Dear Diary,
It’s time to get down to the horrible and unsightly nitty-gritty about Finian Da Fabricator. The longer I think about how he up and deserted me the madder I get, which means the sooner I scrape it off my chest, the better off I’ll be. After all, I’ve got a new life ahead of me with the Greek God part-Italian Stallion Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his salivating 1000cc Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, so in less than no time at all I’ll be fully occupied in unravelling various mysteries and in breaking both of ‘em of their bad habits. Not that I seem to have much luck in retraining folks. Just look at how Fergal Da Fecker and Patchouli Da Fanny are just as dumb as they were when I first met ‘em. Makes on want to cry, don’t it. Either that or perhaps life’d be a whole lot easier if I just rolled myself off a cliff and took my chances with the afterlife.
Mind you, now that I’ve got The Widow Fartie Da Whistle taking the place of Finian Da Fabricator, I’ve got the prospects of a coupl’a weeks of her ministrations. Hopefully we’ll never be properly introduced and so we’ll never find out the bad things about each other.
But back to Finian Da Fabricator. I’d got to the point in my telling where he was standing there, right in the lobby of The Bank of Old Wanger Nose, when he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of Elmer Da Snog jigging away in wot was a local sorta Morris Dance type jumping up and down and thwacking hisself with ribbons, and wearing nothing but a smile on his face and tendrils of ivy streaming down from his head. Don’t ask me where he got the ivy from, cuz I don’t know. Perhaps he has some in his garden at home, where he lives alone and with his curtains drawn and pretends he’s not there when the television licence folks come to call. Anyway, he danced and danced and got all sweaty in places wot are better off not exercised, when suddenly, from out of nowhere, who should appear but Howard Da Fardle, dressed more like Elmer Da Snog than wot was possible in a sane man, down to the ivy tendrils and the scum from Aunt Bertha Mae Louise Drindle’s Patented Shiny Organic Mushroom Fragrant Blossom Liquid Hand-Washing Soap clogging up his pores. Now I know for a fact that Howard Da Fardle don’t have access to the Executive Lavatory, and not even to the Vice-President’s Toilet like Elmer Da Snog, so the mind boggles just thinking where he came by it. And even if he did accidentally come across Old Wanger Nose’s private stash, wot the old gangster from Chicago smears on hisself and his pointy-booby tootsies (about whom you’ll be wanting to know later) in their private and ugly moments, wot with Howard Da Fardle being so fat and wobbly (sort of like a hippopotamus with a pointy head) there’d hardly be enough of that particular special body-slickering soap in all the cupboards in The Bank of Old Wanger Nose to reach all his parts. Believe me, just hearing about Howard Da Fardle doing wot he was doing made me feel sicker’n a toad wot’s ate a plastic bag. Not on account of what he was getting up to (Morris Dancing away with Elmer Da Snog), cuz that’s his own business, but on account of his poor wifeen, Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle, wot has her heart set on all sorts of babbies from him when she figures out how to go about it, wot with him being both fatter’n a beach ball and not really not all that interested. And when you think about it, one can understand his point-of-view, can’t you? It can’t be a bowl of cherries being the second son of Missus Milly Da Fardle, especially when you sees how all his other brothers and sisters turned out in the propagating department. Most of them youngsters they’ve spewed out you wouldn’t want to wish on your worst enemy, no matter how much wrong he’d done you. To my mind it was highly commendable that Howard Da Fardle wanted to forego the joys of fatherhood. Seeing his predicament makes me realise once again how lucky I am being a classic Daimler CVD6 bus with a handcrafted Burlington 33-seater coachwork body. One thing buses never have to worry about is churning out babbies wot the world doesn’t need.
