Dear Diary,
It’s amazing wot a bit of hand-polishing does for the betterment of your life (if you know wot I mean). One of these days I’m gonna hafta get introduced to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, on account of our relationship can’t go to the next level until I do. I’m in no hurry on that score, however, on account of familiarity breeds contempt (as them wot’s don’t got enough sense to think up their own clichés like to say). It’s sort of hard to get annoyed at someone if you don’t know their ins and outs, unless, of course, they’re politicians, in which case they’re born annoying so they don’t count. Anyway, I look upon this unintroduced phase in my relationship with The Widow Fartie Da Whistle as a honeymoon. She does a lot of making me feel better’n a pancake after someone’s poured strawberries and maple syrup all over it, and I haven’t seen her dark side yet. No doubt that’ll hafta wait for the first time she drives me, but I won’t let her so much as stick a key in my ignition until we shake hands, so to speak. Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s supposed to introduce us, being that he owns me (at least until the Greek God part-Italian Stallion Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his salivating 1000cc Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, take possession of me this time next week, more or less), but he’s too busy selling his new line of straw dollies to tourons. Don’t ask me wot that’s all about or wot they’re supposed to represent. All I know is the scheme has something to do with the seven hundert mouldy bales of used straw Misther Patchouli Da Fanny took in trade for a tankful of slurry he sucked up from someone else’s field and sold to a Romanian pig farmer as originating from his own personal A-One Grade Superior Violet-smelling back entrance (I’m not supposed to get more explicit on account of parents of teenagers might be listening in, but you get the message). He’ll do anything for a euro, will Misther Patchouli Da Fanny. I’ve gotta admire him, at least as long as he doesn’t try to cheat me or fob me off with any more of that cheap petrol he steels from not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker in the middle of the night, after not-so-owld Fergal is knocked out by the kick of his special high-octane potheen (from a recipe he inherited from owld Fingus Da Flatulator after he blowed hisself up).
But where was my mind wandering to? Ah yes, Dear Diary, when I was writing earlier I was more or less fully occupied fulltime with Missus Milly Da Fardle. I think I’ve probably said enough about her for the time being, even though there are more stories about her than a rat has fleas. Wot you say I leave her where she was, which was cursing and disgracing her only two friends in the whole world, being Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion, and making sure they’d never be welcomed into anybody’s home again as long as they live (and probably longer if there’s as much power in Missus Milly Da Fardle’s words as I think there is). And since she’s not going to leave that spot on the pavement anytime soon, I think I’ll let her continue cursing and carrying on and calling everyone on her cheap, pay-as-you-go mobile phone, so I can share some tittle about Finian Da Fabricator and why he’s not with me anymore.
Last time I mentioned him (I mean really mentioned him and not just said he was, as they say, missing in action) he was wearing a reject shiny apple-green suit (or it could’ve been robin’s egg spreckled or red cabbage purple, I can’t say I paid much attention, it was so God-awful) and barging into The Bank of Old Wanger Nose to steal back Missus Milly Da Fardle’s suitcase, wot was full of ill-gotten blackmailed bingo winnings, and wot had been stole from her by Elmer Da Snog. Remember? You don’t? Well, you’ll just hafta leaf back through a whole bunch of pages and find it yourself, on account of I’m sure as gin’s-got-water-in-it that I’m not going to do it for you.
Anyway, whether or not you remember exactly wot I’m talking about, Finian Da Fabricator charged into The Bank and Old Wanger Nose and slammed the door behind him, all the time shouting, “Come out, come out wherever you are, Elmer Da Snog, and face me like a man. You’ve stole Missus Milly Da Fardle’s ill-gotten blackmailed bingo winnings and I’ve come to steal ‘em back before she ups and curses us both and our ears fall off.”
