Dear Diary,
Remind me to tell you more about Pergulla Da Splatta’s authentically quaint peasanty all-you-can-eat restaurant. If you don’t, I might forget, cuz no end of things have happened since yesterday, and I’m not entirely sure where to begin. Not that it matters, cuz even if anybody ever reads this thing they won’t have a clue what I’m talking about. However, who knows? It might be important and hold the clue to world peace or bombing people we don’t like or something, and in any case it’ll make me feel better when I’ve got it off my chest.
We finally left Thelma O’Leary’s café, but our departure took more time than I’d anticipated on account of Thelma deciding at the last minute to burn some breakfast for the large, well-dressed man and Finian Da Fabricator. She needed at least an hour and forty minutes to ruin it just the way she wanted, after which she shovelled it all into a plastic bag, along with a couple of pints of tea. She’d run out of lids for the take-out containers, but never mind. All the tea slopping around in the bag probably softened the burnt toast and black pudding and kidneys and made them more alluring. At times like that I’m glad I don’t have a nose.
We’ve now been driving for a good hour or two, during which time we’ve passed some lovely scenery and some that wasn’t so nice and some more that would have looked better blown up. Most of the time the weather’s been okay, in an islandish sort of way, which means the sun’s been weebly and we’ve driven through two gales and a blizzard. All in all, I wish I’d brought a sweater, but I am thankful the sun has gone somewhere else for the day, what with me being sunburnt since owld Fingus Da Flatulator blew hisself up and hasn’t waxed or polished me.
During the drive through all that boring scenery and with no one else to talk to, I let my mind wander back to Pergulla Da Splatta and her authentic, peasanty, all-you-can-eat restaurant, and it occurred to me she looked just like Thelma O’Leary. I wonder if they’re sisters or something. They certainly run their restaurants the same way. I remember way back, during my days with The Golden Twilight Years Old-People’s Tours, how much I’d admired Pergulla Da Splatta’s practice of never clearing the tables or cleaning up the mess until the last customer had either left or died from poisoning or’d fallen into the toilet during the act of recycling his lunch. Made it easier on her corns, she always maintained, but I personally thought it was so she wouldn’t have to pay decent wages to a waitress, and could pay herself for doing nothing instead. She also served everyone the same thing, only calling it something else and disguising leftovers with sprinkly bits she’d made from the dried, ground up dregs from the bottom of her vegetable drawer, which Parvl Da Snood, her illegal Lithuanian chef, dyed in vats of green and blue and orange and gold in the dead of night when nobody was looking over his shoulder.
I suspect Thelma O’Leary did much the same thing, judging by the look of her greasy, burnt food, only not as well on account of her not having Parvl Da Snood to help her out.
Talking about Parvl Da Snood, he used to call me names and throw dirty water at my windows. Said I was uglier than his grandmother’s pututy and the only reason he didn’t want to get old was so he wouldn’t hafta forced to ride around The Continent in me. The first time he said it I thought it was funny and laughed. The second I rolled over his foot. The third time I ran over him, after which he didn’t say much of anything.
After that, we never went back to Pergulla Da Splatta’s authentically quaint, peasanty all-you-can-eat restaurant. From what I heard, once she didn’t have Parvl Da Snood working wonders with greasy leavings in her kitchen, the place went downhill. Such is life.
I’m thinking the large, well-dressed man and Finian Da Fabricator are going to pull up next to the bright pink building up ahead. I’m ever so excited, and will close for now so I don’t break my pencil.
As we say, so endeth another day.
Remind me to tell you more about Pergulla Da Splatta’s authentically quaint peasanty all-you-can-eat restaurant. If you don’t, I might forget, cuz no end of things have happened since yesterday, and I’m not entirely sure where to begin. Not that it matters, cuz even if anybody ever reads this thing they won’t have a clue what I’m talking about. However, who knows? It might be important and hold the clue to world peace or bombing people we don’t like or something, and in any case it’ll make me feel better when I’ve got it off my chest.
We finally left Thelma O’Leary’s café, but our departure took more time than I’d anticipated on account of Thelma deciding at the last minute to burn some breakfast for the large, well-dressed man and Finian Da Fabricator. She needed at least an hour and forty minutes to ruin it just the way she wanted, after which she shovelled it all into a plastic bag, along with a couple of pints of tea. She’d run out of lids for the take-out containers, but never mind. All the tea slopping around in the bag probably softened the burnt toast and black pudding and kidneys and made them more alluring. At times like that I’m glad I don’t have a nose.
We’ve now been driving for a good hour or two, during which time we’ve passed some lovely scenery and some that wasn’t so nice and some more that would have looked better blown up. Most of the time the weather’s been okay, in an islandish sort of way, which means the sun’s been weebly and we’ve driven through two gales and a blizzard. All in all, I wish I’d brought a sweater, but I am thankful the sun has gone somewhere else for the day, what with me being sunburnt since owld Fingus Da Flatulator blew hisself up and hasn’t waxed or polished me.
During the drive through all that boring scenery and with no one else to talk to, I let my mind wander back to Pergulla Da Splatta and her authentic, peasanty, all-you-can-eat restaurant, and it occurred to me she looked just like Thelma O’Leary. I wonder if they’re sisters or something. They certainly run their restaurants the same way. I remember way back, during my days with The Golden Twilight Years Old-People’s Tours, how much I’d admired Pergulla Da Splatta’s practice of never clearing the tables or cleaning up the mess until the last customer had either left or died from poisoning or’d fallen into the toilet during the act of recycling his lunch. Made it easier on her corns, she always maintained, but I personally thought it was so she wouldn’t have to pay decent wages to a waitress, and could pay herself for doing nothing instead. She also served everyone the same thing, only calling it something else and disguising leftovers with sprinkly bits she’d made from the dried, ground up dregs from the bottom of her vegetable drawer, which Parvl Da Snood, her illegal Lithuanian chef, dyed in vats of green and blue and orange and gold in the dead of night when nobody was looking over his shoulder.
I suspect Thelma O’Leary did much the same thing, judging by the look of her greasy, burnt food, only not as well on account of her not having Parvl Da Snood to help her out.
Talking about Parvl Da Snood, he used to call me names and throw dirty water at my windows. Said I was uglier than his grandmother’s pututy and the only reason he didn’t want to get old was so he wouldn’t hafta forced to ride around The Continent in me. The first time he said it I thought it was funny and laughed. The second I rolled over his foot. The third time I ran over him, after which he didn’t say much of anything.
After that, we never went back to Pergulla Da Splatta’s authentically quaint, peasanty all-you-can-eat restaurant. From what I heard, once she didn’t have Parvl Da Snood working wonders with greasy leavings in her kitchen, the place went downhill. Such is life.
I’m thinking the large, well-dressed man and Finian Da Fabricator are going to pull up next to the bright pink building up ahead. I’m ever so excited, and will close for now so I don’t break my pencil.
As we say, so endeth another day.
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