Dear Diary,
Well, here I am again, and let me say straight out it was a waste of time getting all jumpy-jivey with excitement over the opening up of the front door at The Bank of Old Wanger Nose. All that happened was some secretary or other came out and walked over to The Cute Little Spring Flower Tea Shoppe, which is especially popular with tourists on account of it looks wot a genuine olde fashioned tea shoppe ought’a look like, even if the scones is bought frozen by the tonne from Fungus Da Filcher’s SuperMarket, just up the road from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women, where the biddies go to have their hair purpled and frizzled in little old lady curls. No more than three minutes later she returned to the bank carrying a polystyrene container of American-style latte with pretend real foam.
While I was distracted looking over at the bank, what should happen in the other direction but all the farmers coming back from their potheen break at Gerald Da Britch’s Drink ‘Til You’re Blind Pub and Wedding Party Rooms. They crawled on board their tractors and within a moment or two’d untangled the tractor-jam down the centre of the street. Not only that, but the minute they’d gone, Brick Shithouse started up Old Wanger Nose’s black limousine and drove off. Without even letting me know what’d happened or if Old Wanger Nose had died or was asleep or had evaporated through the roof like gas from beans on toast. Perhaps I’ll never know what was what, although if I start enough rumours between now and tonight, I’m bound to get some feedback. I’ll let you know.
As if all this isn’t enough, I’ve just spied Missus Milly Da Fardle coming back to the bus, scraping her zimmer along the street like fingers down a blackboard. From the satisfied look on her face, I’d say she made the trip to the toilet successfully and didn’t pee down her legs like she usually does. I wonder if she still remembers that her luggage was snatched and taken into The Bank of Old Wanger Nose and that Finian Da Fabricator is in there trying to get it back from Elmer Da Snog?
Talking of Missus Milly Da Fardle, you’ll be recalling that, when I ended the last diary entry, Dear Diary, the old biddy was on the verge of jumping out from behind the big old eavesdropping screen in the secret stainless steel body-stuffing laboratory in Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’, when she came down with a sneezing conniption fit. Of course, I hope I don’t hafta remember you that all this took place some weeks ago, way before I was even bought by Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and turned into a community bus. I thought I should’a mentioned this, in case anyone reading this diary suffers from a short-term memory loss and is confused about Missus Milly Da Fardle coming back from the toilet just a few minutes ago.
Now that I’ve clarificated that, I’ll go back to the point where Missus Milly Da Fardle was overcome by a sneezing conniption fit. It goes without say that she lost the element of surprise some, but neither Misther Patchouli Da Fanny nor Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu looked too upset. Seems there was always one or two old biddies and sometimes more hiding behind the screen and waiting to blackmail them for some reason or other. So, much to Missus Milly Da Fardle’s startlement, instead of conking her on the head and taking her secretly to The Gnu Fanny Deluxe Cat Food Company without the benefit of a hallalujah from Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan and his ‘Pack’em Up ‘n’ Send’em off Jubilation Hallalujah Chorus’, whose members perform in hoods so’s not to be recognised by respectable folk, Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny whipped out their chequebooks without blinking even once and asked how much she wanted. And there she was, her little portable tape recorder in one hand and her digital camcorder in the other, ready to tighten the proverbial thumbscrews. I’d say it caught her with her knickers down, wouldn’t you?
Being asked so straightforward how much money she’d settle for unnerved her more’n little, so, to buy some time to think the matter over, she asked if she could have a gander at the Misses Purdy all laid out on the three slabs and naked as a plucked chicken. They said “sure thing, Missus Milly Da Fardle, and may we bring you a cuppa tea and a stale buttered brak while you’re at it?” And on account of she was always looking forward to stale buttered brak and a cuppa made outta the tea floor-sweepings wot go into teabags, she said yes.