All this dwelling on the sorry plight of being a human being has reminded me of something more horrible’n plastic cheese and salad cream on white bread. I haven’t told you about poor Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle, have I, other than the fact that she’s been deprived in the babby-producing department on account of Howard Da Fardle’s lack of amenities? When I think about how folks end up being born in terrible tragic circumstances, she’s gotta go down as the unluckiest woman from there to here, and that includes spots on the earth where you’d shoot yourself the minute you sees whereabouts on the map you live. It really says something tragic, doesn’t it, when someone so innocent and well-meaning as Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle has to go and marry Howard Da Fardle and take on Missus Milly Da Fardle as a mother-in-law. Well, wot you don’t know is about Old Misther Jehosephat Da Fardle, wot was married to Missus Milly Da Fardle up ‘til the day he disappeared without a trace rather than face another one of her special morning fry-ups. Well, wot you don’t know about Old Misther Slimebag Jehosephat Da Fardle is wot he done to all the wives of all his sons after’n they married into the family. And that includes little innocent Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle. Only the others never really cared one way or another, on account of Old Misther Jehosephat Da Fardle were hung like a donkey and knowed how to make the girls squeal. In fact, he got most of the wives for most of his sons (and he had twenty-four of ‘em in all) hisself, and bought at the ‘em special price of thirteen euros per dozen from Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien down at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic, where they specialised in selling off girls and sometimes boys dressed as girls to the local yokels, who couldn’t get nothing for themselves even if they knew how to try.
The horrible thing about little innocent Dweezee Da Fardle was she found Howard Da Fardle herself, after selling him a cuppa and a cream cake at the Woman’s Institute’s June Midsummer Madness Jubilee Morris Dance. She’d never even heard of The Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-O-Matic, much less danced there displaying her works. ‘Course, that didn’t stop Old Misther Sleazebag Jehosephat Da Fardle makin’ hisself at home in her the night after her wedding to Howard Da Fardle, on account of ‘Ol Howard was too busy throwing up and panicking to do anything hisself. And that’s not all. It just gets worse and more depressing, and sometimes I wonder how little innocent Dweezee Da Fardle manages not to jump off the cliff. At least that’d stop folks from laughing at her. And it’d also contribute something nice to the cats on the island if’n she kicked the bucket, seeing as how her flesh is as juicy as a ripe plum and’d go nicely in one of The Fanny-Gnu Cat Food Company’s premium brands.
I see I’ve led you up the garden path, Dear Diary, and left about a hundert loose ends dangling in the wind. Well, you’re just gonna hafta wait ‘till later. I’m putting away my pencil, cuz I see The Widow Fartie Da Whistle approaching, and she’s carrying a squeegee in her business hand. See you later, and as I always say, so endeth our nice little chat, but I’ve got something better on my plate (as they say).
It’s time to get down to the horrible and unsightly nitty-gritty about Finian Da Fabricator. The longer I think about how he up and deserted me the madder I get, which means the sooner I scrape it off my chest, the better off I’ll be. After all, I’ve got a new life ahead of me with the Greek God part-Italian Stallion Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his salivating 1000cc Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, so in less than no time at all I’ll be fully occupied in unravelling various mysteries and in breaking both of ‘em of their bad habits. Not that I seem to have much luck in retraining folks. Just look at how Fergal Da Fecker and Patchouli Da Fanny are just as dumb as they were when I first met ‘em. Makes on want to cry, don’t it. Either that or perhaps life’d be a whole lot easier if I just rolled myself off a cliff and took my chances with the afterlife.
Mind you, now that I’ve got The Widow Fartie Da Whistle taking the place of Finian Da Fabricator, I’ve got the prospects of a coupl’a weeks of her ministrations. Hopefully we’ll never be properly introduced and so we’ll never find out the bad things about each other.