Well, no sooner had he finished yelling and carrying on than Elmer Da Snog started giggling behind the filing cabinet, and before you can say so much as a bad word, Elmer Da Snog leapt out into the middle of the room, flapping his hands back and forth like a crow and as naked as the day is long. He was also blowing a little whistle, but I won’t talk about that on account of it were a bridge too far and were more embarrassing than Floozie Da Smelley when she tries to sing karaoke. I believe Elmer Da Snog were trying to tootle ‘The Colonel Bogie March’, but that’s only wot the vacuum cleaner wot was standing just inside the door and watching everything said, and everybody knows he ain’t got no ear for music. He (meaning the vacuum cleaner) also said it didn’t do much for his digestion seeing Elmer Da Snog jumping up and down the way he was, especially on account of everything else was busy doing the same thing. Being the curious sort I asked her if she took pictures, on account of one can always sell them over the Internet and make a lot of money for doing nothing much of anything. Folks’ll always buy photos of naked men wot don’t got nothing much to shout about (as they say), shoutin’ louder than they should if they had a brain. From wot I hear, Ol’ Elmer Da Song wasn’t drunk, either, just reacting to the sight of all that money wot was in the luggage. And all the time he was jumping up and down and flapping in the breeze and waving his arms, Finian Da Fabricator was standing there mesmerized and flabbergasted. And that’s the truth. And he stood there and stood there, his mouth hanging open like he was waiting in vain for a fly to find it, and he didn’t move for a coupla hours or more (which is why he didn’t come back out right away).
This story, which is not so much a story, Dear Diary, is a true account of wot actually happened to Finian Da Fabricator and explains why he’s no longer living here and taking care of me in his own inimitable way. Being that it’s sorta complicated and delves into the depths of human passion and shows humans can’t be trusted when it comes to love, I’m gonna leave the telling of it ‘til later. Gotta think a bit, ‘cuz I’ve still got feelings for Finian Da Fabricator and don’t want to drag him through the mud, even though he deserted and betrayed me. Never mind. Ill close for now and put away my pencil and sit and do nothing. As I always say, so endeth a time I really enjoyed with Finian Da Fabricator.
It’s amazing wot a bit of hand-polishing does for the betterment of your life (if you know wot I mean). One of these days I’m gonna hafta get introduced to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, on account of our relationship can’t go to the next level until I do. I’m in no hurry on that score, however, on account of familiarity breeds contempt (as them wot’s don’t got enough sense to think up their own clichés like to say). It’s sort of hard to get annoyed at someone if you don’t know their ins and outs, unless, of course, they’re politicians, in which case they’re born annoying so they don’t count. Anyway, I look upon this unintroduced phase in my relationship with The Widow Fartie Da Whistle as a honeymoon. She does a lot of making me feel better’n a pancake after someone’s poured strawberries and maple syrup all over it, and I haven’t seen her dark side yet. No doubt that’ll hafta wait for the first time she drives me, but I won’t let her so much as stick a key in my ignition until we shake hands, so to speak. Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s supposed to introduce us, being that he owns me (at least until the Greek God part-Italian Stallion Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his salivating 1000cc Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, take possession of me this time next week, more or less), but he’s too busy selling his new line of straw dollies to tourons. Don’t ask me wot that’s all about or wot they’re supposed to represent. All I know is the scheme has something to do with the seven hundert mouldy bales of used straw Misther Patchouli Da Fanny took in trade for a tankful of slurry he sucked up from someone else’s field and sold to a Romanian pig farmer as originating from his own personal A-One Grade Superior Violet-smelling back entrance (I’m not supposed to get more explicit on account of parents of teenagers might be listening in, but you get the message). He’ll do anything for a euro, will Misther Patchouli Da Fanny. I’ve gotta admire him, at least as long as he doesn’t try to cheat me or fob me off with any more of that cheap petrol he steels from not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker in the middle of the night, after not-so-owld Fergal is knocked out by the kick of his special high-octane potheen (from a recipe he inherited from owld Fingus Da Flatulator after he blowed hisself up).