Missus Milly Da Fardle must’a spent a good twenty minutes examining the bodies of the Misses Purdy. ‘Course, a good fifteen of that was taken up with scraping her zimmer across the floor to the slabs, but that wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t as though she had anything better to do. However, once she reached the slab, and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’d hauled over a comfortable chair from which to inspect the corpus delicious and Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’d brought her the cuppa and stale buttered brak (only it weren’t stale at all, but fresh, and Missus Milly Da Fardle almost choked to death on it, on account of she’d never before ate brak when it was edible), she got right down to the task at hand. “One thing I could never figure out,” she said to Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, “was which was which.” “What do you mean?” asked Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, whose attention was on the part of the Misses Purdy’s anatomy where he’d slopped the tea by accident. “Well, there’s always been three of them, or at least that’s wot their mam said after they’d cut ‘em outta her at birth, on account of there being no room in her down-below place for ‘em to fit without tearing her to shreds.” Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, who was still busy sopping up tea from a tangle of grey bristle wot was located in an unexpected place, answered that he still wasn’t sure wot she was talking about. Whereupon Missus Milly Da Fardle became impatient and scolded him for not listening to his elders, especially to those wot are blackmailing him outta his life savings.
Dear Diary, this looks like a good time to put away my pencil as a good Samaritan Boy Scout type just brung the biddies tea and day-old fish paste sandwiches, which he bought last week from Floozie Da Smelley’s discount table at the bring ‘n’ buy at The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser’s storefront church ‘round the back of Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic, in wot used to be the Roman Orgy Plunge Pool before it was shut down by Councillor Derwood Da Sherbert. In case you didn’t know or are from outta town, he owns and operates The Genuine Country and Western Bar and Clean American-style Comfort Stations, right in back of Thelma O’Leary’s little falling down café, which has its own ‘Poke’em Rough ‘n’ Ready Community Baths’ for discerning gentlemen. Guess the good Councillor didn’t want the competition, on account of there not being that many of the right type of folks here on the island. Anyway, as I was starting to say, I gotta stop writing so’s I can open the door and let the Good Samaritan Boy Scout type bring the tea and sandwiches in for the biddies. As I always say, so endeth our time together. I’ll be back to as soon as I can.
Well, here I am again, and let me say straight out it was a waste of time getting all jumpy-jivey with excitement over the opening up of the front door at The Bank of Old Wanger Nose. All that happened was some secretary or other came out and walked over to The Cute Little Spring Flower Tea Shoppe, which is especially popular with tourists on account of it looks wot a genuine olde fashioned tea shoppe ought’a look like, even if the scones is bought frozen by the tonne from Fungus Da Filcher’s SuperMarket, just up the road from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women, where the biddies go to have their hair purpled and frizzled in little old lady curls. No more than three minutes later she returned to the bank carrying a polystyrene container of American-style latte with pretend real foam.
While I was distracted looking over at the bank, what should happen in the other direction but all the farmers coming back from their potheen break at Gerald Da Britch’s Drink ‘Til You’re Blind Pub and Wedding Party Rooms. They crawled on board their tractors and within a moment or two’d untangled the tractor-jam down the centre of the street. Not only that, but the minute they’d gone, Brick Shithouse started up Old Wanger Nose’s black limousine and drove off. Without even letting me know what’d happened or if Old Wanger Nose had died or was asleep or had evaporated through the roof like gas from beans on toast. Perhaps I’ll never know what was what, although if I start enough rumours between now and tonight, I’m bound to get some feedback. I’ll let you know.
As if all this isn’t enough, I’ve just spied Missus Milly Da Fardle coming back to the bus, scraping her zimmer along the street like fingers down a blackboard. From the satisfied look on her face, I’d say she made the trip to the toilet successfully and didn’t pee down her legs like she usually does. I wonder if she still remembers that her luggage was snatched and taken into The Bank of Old Wanger Nose and that Finian Da Fabricator is in there trying to get it back from Elmer Da Snog?
