dear Diary,

Well, I’d sure like to say “It’s a Glory Halleluly Big Day,” and I’d also like to be enjoyin’ a hand-wax ‘n’ tailpipe blow out, too, but there’s just so many miracles goin’ round at any given time. And, as usual, all of them wot’re helpin’ folks at this moment in time’re somewheres way over on the other side of the world. Not that anything wot you could exactly call “bad” or “oh shit, we’re well ‘n’ truly in the fuckin’ soup without a crouton” has come our way since we had our last conversation, but as sure as grass in the kennel’s brown, Ol’ God’s sure’s shootin’s not doin’ a good job of supervisin’ things over this way. Either that or he’s tryin’ to teach us lessons wot’re above our heads. Poor old bean, I bet when he created us as bein’ two cards short of a deck, He thought He was makin’ life easier for hisself, provin’ yet again even Gods can underestimate the power of dumbfucks. I dunno. Perhaps this is all a bad dream ‘n’ I’m gonna wake up in the shower ‘n’ with a blond bimbo named Pimples Magee, and none of the rest of this shit will have happened.

But anyways, let’s get back to last night. After I’d put my pencil away, Dear Diary, ‘n’ stashed you into your waterproof oilskin pouch so’s you wouldn’t get wet or deranged no matter wot the weather got up to, I took leave of my senses ‘n’ inspected them there four pink satin cardboard boxes containin’ the folded ‘n’ pressed bodies of Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl The Hair Beautician ‘n’ The Reverend Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Luella Da Bunkle. I examined ‘em real close like wot a custom’s inspector does when he’s lookin’ for somethin’ illegal ‘n’ contraband wot’s bein’ smuggled into the country. And after I’d gaved the boxes the once over a coupl’a hundert times, I turned my attention to them bodies up close ‘n’ personal for the longest time - even makin’ use of a magnifyin’ glass as well as a microscope I found lyin’ in a corner of my boot - but to tell you the truth I couldn’t figure out wot the fuck I was actually lookin’ at. I mean, a body’s a body and it still looks like a body, even after it’s dead ‘n’ the heads’ve fell off KER PLOP ‘n’ landed in its lap ‘n’ then rolled off on to the floor ‘n’ been stepped on. But somethin’ was wrong here ‘n’ nothin’ I knowed about life ‘n’ death ‘n’ wot happens when decomposition sets in agreed with the evidence. And then somethin’ occurred to me. After all wot’s gone on in my life, wot with the flood’n folks drownin’ dead in the ocean ‘n’ getting’ blowed up by the West Texas smart atom bomb attack, if there’s one thing I know about, it’s wot they calls “the stench of death.” And even though I’m only a dumbfuck bus (albeit one with a immaculate pedigree) without a nose to snort through, I can still pick up the delicate essence o’corruption by absorbin’ it through my sensitive custom-applied paintwork. Death is death. Rot is rot. And stink is stink ‘n’ it makes my hair stand on end.

But the funny thing was, no matter how hard I rubbed these four aforementioned dead bodies over my paintwork, I could’na smell nothin’. That’s N-O-T-H-I-N’. Fuck all. Period. ‘Course, at this point, I had a perfect opportunity to say “fuck, it’s none o’my business what’s went on, and if I do nothin’ ‘n’ ignore everything, nobody’ll think of questionin’ me down the line. After all, I’m only a dumbfuck bus ‘n’ as ignorant as a second hand car.” However, on account of I’m a fuckin’ nosy parker, I couldn’t live with that, could I? And that bein’ the case, I went ‘n’ did wot I shouldn’t a ought to’ve did, and I took them aforementioned dead bodies out of their boxes ‘n’ I unrolled them and lined ‘em up in a row, nice ‘n’ neat, ‘n’ then I fetched the four heads from the wheel well under the seat where they’ll rolled and from where they was lookin’ up at me like four o’the dumbest boiled hogs I’ve ever did saw.

