Day 38

Dear Diary,

Well, I’m back in the garage. When I arrived I saw Floozie Da Smelley’s Pink American Convertible preening herself in one of the windows and pretending to ignore me. I waggled my windscreen wipers at her in a seductive manner, but I guess she didn’t get the hint. Personally, I think she’s got the hots for the arrogant Ducati Spagbol-eater wot’s owned by Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, the part-Italian Greek God Hunk Gigolo wot teaches the tango in his spare time, and who, by the by, paid good money for me, and not merely phoney homemade ionpretend banknotes such as Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s always passing off as real whenever he buys something. ‘Course, I don’t know how much Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota paid for me, and I’m almost afraid to ask in case I gets my feelings hurt. Knowing me, however, I won’t sleep a wink until I find out. I’d hate to think I’m going from one cheap owner, being Fergal Da Fecker, to an even cheaper owner, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, to one wot embarrasses me to tears. Not that anything can embarrass me worse than Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley and her Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk-By-The-Tonne. Even Fergal Da Fecker had a few redeeming features, or so I’ve been told by his pet duck, Fillmore.

I did find out a coupl’a things the other day from the Pink American Convertible, when we was sharing a coupl’a litres of the bargain-basement oil Misther Patchouli Da Fanny got off of Snooter Da Sphincter’s Easy-In-And-Out Trailer Halting Site’s Nothin’ Over Half A Euro Store. The Pink American Convertible, who’s sweet as sugar but dumb as a brick wot’s took dumb lessons, went on an on about it, as though it was ultra high-grade premium carborator-smootherator, wot had been brewed up special for us. The stuff must’a got her plastered, on account of she claimed it was the best oil she’d ever drunk in her life and must’a cost all of twenty cents for five litres. Sorry she didn’t get more drunk, cuz then I could’a had my way with her out by the tool shed. As it was, she were a sloppy drunk and there’s nothing worse than that in a car, especially in a pink convertible wot’s got to behave like a lady if she don’t want folks to laugh at her. In the end, she drank another gallon, and to get her to shut up about how wonderful her life was, I had to disillusion her about Misther Patchouli buying her favourite tipple at The Nothing Over Half A Euro Store, which is probably why she won’t put out for me any more.

Anyway, as I was about to say, I did manage to dig outta The Pink American Convertible (before she eventually passed out) the latest on little missy perfect Miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny, who, as you may remember, Dear Diary, got traded to Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu for a coupl’a hundert portable toilets, wot are currently filled up to the brim with tourons. I calls ‘em tourons on account of the type of tourist wot pays to stay in Floozie Da Smelley’s ‘Super Deluxe Self-Catering Accommodation Cabinettes, is about a step and a half below being a moron, if you get my meaning. Imagine anybody with a brain the size of a bean confusing a toilet with a luxury holiday accommodation, and being totally thrilled by its spaciousness and designer-designed, built-in furniture! ‘Course, I realise they’re painted pink and have cute little plastic picket fences and plastic grass and flowers surrounding ‘em, which might fool the sorta folks wot leave their heads at home. Also, I hafta admit Floozie Da Smelley did a bang-up job in advertising the cabinettes on late-night cable television shows. Not only that, but by trading in her worthless daughter like she did and selling the story to the tabloids, she’s got no end of worldwide publicity for her Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk-By-The-Tonne and wot she calls Floozie Da Smelley’s World Famous Pink-O-Drome Family Entertainment Park, which is how she refers to the lopsided pink flatpack building. I’m not sure wot goes on in there, but it must be good on account of the number of tourons flocking in and flashing their credit cards. As I’ve said before a thousand times, it beats me how you can fool all the people all the time.

But back to Miss Candee Da Smelley. It seems as how Mister Doctor Bernie Da Smelley got thwarted in his plans to set her up as a Super Star Baby Pop Diva and lead singer in the latest pop sensation underage little girl band, which is a shame on account of it could’a made him a whole lotta money, and perhaps as much as a fortune. And, of course, it was only reason he traded his toilets for her in the first place. However, in spite of her being dazzling and pretty as a Eckles Cake, and also blond and addicted to pink clothes fresh outta little girl celebrity magazines, it turned out she has a voice like a steam whistle and the personality of a angry potato. Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu could’a worked around all these shortcomings, being an intelligent sort of businessman and used to making silk purses outta sows’ ears, but in this case he was defeated. Apparently, whenever the camera was pointed in her direction, all the lens could pick up was her angry potato personality and a pointy wart on the edge of her nose wot nobody’d ever seen before. The pop gurus and producers wot were working with Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu to develop Miss Candee Da Smelley into the next big underage sexpot pop sensation, immediately asked in not nice voices why he was wasting their time. I won’t quote wot they said, Dear Diary, on account of some of the words they used even make me blush, and I was around in the sixties when bad words was invented.

The upshot was Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu took Miss Candee Da Smelley straight back to the cheap-looking pink flatpack building and threw her outta his car, with a note pinned to her blouse in a place everybody’d see it. Trouble is, she rolled into a puddle a coupl’a cows left behind, and the note got ruint. Nobody ever could read wot Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gun wrote. Personally, I think it said Floozie Da Smelley should return the two-hundert portable toilets in their original condition. If I was Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, I’d want them loaded down with only the leavings he’d sent ‘em off with in the first place, these being the leavings from valued customers who’s bought ‘genuine antiques of the future’ at his Special Prized Collectibles Market. Yessir, I bet Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu expected Floozie Da Smelley to take out all the newly added touron leavings, on account of he said he didn’t know where it came from and probably smelt like boiled cabbage. At least that’s wot the note could’a said. We’ll find out eventually.

And that, Dear Diary is why Floozie Da Smelley was screaming and yelling like a banshee a coupl’a days ago. It’s bad enough her being left with a World Famous Pink-O-Drome Family Entertainment Park without Deluxe Pink Self-Catering Cabinettes, but she’ll have a field full o’ touron sloppies. And if that’s not bad enough, she’s got little miss perfect Candee Da Smelley-Fanny living in her house again. I’ve a feeling she’s gonna farm her off to a boarding school if she can find one who’ll take her. She already tried half a dozen times to sell her off as a sex-slave on one of them internet auction sites, but there were no takers, just three dirty old men who paid her two euros each to take down the photos on account of they gave ‘em the heebie-jeebies.

Now that I’ve told you why Floozie Da Smelley was so fired up the other day, I’m gonna go to sleep. Hopefully they won’t put Miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny out in the garage with me like she was a dog. The prospect of having her sleep on my upholstery’ll does awful things to my nervous system.

Anyway, Dear Diary, if I’m still alive in the morning, I’ll tell you more about Missus Milly Da Fardle and her blackmailing schemes and wot happened to Finian Da Fabricator, and why he’s not here with me. As always, I’ll close by saying, so endeth another day.