Day 49

Dear Diary,

I really want to get back to Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle and tell you all about her, but first Ill finish up with Old Wanger Nose so’s I don’t ever have to mention him again. So far, I’ve told you about how he left The Bank of Old Wanger Nose all in a huff and with his nose all bent out of shape, and how he sped away in his enormous armoured black limousine, wot was driven by Mr. Big Brick Shithouse, and how they got all snarled up in a tractor jam. I also mentioned sometime (if you want to know when I wrote it down, Dear Diary, you’re just gonna have to leaf back ‘til you find it yourself) about the sirens which scared more out of Old Wanger Nose than I can talk about without getting into trouble, and which also ruint his black pretend panther upholstery. It seems he thought someone with no neck and big knuckles, wot was all dressed up as a cop only he wasn’t really, was after doing unto him wot he usually does to others back in Chicago. Anyway, since I explained to you all about the sirens yesterday, I can only assume you’ve got that down pat. And if not, I’ve gotta phone number for a good quack wot does regression therapy and stuff like that.

‘Course, you know by now that Old Wanger Nose sat there and sat there and sat there in his bullet-proof black limousine and he listened and listened and listened to them sirens and got scareder and scareder. And then, after a bit, his mobile phones started in ringing, first one and then the other and then the third one, wot was one of them anonymous throw-it-away jobbies wot nobody can get the number of unless they were told. When this third one blasted in his ear he nearly jumped outta his seat and he knew right then and there his life weren’t worth the underwear he was wearing. Of course, this particular phone did have a ring tone of two cats having sex, which in itself was enough to make one’s head explode. It seems it was a Christmas present from his wife, the ugly old one with the big titties wot use to stand out straight before she had seventeen or twenty of his children (plus one by the milkman) but now sag down the stairs and into the basement. She got tired of Old Wanger Nose never returning the twenty or thirty calls she makes to him every hour or so, so she gave him this phone so’s he wouldn’t have no excuses. One thing I know for a fact is you never argue with the wife of Old Wanger Nose, or Mama Wanger Nose, as she’s called by those wot want to get on her good side.

Anyway, this particular time, while Old Wanger Nose was stuck in traffic, the last thing he wanted in his life was for his wife to call. Not that he ever really wanted her to call, if you want the truth, but this time he wanted it even less. For now we get to the crux of the matter, Dear Diary, of why he was in such an all-fired and panicky hurry to get going somewhere. It seems it were his anniversary, and his wife and all their ghastly sons and their wives, wot also has tits out to the other side of the planet, and all the brats they’d made special so’s Mama Wanger Nose could experience wot it was like to be a grandmother, had planned a great big fancy shindig lunch to celebrate how much it was gonna cost Old Wanger Nose. She’d arranged special with Floozie Da Smelley, by way of her Floozie Da Smelley’s Deluxe Luxury Tip-Top Fancy Expensive Food Catering Company, to cook up a twenty-course inedible boiled luncheon for about a hundert people, which is about as many as there are when all the sons and wives and brats is put into the same room. She told Old Wanger Nose to be there and no ifs and buts about it, and not to be so much as a minute late for the blessing by Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan of the Church of The Immaculate Septum on the bottom side of the island, next to Missus Arabella Dorothy Cabbage Dumpling’s Turnip and Potato Cookery School, from which Floozie Da Smelley hires all her fancy executive chefs for her Deluxe Luxury Tip-Top Fancy Expensive Food Catering Company (which was, in case you haven’t been paying attention, was cooking up a storm for Old Wanger Nose’s twenty-course anniversary luncheon). Missus Arabella Dorothy Cabbage Dumpling, by the way, is Miss Cabbage’s sister-in-law. I’ve never seen her personally, but most folks say she’s sweeter’n a treacle sandwich but can’t control her impulses. Can’t say I blame her none, not with her marrying into the Cabbages like she did. But that’s neither here nor there. Wot is, is that ‘Ol Mama Wanger Nose’d laid it on the line to Old Wanger Nose. If he was so much as a second late in coming to their anniversary banquet, she’d get on to her brother Mad Luigi Da Fennel, wot lives in Chicago and does attractive things to people’s kneecaps, to round up all his brothers, wot are extra hairy and not nice to sit next to, and attend to Old Wanger Nose personally before the day was out. Now you see why Old Wanger Nose was so upset about everything. Earlier in the day, at the minute he should’a been leaving for The Fuzzy Panty Banquet Rooms in Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s lopsided and falling down Pink Flatpack Building, he’d got caught up examining the special fastenings in his secretary, Ms. Amaryllis Da Bunkle’s new space age pointy bra, wot was custom-designed for her unusually endowed sticking-out titties by Herman’s of Thessalonica. Somehow or other, his nose’d got trapped in wot she called her ‘personal wiffle’ and he’d lost all track of time. Understandably Old Wanger Nose was upset. Not only did he have to leave at an inconvenient moment and muss the trousers wot Mama Wanger Nose’d bought special for him for the anniversary dinner, but he was in danger of some of Mad Luigi Da Fennel’s special attention.

And that, Dear Diary, was why Old Wanger Nose had to leave The Bank of Old Wanger Nose in such a hurry, and why he was in such a bad mood. Unfortunately I can’t tell you the rest at the moment, on account of I’ve just broke my pencil. When I find a new one, I’ll get back to you. For now, all I can say is, so endeth another hour well spent with you.