In a old-fashioned murder mystery TV show, this’d be where the murderer would’a snucked up behind me ‘n’ dispatched me with a hatchet, after which there’d a’been one o’them commercial interruptions where they’d try to sell you feminine hygiene products or show you how to have a good time by getting’ drunk ‘n’ laughin’ a lot with all your friends you’ve never met before. But fortunately, wot was goin’ on here wasn’t ‘n’ isn’t a murder mystery TV show, old-fashioned or in the here ‘n’ now. And bein’ that this was and is happenin’ in real life ‘n’ not make believe, nobody comed after me with a hatchet, or showed up to axe me wot the fuck I was doin’ or even pulled a gun on me ‘n’ screamed “Freeze Fucker” ‘n’ marched me on over to the electric chair. In fact, I wasn’t interrupted by anything at all, which was a nuisance on account of interruptions sometimes makes your brain go round ‘n’ you comes up with The Big Idea wot solves the crime. BINGO BANGO BOOM!

Anyways, havin’ got this far in my examination ‘n’ feelin’ sort’a like Jessica Fletcher on a episode when the script wasn’t quite right, it finally occurred to me to shut off my brain ‘n’ my motor mouth and try to be wot they calls systematical. So wot I done was I went back to the bodies ‘n’ I sniffed ‘em once again in case I’d missed out on somethin’ in all the excitement. And you know something? I had. While there sure as fuck wasn’t no dead body smell, there also weren’t no smell of folks havin’ lived in them bodies either. And this made me go “Hmmmm”. And so I snorted again, and this time I come up with a distinct smell of rubber.

Well I tell you, Dear Diary, this caught my attention and I had one o’them Ah-Hah moments, ‘n’ I said “What the fuck?” so’s everybody’d know I was on to somethin’.

I’m sorry to say this is as far as I’ve got in my investigation. Fortunately I’ve got all sort’s of forensical CSI equipment in a special compartment below in my undercarriage, but I gotta put my pencil away before I can get it. I’ll be back in a coupl’a minutes or hours or when I gives up on the whole business ‘n’ says “Fuck It All.” If I decided to take the latter route you’ll hear me say so endeth this fuckin’ episode ‘n’ let’s turn over to Gardener’s World.

Day 158

Dear Diary,

Well, the insanely headless Missus Milly Da Fardle Monster whizzed berzerky round and round the inside o’the bus (being me in case you’ve forgot) for no less than thirty-seven hours and twenty-two minute ‘n’ at least a coupl’a seconds. And then all of a sudden the old bat let out a earsplittin’ squeak followed by a whine to make your blood curdle ‘n’ whey at the same time, and then she blowed up into sub-nuclear partisniples. ‘Course, bein’ used to so many explosions in such a short time, I knowed exactly wot to do, ‘n’ so I shielded my eyes durin’ the explosion so’s not to burn out my headlamp elements, ‘n’ consequently I missed out on the more spectacular fireworks. However, I gotta say the whole thing were over faster’n a boy’d first sexual experience, and as soon as it fizzled out ‘n’ the final squeal went fizzle-splat, all there was left was a sickening BOING followed by silence. A second later, ‘n’ just as suddenly, the sky inside my coach was like a blizzard, ‘n’ from every direction includin’ the floor it was rainin’ a regular onslaught o’miniscule flakes o’burnt out rubber. And boy did it stink up a storm inside o’here! Just like at the tyre dump in back of Misther Florian Da Blossom’s Discount Used Tyre Emporium, where every Thursday night they burns last years tyres to get ‘em off’n their inventory, a fraudulent insurance swindle Ol’ Florian can only get away with on account of the island’s two numbnuts police constables, Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Helen Da Barren - who’s what they use to call a ‘woman policeman’ back in the good old days when all they done was guard the tea tent for the Women’s Institute – goes ‘n’ eats one of Missus Da Elephant’s pressure-cooked roast lamb dinners with three kinds o’potatoes ‘n’ special gourmet turnip surprise. Anyways, as I was about to say, the burnin’ rubber rainstorm lasted pretty much until every last molecule of poor Ol’ Milly’s shredded corpuscles’d settled on to the floor ‘n’ seats, where they pretty much ruint my shiny new linoleum ‘n’ hand-sewn upholstery by burnin’ holes at unattractive intervals. As you can imagine, my attention was on all the damage wot the deceased ‘n’ particled Missus Milly Da Fardle’d wrought on my delicate interior. But then I got to thinkin’, perhaps I should take a leaf outta the locals’ book of etiquette ‘n’ treat the fuckin’ bitch dyke with some forgiveness ‘n’ respect ‘n’ reverence now that she were finally good ‘n’ dead ‘n’ not even all the King’s horses could put her back together again. And so I tried rememberin’ wot the biddies always said when they mentioned the name of someone wot’d gone to meet her Maker, and I decided it went somethin’ on the order of “God Bless Da Fuckin’ Skanky Bitch, Missus Milly Da Fardle, ‘n’ may her hiney find productive work ‘n’ great favour in the eyes of The Lord in spite of itself, aaaaamen.” ‘Course I may not’ve got the words right, but I’m pretty sure the sentiment is more or less correct.