But where was my mind wandering to? Ah yes, Dear Diary, when I was writing earlier I was more or less fully occupied fulltime with Missus Milly Da Fardle. I think I’ve probably said enough about her for the time being, even though there are more stories about her than a rat has fleas. Wot you say I leave her where she was, which was cursing and disgracing her only two friends in the whole world, being Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion, and making sure they’d never be welcomed into anybody’s home again as long as they live (and probably longer if there’s as much power in Missus Milly Da Fardle’s words as I think there is). And since she’s not going to leave that spot on the pavement anytime soon, I think I’ll let her continue cursing and carrying on and calling everyone on her cheap, pay-as-you-go mobile phone, so I can share some tittle about Finian Da Fabricator and why he’s not with me anymore.
Last time I mentioned him (I mean really mentioned him and not just said he was, as they say, missing in action) he was wearing a reject shiny apple-green suit (or it could’ve been robin’s egg spreckled or red cabbage purple, I can’t say I paid much attention, it was so God-awful) and barging into The Bank of Old Wanger Nose to steal back Missus Milly Da Fardle’s suitcase, wot was full of ill-gotten blackmailed bingo winnings, and wot had been stole from her by Elmer Da Snog. Remember? You don’t? Well, you’ll just hafta leaf back through a whole bunch of pages and find it yourself, on account of I’m sure as gin’s-got-water-in-it that I’m not going to do it for you.
Anyway, whether or not you remember exactly wot I’m talking about, Finian Da Fabricator charged into The Bank and Old Wanger Nose and slammed the door behind him, all the time shouting, “Come out, come out wherever you are, Elmer Da Snog, and face me like a man. You’ve stole Missus Milly Da Fardle’s ill-gotten blackmailed bingo winnings and I’ve come to steal ‘em back before she ups and curses us both and our ears fall off.”
Well, no sooner had he finished yelling and carrying on than Elmer Da Snog started giggling behind the filing cabinet, and before you can say so much as a bad word, Elmer Da Snog leapt out into the middle of the room, flapping his hands back and forth like a crow and as naked as the day is long. He was also blowing a little whistle, but I won’t talk about that on account of it were a bridge too far and were more embarrassing than Floozie Da Smelley when she tries to sing karaoke. I believe Elmer Da Snog were trying to tootle ‘The Colonel Bogie March’, but that’s only wot the vacuum cleaner wot was standing just inside the door and watching everything said, and everybody knows he ain’t got no ear for music. He (meaning the vacuum cleaner) also said it didn’t do much for his digestion seeing Elmer Da Snog jumping up and down the way he was, especially on account of everything else was busy doing the same thing. Being the curious sort I asked her if she took pictures, on account of one can always sell them over the Internet and make a lot of money for doing nothing much of anything. Folks’ll always buy photos of naked men wot don’t got nothing much to shout about (as they say), shoutin’ louder than they should if they had a brain. From wot I hear, Ol’ Elmer Da Song wasn’t drunk, either, just reacting to the sight of all that money wot was in the luggage. And all the time he was jumping up and down and flapping in the breeze and waving his arms, Finian Da Fabricator was standing there mesmerized and flabbergasted. And that’s the truth. And he stood there and stood there, his mouth hanging open like he was waiting in vain for a fly to find it, and he didn’t move for a coupla hours or more (which is why he didn’t come back out right away).
This story, which is not so much a story, Dear Diary, is a true account of wot actually happened to Finian Da Fabricator and explains why he’s no longer living here and taking care of me in his own inimitable way. Being that it’s sorta complicated and delves into the depths of human passion and shows humans can’t be trusted when it comes to love, I’m gonna leave the telling of it ‘til later. Gotta think a bit, ‘cuz I’ve still got feelings for Finian Da Fabricator and don’t want to drag him through the mud, even though he deserted and betrayed me. Never mind. Ill close for now and put away my pencil and sit and do nothing. As I always say, so endeth a time I really enjoyed with Finian Da Fabricator.
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