Day 26

Dear Diary,

First of all, I’m gonna tell you straight off, Dear Diary, that I’m no closer to unravelling the mystery of this ‘Muriel’ person or thing, and it’s driving me crazy. It seems my only hope of discovering the truth’ll be if I can arrange for Missus Drain to sit in one of my seats when there’s no one else around. Perhaps then she’ll confide in me like in the old days, before owld Fingus Da Flatulator went and blew hisself up. Life sure is frustrating at times when you’re a bus, cuz there’s no way I can just pop over to her little concrete bunker bungalow as ask her mano-a-mano, if you know what I mean. I’ve gotta be driven by somebody, usually not of my own choosing, and if it turns out to be Misther Patchouli Da Fanny or Floozie Da Smelley then my day’s up shit’s creek (as they say). By the by, Dear Diary, if ever young kids are allowed to read wot I’ve wrote, promise you’ll censor all the bad words, especially if there are grown-ups present. Grown-ups just don’t understand anything about anything, and are as uptight as gull guano when it comes to intelligent conversation.

Other than my obsession about this ‘Muriel’, whoever she or it may be, things are definitely looking up. Finian Da Flatulator and I managed to get all the biddies delivered back from bingo to their concrete bunker bungalows safe and sound, and with none of them beating up on poor Finian Da Flatulator with their handbags or zimmers. If I tell you he looked relieved, it’d be an understatement, being as how he especially avoided Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion like they was the plague and dry rot rolled into one.

I haven’t told you about Mrs. Emily Da Onion, have I? The reason for this is that my tailpipe breaks out in piles just thinking about her, she’s that mean. I thought Missus Milly Da Fardle was bad, but I’d live with her alone for a month of Sundays in a closet full of cockroaches before I’d let Mrs. Emily Da Onion ride in me alone. And I’ve told Finian Da Fabricator that, as well. Fortunately, he’s on my side when it comes to her, and has promised to call in sick if ever she tries to hire us to take her anywhere private. When he said that, I gasped in horror, cuz I’ve a feeling Misther Patchouli Da Fanny doesn’t exactly consider Finian Da Fabricator to be Employee of the Month, or even indispensable. One wrong move on the part of Finian Da Fabricator (such as calling in sick or running round the Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk-O-Rama naked and with his wanger flappin’ in the breeze in front of the tourists), and I’d be at the mercy of the bus driving skills of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley, bereft of a knight errant such as Finian Da Fabricator to defend my honour. If you know what I mean.

Miss Emily Da Onion, for your information (in case you’re not from these parts and are pig ignorant) is the older sister of Miss Cabbage and the sister-in-law of Missus Milly Da Fardle, which means she’s related in all sorts of ways to not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker. Is it any wonder he’s such a mess in his head? Of course, I’d feel more sorry for him if he was trapped on the island, for example if he’d taken a Vow of Misery with Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan’s Church of The Immaculate Septum on the bottom side of the island, where everyone’s born with rampant horns and a grievous spiritual destitution. Or if he’d lost his thumbs in the slate quarry and had to be fed a special recuperative elixir consisting of Miss Emily Da Onion’s patent Stewed Parsnip and Carrot Miracle Laxative to keep hisself greased up. But he’s not, is he. He’s as free as a buzzard to fly away, even as far as the other side of the world. But does he? No, he’d rather live at The Petrol Pump, chugging owld Fingus Da Flatulator’s special potheen recipe from morning ‘til night until his brains’ve bloated up the size of a watermelon. That’s why I’ve no sympathy for him and never will have (unless he dies some horrible death, in which case I’ll call him a saint, same as everyone else).

Missus Milly Da Fardle’s luggage was even heavier than usual with bingo winnings this afternoon. She must’a snooped around and found out about where some new bodies is buried. I still don’t know why that entitles her to win every game (I noticed she was hoarse from hollering ‘Bingo!’ all them times), and I wish someone would explain it to me. As I’ve said before, Dear Diary, what with folks dying as fast as they can plant ‘em in the ground, and sometimes even faster, and with her attending each and every funeral and internment as a matter of principle, if she didn’t know where the bodies was buried I’d say she was as stupid as not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker. So why does she get to take all the bingo money when every other old biddy knows as much about the dear departeds as she does? It’s part of their special nosy biddy DNA. If I don’t get some answers I’m gonna go on a rampage and run over their zimmers just for spite, after which I’ll dump ‘em over the cliffs behind Floozie Da Smelley’s Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk-O-Rama. I’m choosing these cliffs on account of them being puny and used many as a slurry dump. The biddies won’t get hurt much, but the experience’ll make their purple little of lady curls flatten out on one side and make ‘em look drunk and lascivious. And then everybody’ll laugh at them, instead of quaking with fear at the sight of their zimmers.

I’ve been writing this in the privacy of the garage, where Finian Da Fabricator parked me after arriving home from the biddies’ bingo outing. I hear him approaching the door and he’s talking to someone sounding like Misther Patchouli Da Fanny when he’s being all important and thinking he’s gonna make a lot of money. Since I don’t want him stealing my pencil and selling it at Floozie Da Smelley’s Junk-O-Rama discount table, I’m gonna hide it. For now, I gotta say, so endeth part of the afternoon.