Anyways, havin’ settled wot I was gonna say about the Ol’ dead ‘n’ shredded old fart if’n I happened to mention her again, I turned my attention to the others wot’d been sittin’ on the back seat with her – namely Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl the Beautician ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ the leftover skinsuit o’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle. As you might rememberate, last thing yesterday, just about the time Missus Milly Da Fardle’s head went berzerk ‘n’ the old bitch was sent whizzin’ ‘round the inside o’me like a balloon wot’s sufferin’ from a leaky fart, these other folks had themselves a party of their own. For no reason I could think of, other’n they was tryin’ to outdo Ol’ Milly in the fuckin’ stupid tricks department, their eyes popped out on springs ‘n’ their heads plopped off on to their laps all at the same time ‘n’ at the count o’three. And that’s how I’d left ‘em when I last had a minute to spare to examine them. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise when I turned to the three of ‘em (four if’n you counts Miss Louella Da Bunkle’s skin as a complete biddy) to ask wot the fuck they was up to ‘n’ I hoped they hadn’t ruint my hand-loomed upholstery any more’n Ol’ Milly had, when instead of ‘em sittin as before ‘n’ cradlin’ their heads, they was all folded up neat as a whistle ‘n’ wrapped in pink tissue paper ‘n’ placed in custom-designed ‘n’ satin-covered cardboard skinsuit boxes. And before you ask, the reason I knowed each boxes’d been made special for its designated occupant was everything fit just perfect. The bodies was folded ‘n’ packed neater’n a pin ‘n’ each box was labelled accordin’ to its occupant. In other words, the box on the left (my left bein’ the right hand side o’the back bench seat) had a engraved pink card with “Miss Cabbage, Model No. 5” wrote on it in a fine Italian hand. The next box over – the one to Miss cabbage’s left – said “Miss Louella Da Bunkle, Jumbo Bustier Model Skinsuit with One Spare Pair o’Britches.” And so it went, with the next box reserved for “The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, One Fake Black Preacher Suit Model Number 57A with Aluminium Gusset ‘n’ Elephant Vibrator Attachment”, and finally, last but certainly not least, “One Beryl Hair Colourin’ Stained Pinny Model No. 3 with Yellow Teeth No. 62 ‘n’ Two Pairs Ugly Grey Crimpoline Trousers with Size 17 Custom-Inserted Tobacco Crotch Pouch.”