But back to Finian Da Fabricator. I’d got to the point in my telling where he was standing there, right in the lobby of The Bank of Old Wanger Nose, when he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of Elmer Da Snog jigging away in wot was a local sorta Morris Dance type jumping up and down and thwacking hisself with ribbons, and wearing nothing but a smile on his face and tendrils of ivy streaming down from his head. Don’t ask me where he got the ivy from, cuz I don’t know. Perhaps he has some in his garden at home, where he lives alone and with his curtains drawn and pretends he’s not there when the television licence folks come to call. Anyway, he danced and danced and got all sweaty in places wot are better off not exercised, when suddenly, from out of nowhere, who should appear but Howard Da Fardle, dressed more like Elmer Da Snog than wot was possible in a sane man, down to the ivy tendrils and the scum from Aunt Bertha Mae Louise Drindle’s Patented Shiny Organic Mushroom Fragrant Blossom Liquid Hand-Washing Soap clogging up his pores. Now I know for a fact that Howard Da Fardle don’t have access to the Executive Lavatory, and not even to the Vice-President’s Toilet like Elmer Da Snog, so the mind boggles just thinking where he came by it. And even if he did accidentally come across Old Wanger Nose’s private stash, wot the old gangster from Chicago smears on hisself and his pointy-booby tootsies (about whom you’ll be wanting to know later) in their private and ugly moments, wot with Howard Da Fardle being so fat and wobbly (sort of like a hippopotamus with a pointy head) there’d hardly be enough of that particular special body-slickering soap in all the cupboards in The Bank of Old Wanger Nose to reach all his parts. Believe me, just hearing about Howard Da Fardle doing wot he was doing made me feel sicker’n a toad wot’s ate a plastic bag. Not on account of what he was getting up to (Morris Dancing away with Elmer Da Snog), cuz that’s his own business, but on account of his poor wifeen, Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle, wot has her heart set on all sorts of babbies from him when she figures out how to go about it, wot with him being both fatter’n a beach ball and not really not all that interested. And when you think about it, one can understand his point-of-view, can’t you? It can’t be a bowl of cherries being the second son of Missus Milly Da Fardle, especially when you sees how all his other brothers and sisters turned out in the propagating department. Most of them youngsters they’ve spewed out you wouldn’t want to wish on your worst enemy, no matter how much wrong he’d done you. To my mind it was highly commendable that Howard Da Fardle wanted to forego the joys of fatherhood. Seeing his predicament makes me realise once again how lucky I am being a classic Daimler CVD6 bus with a handcrafted Burlington 33-seater coachwork body. One thing buses never have to worry about is churning out babbies wot the world doesn’t need.
All this dwelling on the sorry plight of being a human being has reminded me of something more horrible’n plastic cheese and salad cream on white bread. I haven’t told you about poor Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle, have I, other than the fact that she’s been deprived in the babby-producing department on account of Howard Da Fardle’s lack of amenities? When I think about how folks end up being born in terrible tragic circumstances, she’s gotta go down as the unluckiest woman from there to here, and that includes spots on the earth where you’d shoot yourself the minute you sees whereabouts on the map you live. It really says something tragic, doesn’t it, when someone so innocent and well-meaning as Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle has to go and marry Howard Da Fardle and take on Missus Milly Da Fardle as a mother-in-law. Well, wot you don’t know is about Old Misther Jehosephat Da Fardle, wot was married to Missus Milly Da Fardle up ‘til the day he disappeared without a trace rather than face another one of her special morning fry-ups. Well, wot you don’t know about Old Misther Slimebag Jehosephat Da Fardle is wot he done to all the wives of all his sons after’n they married into the family. And that includes little innocent Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle. Only the others never really cared one way or another, on account of Old Misther Jehosephat Da Fardle were hung like a donkey and knowed how to make the girls squeal. In fact, he got most of the wives for most of his sons (and he had twenty-four of ‘em in all) hisself, and bought at the ‘em special price of thirteen euros per dozen from Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien down at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic, where they specialised in selling off girls and sometimes boys dressed as girls to the local yokels, who couldn’t get nothing for themselves even if they knew how to try.
The horrible thing about little innocent Dweezee Da Fardle was she found Howard Da Fardle herself, after selling him a cuppa and a cream cake at the Woman’s Institute’s June Midsummer Madness Jubilee Morris Dance. She’d never even heard of The Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-O-Matic, much less danced there displaying her works. ‘Course, that didn’t stop Old Misther Sleazebag Jehosephat Da Fardle makin’ hisself at home in her the night after her wedding to Howard Da Fardle, on account of ‘Ol Howard was too busy throwing up and panicking to do anything hisself. And that’s not all. It just gets worse and more depressing, and sometimes I wonder how little innocent Dweezee Da Fardle manages not to jump off the cliff. At least that’d stop folks from laughing at her. And it’d also contribute something nice to the cats on the island if’n she kicked the bucket, seeing as how her flesh is as juicy as a ripe plum and’d go nicely in one of The Fanny-Gnu Cat Food Company’s premium brands.
I see I’ve led you up the garden path, Dear Diary, and left about a hundert loose ends dangling in the wind. Well, you’re just gonna hafta wait ‘till later. I’m putting away my pencil, cuz I see The Widow Fartie Da Whistle approaching, and she’s carrying a squeegee in her business hand. See you later, and as I always say, so endeth our nice little chat, but I’ve got something better on my plate (as they say).
No comments:
Post a Comment