Day 28

Dear Diary,

It got quite busy an hour or so after I ran over Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s toes and after Finian Da Fabricator consoled me by rubbing polish all over my sensitive bits. We (being Finian Da Fabricator and myself) had to pick up Miss Emily Da Onion and Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and take ‘em on a special trip to the bank. Not, of course, the respectable bank in the respectable town on the side of the island where men know the difference between their girlfriends and a duck, but on the other side of the island where they don’t. The bank in this town is owned by Miss Cabbage’s brother-in-law, Elmer Da Snog, who was sent to Chicago before his plums had begun to swing when there was ladies present. He’d been apprenticed to a man whose name is never mentioned, excepting when he’s called Old Wanger Nose behind his back. Anyway, Elmer Da Snog learned wot’s what from this Old Wanger Nose, such as how to scare people and make their sweat stink like stoat’s pee. ‘Course, they could’a saved themselves a whole lot of bother and money by just sending him to live with Miss Emily Da Onion or Miss Cabbage or Missus Milly Da Fardle for a coupl’a months, on account of they already has the gift. In spades, if you don’t mind me speaking a bit rude.

As a mark of respect to his patron, Elmer Da Snog named his bank The Bank of Old Wanger Nose (which nobody laughs at and lives to tell about it), due to Old Wanger Nose having come all the way over from Chicago to lay the foundation stone and install hisself as senior silent partner. From what I’ve heard, when he’s not in Chicago scaring folks and making their sweat stink like stoat’s pee, he lives in a secret chamber around back of the vault of The Bank of Old Wanger Nose and makes all Elmer Da Snog’s lending decisions for him, even down to interest rates, and killing pet canaries and foreclosing on the concrete council bunker bungalows of poor people when they decides eating is more important than paying him back on time. Officially, of course, I can’t talk about this or even think about it in the open. Old Wanger Nose might slash my new tyres, and then where would I be?

As I was saying, Finian Da Fabricator and I were hired to pick up Miss Milly Da Fardle and Old Emily Da Onion and Miss Cabbage and take ‘em down to The Bank of Old Wanger Nose, so Missus Milly Da Fardle could stash all her bingo winnings in her maximum strength and secret safekeeping box, located in a the private safe under the vault. Of course, I’ve never been allowed to go down and see it in person, but that’s mainly on account of my not being able to fit down the stairs. It’s hard being a bus sometimes, especially one who’s well built and manly, if you know what I mean.

When we got to Miss Cabbage’s little concrete bunker bungalow we was told she’d already left for Missus Milly Da Fardle’s concrete bunker bungalow on account of Finian Da Fabricator doesn’t showing her proper respect when she was riding alone. Fair enough, is what I thought. ‘Course I also thought, who gives a shit, but naturally I can’t say that openly, not if I want to continue operating as a Community Bus. When you’re a Community Bus you gotta respect everybody and defer to ‘em politely, even if they treats you like a toilet and disrespects you as if you wasn’t there. It takes a bit of discipline, believe me, but I’ve been a bus longer than I care to remember, and have my act down pat. Unfortunately, Finian Da Fabricator, being more of a free spirit and a human being, as well, has more trouble biting his tongue than I, which is why he lost his licence. It wasn’t the most intelligent thing calling old Judge Finga Da Bilious a feckin’ cow after she gave him his most recent suspended sentence. In case you’ve forgot, Dear Diary, his crime was going one step too far with Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien on the roof of Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic, forgetting that scrawny Sister Mary Murphy Mornaghan’s catechism class was having their scheduled monthly star-gazing picnic in the field next door. Indecent exposure, I think they calls it, but if you’ve ever seen the three of ‘em naked together and all greased up with mayonnaise, you’d call it hilarious. Like two fat buns with a pickle wedged between. ‘Course, he really should’a waited to call the judge a feckin’ cow ‘til after he’d left the courtroom, but when Finian Da Fabricator gets it into his head to do something, such as shooting his mouth off at the wrong time, there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him. You gotta love him, don’t you. Personally I think Judge Finga Da Bilious went too far in depriving him of his livelihood just because he called her a feckin’ cow (which is what she looks like, by the way).

I’m getting increasingly worried about what’ll happen to me when I go to live with the Italian Greek God wot bought me from Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, and I dread sharing having to share a garage with his stuck up Ducati. I’ll tell you one thing, I’m gonna keep my pencil to myself on account my not knowing where the Ducati’s been.

Incidentally, the owld man in front of Miss Cabbage’s concrete bunker bungalow wot told us the old prune’d already left, was one of those picturesque types you sees in black and white movies. Don’t know his name and I doubt if he does, either. Perhaps he was a friend of owld Fingus Da Flatulator back before he blowed hisself up. If I ever see him again, I’ll ask him. ‘Course he peed on one of my back tyres, but they’re so ugly I’d do it as well if I could.

By the way, Miss Cabbage should’a rung the call centre and told ‘em she’d be waiting for the bus at Missus Milly Da Fardle’s concrete bunker bungalow and not her own. That’s what she would’a done if she had the manners of a slug (which she hasn’t).

Anyway, we just pulled into The Petrol Station to fill me up with watered-down imitation premium petrol. Not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker’s just unscrewed my cap and is running his hand all over my behind like he’d like to know me better. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I’m praying he hooks me up to the right tank this time, not like the last. That was when he mixed up the tanks and I got slurry in my innards instead. That, my Dear Diary, was a nightmare and it took Finian Da Fabricator all of one night to get me cleaned out. I haven’t smelled right since then and I stall at inconvenient moments.

Not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker has taken Finian Da Fabricator’s money for the petrol and has gone inside to hide it in the glass jam jar he keeps on the third shelf down on the right hand side (I’m telling you this in case you need some extra spending cash sometime and are in the neighbourhood). Finian Da Fabricator’s starting my engine and preparing for us to drive away. I’m putting away my pencil and will continue later. As I always say, so endeth another hour or so.