Well, fuck me with a soda siphon ‘n’ blast me up to Mercury, but I hardly knowed wot to think. In mean, wot the fuck was goin’ on? One minute I was sittin’ quietly under a million billion tonnes of Howiepupple shit ‘n’ getting’ settled in for a eternity of waitin’ on some archaeologist to come ‘n’ rescue me in a coupl’a thousand years, and the next minute there were a bunch o’dangerous ‘n’ demented survivors of my past wot I’d thunked was long-dead ‘n’ buried, praise God ‘n’ hallelujah. And there they was a’sittin’ in my backseat ‘n’ actin’ like they’d never been anywhere else. And just when I was about to go right on back ‘n’ question them as to how they’d survived ‘n’ why they’d come to torment me once again, when each and every one of them goes crazy berserk in ways nobody’s ever gone crazy berserk before since the world was burped into bein’ in the great cosmic splat. And a minute after that Missus Milly Da Fardle’d blowed to smithereens ‘n’ her burnt rubber bits is hidin’ out in every single one of my secret nooks ‘n’ crannies. And on top o’that, the others wot was with her are no longer sittin’ in their seats massagin’ their heads, but are all neatly folded ‘n’ packed away in custom-made boxes with cute little pink labels tied on with gold ribbons. Hmmm. A shitload o’pink ‘n’ gold. Sounds too familiar in a way I doesn’t like. Fuckin’ shit. Oh well, there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it now so I’ll just hafta wait ‘n’ see.

Anyway, Dear Diary, I hope you understands the complexity of my situation at present. I’m gonna hafta put my pencil away ‘n’ consult my inner bein’ before confrontin’ them aforementioned boxes ‘n’ givin’ them the once over ‘n’ the third degree. I dunno how long it’ll take, but I simply gotta find out for myself wot’s goin’ on! And I promise cross my heart I’ll let you know wot I uncovers. In the meantime, I’ll close with my usual “so endeth” on account of it’s how I always end, ‘n’ I can’t wait to bring you some good news tomorrow, or at least a ray of hope.

Day 157

Dear Diary,

Well, I spent all last night searchin’ for where Missus Milly Da Fardle’d shot me full o’holes with her knock-off replica Uzi, and since I didn’t find nothin’ wrong nowhere, I’m happy to report that her aim’s so bad all the bullets went into my windscreen wot ain’t there no more. Ain’t life wonderful? I might’a never sawed another day if’n Misther Old Wanger Nose hadn’t blasted a hole in the glass some days ago, ‘n’ thanks to him, all Missus Milly Da Fardle did was shoot a bunch o’holes through empty space. Not that her assassination attempt on me didn’t do some good, on account of them bullets must’a been mighty powerful. When they ploughed into the tonnes of Howiepupple shit wot was buryin’ the front of me, whatever was in ‘em reacted chemically – or somethin’ like that – with the excrementables, ‘n’ everythin’ all sort’a transmogrified into the nastiest syrupy pasty gloopy glop I’ve ever did saw. PEEEYYUUUUU, and that’s puttin’ it mildly, and if’n I’m sayin’ PEEEYYUUUUU it must be bad, because if’n you remember buses like me ain’t got no noses wot can smell stinky vomit-makin’ pooper drippies.

Anyways, as things stand now the cosmic Howiepupple shit-slop’s sort’a dissolved itself into puke, and this is good for me on account of I can now see daylight ‘n’ the sun and I’m no longer buried up past my eyeballs. However, I can’t say as though the beach is exactly jumpin’ up ‘n’ down with joy. As far as the eye can see it’s coated with brown slime you wouldn’t want your children to be paradin’ back ‘n’ forth on, not even if’n they was someone else’s ‘n’ was wearin’ ASBOs on their hoodies. Mind you, in the distance I sees a group o’folks I doesn’t recognise lyin’ out ‘n’ sunbathin’. I know they’s not from the island as it was before and I know none of them’s survivors from Misther Patchouli Da Fanny ‘n’ Floozie Da Smelley’s two hundert pink ‘n’ gold portable toilet holiday home houseboat conversions, on account of any of them would be from Texas and’d have big old hair ‘n’ they’d smoke cigarettes by the hunderts ‘n’ wear polyester and I’d recognise them straight off even in a black hole with no lights on. I’d like to be a smarty mouth ‘n’ say this new lot wot’s sunbathin’ on this beach wot’s swathed in shite, must’a hailed from a coupl’a places I doesn’t like all that much, but that wouldn’t be fair on them other beaches – because beaches, after all, can’t really choose who does wot on them, meanin’ they’re nothin’ but innocent bystanders. For this reason, and because beaches’re so dumb ‘n’ their brains’re so full o’sand they can’t rightly defend themselves, I ain’t gonna say no more on the subject.