Talking of Missus Milly Da Fardle, you’ll be recalling that, when I ended the last diary entry, Dear Diary, the old biddy was on the verge of jumping out from behind the big old eavesdropping screen in the secret stainless steel body-stuffing laboratory in Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’, when she came down with a sneezing conniption fit. Of course, I hope I don’t hafta remember you that all this took place some weeks ago, way before I was even bought by Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and turned into a community bus. I thought I should’a mentioned this, in case anyone reading this diary suffers from a short-term memory loss and is confused about Missus Milly Da Fardle coming back from the toilet just a few minutes ago.
Now that I’ve clarificated that, I’ll go back to the point where Missus Milly Da Fardle was overcome by a sneezing conniption fit. It goes without say that she lost the element of surprise some, but neither Misther Patchouli Da Fanny nor Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu looked too upset. Seems there was always one or two old biddies and sometimes more hiding behind the screen and waiting to blackmail them for some reason or other. So, much to Missus Milly Da Fardle’s startlement, instead of conking her on the head and taking her secretly to The Gnu Fanny Deluxe Cat Food Company without the benefit of a hallalujah from Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan and his ‘Pack’em Up ‘n’ Send’em off Jubilation Hallalujah Chorus’, whose members perform in hoods so’s not to be recognised by respectable folk, Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny whipped out their chequebooks without blinking even once and asked how much she wanted. And there she was, her little portable tape recorder in one hand and her digital camcorder in the other, ready to tighten the proverbial thumbscrews. I’d say it caught her with her knickers down, wouldn’t you?
Being asked so straightforward how much money she’d settle for unnerved her more’n little, so, to buy some time to think the matter over, she asked if she could have a gander at the Misses Purdy all laid out on the three slabs and naked as a plucked chicken. They said “sure thing, Missus Milly Da Fardle, and may we bring you a cuppa tea and a stale buttered brak while you’re at it?” And on account of she was always looking forward to stale buttered brak and a cuppa made outta the tea floor-sweepings wot go into teabags, she said yes.
Missus Milly Da Fardle must’a spent a good twenty minutes examining the bodies of the Misses Purdy. ‘Course, a good fifteen of that was taken up with scraping her zimmer across the floor to the slabs, but that wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t as though she had anything better to do. However, once she reached the slab, and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’d hauled over a comfortable chair from which to inspect the corpus delicious and Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’d brought her the cuppa and stale buttered brak (only it weren’t stale at all, but fresh, and Missus Milly Da Fardle almost choked to death on it, on account of she’d never before ate brak when it was edible), she got right down to the task at hand. “One thing I could never figure out,” she said to Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, “was which was which.” “What do you mean?” asked Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, whose attention was on the part of the Misses Purdy’s anatomy where he’d slopped the tea by accident. “Well, there’s always been three of them, or at least that’s wot their mam said after they’d cut ‘em outta her at birth, on account of there being no room in her down-below place for ‘em to fit without tearing her to shreds.” Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, who was still busy sopping up tea from a tangle of grey bristle wot was located in an unexpected place, answered that he still wasn’t sure wot she was talking about. Whereupon Missus Milly Da Fardle became impatient and scolded him for not listening to his elders, especially to those wot are blackmailing him outta his life savings.
Dear Diary, this looks like a good time to put away my pencil as a good Samaritan Boy Scout type just brung the biddies tea and day-old fish paste sandwiches, which he bought last week from Floozie Da Smelley’s discount table at the bring ‘n’ buy at The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser’s storefront church ‘round the back of Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic, in wot used to be the Roman Orgy Plunge Pool before it was shut down by Councillor Derwood Da Sherbert. In case you didn’t know or are from outta town, he owns and operates The Genuine Country and Western Bar and Clean American-style Comfort Stations, right in back of Thelma O’Leary’s little falling down café, which has its own ‘Poke’em Rough ‘n’ Ready Community Baths’ for discerning gentlemen. Guess the good Councillor didn’t want the competition, on account of there not being that many of the right type of folks here on the island. Anyway, as I was starting to say, I gotta stop writing so’s I can open the door and let the Good Samaritan Boy Scout type bring the tea and sandwiches in for the biddies. As I always say, so endeth our time together. I’ll be back to as soon as I can.
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