Day 20

Dear Diary,

I know I told you I was gonna rest my eyes (as they say) for a few minutes, but it got so interesting here at Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s Special Prized Collectables Market that I forgot all about my nap (which is saying something, being as naps are the most important events of my life). In fact, there were so many things going on at once, I almost wished I had three or four sets of headlamps to keep tabs.

However, since I’ve got only a single pair of headlamps (which, in case you didn’t know, are eyes to us buses) and they only look in one direction at a time, I unfortunately missed more of the activity that I care to mention. I apologise for this, Dear Diary, on account of it makes my narrative all the poorer. But I guess we can’t cry over wot we’ve lost out on, can we. In any case, I can always make something up. If it works for someone as stupid as Floozie Da Smelley, I figure it’ll work ten times better for me.

The truth is (and it’s the real truth, not the made up lies you tell in front of a judge so you don’t get sent to the nick), I clean forgot about Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and his nefarious doings, what with all the shenanigans engineered by Floozie Da Smelley and little miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny. It’s hard to pick whom I should talk about first, but after going ‘eeny-meeny-miny-mo’ a couple of times, I’ve opted for Little Miss Precious Perfect. Her skanky mama will have to wait her turn. Here goes.

First of all, it must be said I’d failed to recognise which one of the sheep in the petting zoo was which. I know they all look sorta the same, or at least they do after they’re sheared, but I went crazy not telling them apart. Even with them spray-painted all over pink and with their toenails painted gold and with them wearing diamond pastry collars and hats and gold blankets advertising Floozie Da Smelley’s Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk By the Tonne (for which miss Candee Da Smelley made her mama pay an arm and a leg), I should’a knowed ‘em by their voices. After all, I had shared a field with them at Fergal Da Fecker’s (and before that when it was owned by Fingus Da Flatulator before he blew hisself up). But no matter what, I simply could not tell them apart. I thought I was going senilified, until common sense prevailed and I asked ‘em who was who. They said they didn’t rightly know, not after a month of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nocturnal ministrations, but they were pretty sure they were none of not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker’s lot. The reason they knew this was because those particular ewes had all run away and snuck aboard a boat to The Faroe Islands, where they treat sheep better. I was annoyed they hadn’t stopped to say goodbye before leaving, but at least they’re being spared whatever it is Misther Patchouli Da Fanny has to offer, which is all for the best.

Whilst I was getting this sorted out in my mind, Miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny was going from sheep to sheep with her curling irons, refreshing all their sausagey curls and applying mascara and eye shadow. ‘Course, she’s too much of a haddock to recognise that the ewes and I were having a conversation, but that didn’t keep her from resenting their bleating. She started in kicking them and carrying on, yelling that their bleatings were out of tune and making her look deficient in the animal-training department. I must say, her behaviour was the straw that broke the camel’s back and, when she wasn’t looking, I rolled back right over her toes and got her pink shiny plastic cowgirl boots all ruined. ‘Course she kicked me in retaliation (but only after she’d cried and screamed and nearly got herself evicted by Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu for causing a disturbance). She then stuck an evil sneaky sort of grin on her face, and yanked open my back door. For a minute I thought I was a goner and saw my life flash before my eyes, but instead of doing anything to me she pulled a gi-normous charcoal barbeque smoker grill from my boot. She ordered Finian Da Fabricator to set it alight, which he did, not knowing any better, and then wheeled it over to the centre of her temporary petting zoo enclosure.

It was then my heart stopped and I swear I nearly died of shock, for in front of God and me and everyone, she grabbed one of the ewes (one who was so busy talking to a fencepost she’d forgot to watch her back) and plunked her on to the barbeque grill. Wool and all. ‘Course, I screamed like anything (not that it did much good on account of my horn not working worth a sack of brown stuff), but I’m glad to say all the other little kids wot’d paid good money for the privilege of cuddling the sheep started in hollering as well. At that point, Floozie Da Smelley waded in and told ‘em to simmer down and be patient on account of lunch was about to be served in fifteen or twenty minutes. She made ‘em pay her €25 each for a thick slice of barbequed lamb, with a packet of crisps thrown in as a free bonus gift (it was, she said, her charitable act for the day and she’d deduct it from the taxes she didn’t pay). Candee Da Smelley-Fanny got annoyed by this, what with it being her sheep and all, and she went and snatched all the money from Floozie Da Smelley and told her to get lost, whereupon Floozie Da Smelley paddled her daughter real hard across her backside with one of her gold and pink stiletto fuck-me pumps. Candee Da Smelley-Fanny looked at her real hard and squinted her eyes, and then blew her special ‘this-man-is-looking-at-me-cross-eyed’ whistle. Naturally, right away seven burly policemen grabbed Floozie Da Smelley and dragged her away kicking and screaming to the nick, where she’ll probably be sentenced to a hundert years and have her name all over the six o’clock news.

While all this was going on, the ewe jumped off the barbeque grill and ran away, taking all the others with her, swearing they wouldn’t stop ‘til they got to The Faroe Islands, where they never treat sheep in such a shameful fashion. So at least, one good thing came of the day, and it’s not even afternoon yet.

I don’t think any of the kids ever got their money back, but if they’re stupid enough to pay good money to the likes of Candee Da Smelley-Fanny for one of her scams, they deserve to lose every cent their papas ever earned.

Floozie Da Smelley may have been dragged away, but I think we haven’t heard the last of this morning. It’s all deathly quiet now, so I’ll put away my pencil and grab some shuteye before the excitement gets going again. So, as they say, so endeth an exciting hour or so. I’ll talk to you later.