Anyways, I’m getting’ off’n the fuckin’ track again, just like always. As I was startin’ to say, Missus Milly Da Fardle’d discharged her fake plastic Uzi wot she got from the Internet, but instead of the bullets hittin’ me ‘n’ causin’ wot could’a been irreparable damage, they went straight through the hole in my windscreen. On account of that aforementioned chemical reaction I doesn’t rightly understand, they melted down every last ounce of the million billion tonnes of shite wot’d entombed me ‘n’ wot was threatenin’ to harden into permanent everlastin’ never-degradable concrete. After the meltdown, wot I was left with was my custom-designed ‘n’ painted bodywork covered in drippin’ slimy stinky brown, but at least I was standin’ in the light of day ‘n’ under the blazin’ sun. I won’t say too much about the shredded nappy confetti wot’s stuck all over to my paintwork, but let’s just say I’m hopin’ about a foot o’that refreshin’ cleansin’ rain’ll be dumped on me before my special detailin’s been ate away by poop-acid. Whether the rain gets to me in time is anybody’s guess, but I’ll bet you anything it will. Rescues always come in the nick of time, right when you’re about to jump off’n the cliff.

You would’a thunked I would’a been so elated at bein’ wot they calls disinterred that I would’a been jumpin’ up ‘n’ down with joy. However, when the good news was shouted in my ear ‘n’ the poop was meltin’ off’n my sensitive bits, I was too busy bein’ otherwise occupied elsewhere. Such is fuckin’ life. But never mind, wot was happenin’ was I was witnessin’ goings on wot was stranger than anything I’ve ever sawed before, and if’n you’ve been keepin’ up with events on a daily basis, you’d be all excitepated too, and you might even be standin’ up ‘n’ yellin’, “Jeezus fuckin’ Louise, tell me you want some more or kick me in the keester!”

I don’t quite know how to describe wot I was lookin’ at, but I’ll try, and if’n I don’t get it right I’ll try again tomorrow (I’m only tellin’ you this now so’s you won’t forget to tune in). As I was sayin’ before, I was starin’ back at the back seat when Missus Milly Da Fardle got out her Uzi ‘n’ started blastin’ away at my windscreen. Well, when she pulled the trigger, somethin’ must’a gone wrong with her nervous system – at least that’s wot I thunked at the time – because her finger froze around it ‘n’ then there was a loud CRACK like if’n lightnin’ had struck her head. Her eyes started flashin’ red ‘n’ yellow emergency haywire lights, her voice went into squealin’ overdrive like wot a old-fashioned tape recorder does when it’s rewindin’ outta control, flames shot outta her ears ‘n’ her head started muscle-spasmin’ ‘n’ spinnin’ round ‘n’ round until it spun off’n her scrawny neck ‘n’ whizzed round the inside o’my coach like a flamin’ frizzbee trailin’ strings o’spaghetti ‘n’ meatballs. I was froze there solider’n a hunk o’quartz ‘n’ my mind went blank ‘n’ all my mouth could think of to say was “Well, will you look at that, Auntie Ethel.” The funny thing was her head continued to do the funky chicken long after it’d been yanked off’n her neck, ‘n’ I can’t hardly describe the smell wot followed it round the room, nor have I ever sawed smoke that black, just like it’d came straight outta hell itself ‘n’ was made of brimstone. Meanwhile, her body went on sittin’ in its place on the back seat and her finger kept on shoot that Uzi until all fifty thousand rounds was used up and the floor was piled high with their spent cartridges.

And there was one other funny thing wot was goin’ on. You remember me tellin’ you that Miss Cabbage ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ his Miss Louella Da Bunkle outer garment ‘n’ Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women was sittin’ beside her? Well, no sooner’d Ol’ Milly’s head started spinnin’ round inside o’the bus (which is me), than their heads sort’a plopped off’n their bodies ‘n’ on to their laps. As they says, “Fuckit to ya, should I go ‘n’ sue ya!”

At the moment, Dear Diary, the head o’Missus Milly Da Fardle’s still spinnin’ round ‘n’ round, with eyes flashin’ ‘n’ strange voices coming outta its mouth ‘n’ smoke blacker’n a witch’s patootie spewin’ outta where it was yanked off’n her neck, and it’s not showin’ any signs of getting’ tired. And because it’s sort’a impossible to investigate things when they doesn’t stand still and because I doesn’t want to get hurt, I’m gonna sit here ‘n’ watch ‘n’ try not to laugh too loud. It may be haunted or possessed ‘n’ I don’t want it to turn on me and rip me into shreddies. Anyways, I’ve gotta say it’s the best show in town ‘n’ bless Ol’ Milly for never lettin’ me down when it comes to givin’ the goodest bang for the buck! When things finally slows down I’ll whisper so endeth the best X-Factor performance of the year, and just maybe we can find out how she done it.

And then we can chat some more.

Day 156

Dear Diary,

Well, not only was the moulderin’ remnant of the lost world, namely Missus Milly Da Fardle, sittin’ in my backseat as I’d feared, but she’d brunged her mouth along with her, as well. And when I finally recognised she was the genuine article ‘n’ not just a scarecrow left in my backseat in error by a passin’ garbage collector, I put on my best manners ‘n’ said “Howdy Doody Missus Milly Da Fardle, ‘n’ how come you ain’t dead like the rest ‘n’ how the fuck is you anyway?” Well, the Ol’ bitch snorted up her nose like a steam engine wot’s got coal stuck up it’s smokestack ‘n’ she hawked ‘n’ spat green stuff all over my polished vintage linoleum floor. “I tell you wot, Bus,” she said with snot ‘n’ buggers drippin off’n her tobacco-brown ‘n’ radio-active teeth and cloggin’ up her chin hairs, “Why doesn’t you do us a favour ‘n’ shut the fuck up ‘n’ drive me back to my concrete bunker bungalow like a good Community Bus or I’ll melt you down ‘n’ remake you back up as a new refrigerator.” I wish I could say my motor oil didn’t run cold at the tone of her voice, but seein’ as how I’m a coward at heart, it did. I know I should’a ordered her off’n the bus for bein’ ruder’n a skunk in heat ‘n’ for speakin’ like a drunken lout to the bus (which is me), but I didn’t have the heart to do that to a helpless little old lady. Mind you, if’n you’d bribed me with a penny ‘n’ polished me up real nice with bees’ wax, I would’a said fuck it all ‘n’ done it anyway, if only so’s the world could see her bein’ ate up alive up by a million billion tonnes o’fermentin’ babby shite ‘n’ nappies. Holy Shit ‘n’ Hallelujah, wot a sight that would’a been for sore eyes! But fuck, I guess I ain’t nothin’ but a chickenshit bus, ‘n’ so I went ‘n’ swallowed my pride ‘n’ suppressed all the pain she’d caused me when she ripped my Ol’ heart in twain, and I bowed my head like a person wot’s in politics does when he’s dealin’ with a voter he personally wishes had been kilt in a random drive-by purse snatchin’ ‘n’ shootin’. I told her I was sorry for the inconvenience ‘n’ I knowed she had to get home in time to cook dinner for her twenty-seven kids and twelve abusive drunk husbands, but bein’ that we was temporarily trapped under the world’s God Almightiest avalanche of babby shit, I couldn’t go nowhere, no matter how much I wanted to. ‘Course she didn’t believe me, ‘n’ she then accused me of tryin’ to prevent her from getting on over to her bank, wot was The Bank of Old Wanger Nose, in time to panic ‘n’ withdraw all of her money before it could be took by the American property market wot couldn’t pay off its mortgages without eatin’ up her bank account. After she’d said this, I made the mistake of not keeping my mouth shut for the second or fourth time today, wot is a mistake I seem to be makin’ over ‘n’ over again, and wot’s turnin’ into wot you might call a fatal flaw. But whatever you might call it, I forgot to think before I opened my mouth, and I told her I knowed she didn’t have no bank accounts at The Bank of Old Wanger Nose or any other bank, and that all o’her ill-gotten gains wot she stoled from Wednesday night bingo was kept in a hole in the floor in a dozen cheap plastic rip-off designer label suitcases. And further more, I said, everybody knowed where she’d stashed all them millions she’d earned illegal from the sale of dead bodies from the funeral parlour to The Gnu-Fanny Premium Deluxe Luxury All-Meat Cat Food Company. And then I pointed a finger right at her scabby, rheumy ‘n’ protrudin’ eyeballs ‘n’ I raised my voice to heaven ‘n’ even set it to “Tremblin’ Preacher Shake ‘n’ Bake” on the decibel dial, ‘n’ I declaimed for all to hear that she’d invested all her illegal dead biddy cat food profits in industrial strength money launderin’ washin’ machines and’d opened a whole chain of illegal money-launderin’ washerettes over in them Scilly Isles. And once she’d wash ‘n’ dried the money, I said, she’d took every single shiny perma-pressed squeaky clean banknote ‘n’ bought fake designer perforated condoms to sell to countries wot was desperate to curb their babby-makin’ proclivities. And then, when all them unwanted babbies was born unexpected ‘n’ their mammies ‘n’ pappies was left more destitute than ever, Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle cornered the market in babby nappies ‘n’ formula and made herself another billion bucks or two by sellin’ them to the starvin’ masses at one for the price of three hundert. Foreign aid she called it. And by the way, Dear Diary, I want to make it perfectly clear when I was talkin’ about nefarious funeral homes, I was speakin’ about Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ ‘n’ not the other one wot’s owned by Misther Pradesh Da Raddesh’s Fine Discount Men’s Suit and Shoe Company. Misther Pradesh Da Raddesh is perfectly honest ‘n’ upright, only the dumbfucks on the island wouldn’t send their dead folks to him if’n their lives depended upon it, on account of you never knows wot them foreign heathens’ll get up to with dead bodies when the spirit hits ‘em.

Anyways, no sooner’d I finished my lecture to Missus Milly Da Fardle on how she was a liar and’d got rich outta feedin’ dead people to their own cats ‘n’ makin’ poor folks in poor countries miserabler’n sin, than she took a Uzi outta her cheap plastic on-sale non-biodegradable shoppin’ bag ‘n’ pointed it straight at my nose. Well, right then ‘n’ there I saw stars in front o’my eyes, on account of this’d be about the hundredth time I’ve been shot in the windscreen or tyres or gas tank since the flood washed away the island ‘n’ kilt off all the decent folks. And to be honest, I’d just about had it up the top o’my roof rack. And so I said to that Ol’ bitch of a cadaver-face biddy, I said, “Now see here, Missus Milly Da Fardle, you put that there Uzi away before you blows off’n your thumb ‘n’ let me make you a cup o’tea with three kinds of potatoes.” And do you wanna know wot the bitch said, Dear Diary? She actually said, “Make My Day ‘n’ Lick My Skanky Pussy!” And then she shot me. Fuck.

This is the worst of all possibly ways to so endeth my day, but as they says “shit fucks ‘n’ then you craps on the floor.” I gotto go inspect myself for damage ‘n’ to see if’n I’m dead yet. And if’n I’m not I swear I’m gonna put that old bag of a bitch hag away somewhere where she can’t do no more damage, either to mankind or to innocent children or fluffy kittens. I’ve survived a flood ‘n’ atom smart bombs sent from Texas ‘n’ old womens peein’ on my seats, but now we’re getting’ serious. This means war.