Day 54

Dear Diary,

The Widow Fartie Da Whistle just left off giving me a full-body rub, as I thinks they call it, and my wheels are all a’wobbling. I can tell she’s been getting plenty of practice on her dates. And who cares if she’s a tart wot’ll go anywhere anytime? As far as I’m concerned, so long as I keep reaping the benefits and I’m left feeling better’n a goose wot’s got to keep his foie gras, I’d say it’s all hunky dory. And there’s one thing I’ve not got to worry about, don’tcha know? Being a classic Daimler CVD6 bus with handcrafted Burlington 33-seat coachwork and not a human being, I ain’t in no danger of being attacked by wot they calls Essteedeez, whatever they are when they’re at home. I asked the Pink American Convertible about ‘em and she says she don’t know exactly either, only that Floozie Da Smelley picked one up off of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and she was madder’n a she wolf wot’d sat on a griddle full of frying bacon. Rumour has it Floozie Da Smelley had to go into some sort of secret clinic in one of them Eastern European countries wot ain’t got no standards to speak of and have a new whatsit fitted. Sorta like the time they had to give me a new tail pipe after Miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny (before she became all modulated and an important astrophysicist) poured about a gallon of treacle down my old one. But never mind about her, on account of she’s all growed up now and isn’t into doing shite like that to me any more. Plus the fact that we’re friends these days and on speaking terms. Anyway, when Floozie Da Smelley got back from Eastern Europe, she was still madder’n a stoat wot’s been tore apart by a rat dog. In fact, the first thing she did to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny was she made him sleep in the barn for a month or three, until he was desperate outta his mind from wot they calls bluebells or blueballs and kilt a bunch of minks and ran her up a fur coat. The Pink American Convertible’s answer was funny and made me laugh (which is always a good thing) but all the same, it didn’t exactly answer my question. Wot it did do was give me the idea that Essteedeez are something you don’t want hanging around your corral, if you know wot I mean. Not even if you gets a fur coat as a bonus. Personally, I wouldn’t want mink upholstery on my seat no matter wot condition I had, not with the biddies leaking all over ‘em the way they does. I’d think it would be itchy when it dries. Might smell, too, but fortunately us buses ain’t got a sense of smell so I wouldn’t have to worry about that. Which reminds me, the stuck-up macho Ducati wot I’m gonna be shacking up with in a coupl’a weeks says I’ve gotta stop talking like a hick, especially since he knows I was born all posh and with grammar. I told him I’m only doing this to please Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, who’s paying the bills, and when I leaves here I’ll dump the accent. Most likely I’ll start lisping like The Greek God part-Italian Stallion Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, or singing opera like the Ducati, who I called Benito Tampolino to his face. He looked at me all mean and masterful when I did that and said his name was Benvolio Da Trampolio, and I’d be well-advised to remember that. So I went ‘nya-nya’ and called him Benny Two Tyres and he punched me.

Anyway, as I was saying, Dear Diary, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle just left the garage a coupl’a minutes ago, and my wheels’re still vibrating. It’s a good thing I’m not driving anywhere in the next ten minutes or I’d slide straight off the road and into Farmer Murphy O’Dribble’s slurry pit, wot is right next door to Floozie Da Smelley’s Cheap and Cheerful Junk-By-The-Tonne.

Sorry I still haven’t got round to dishing the dirt about The Distinguished Herman Goring Da Mauser’s Funeral Of The Decade at Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’, but as you can see I’ve had a lot on my mind. However, I’ve got a window just now, so I’ll fill you in on wot happened. First of all, like I told you a coupl’a days ago, or perhaps earlier today (us buses sometimes have trouble keeping time, on account of the clocks wot are on our dashboards face the wrong direction so we can’t see ‘em), only the best people wot live on the island, as well as a whole ten bus-loads of folk wot were imported for the occasion from other part of the world were invited. A few, such as Missus Milly Da Fardle, waltzed in proud as you please and sat on a special chair in front of the family, so’s she’d get all the sympathy votes from folks wot didn’t know she’d officially been barred from attending by The Lovely Loretta Lookalika Da Minnie Mauser, wot has to put ‘Widow’ on her invitations following her name, on account of she was the devoted wife of The Distinguished Herman Goring Da Minnie-Mauser when he was ate by a fish or perhaps by one of the hippopotamuseses wot runs amok on the island. Being the official widow, she took precedence over his flopsies and tootsies and could slam the door on anybody’s face wot wasn’t fit to share the trough of her pet pig, Senor Elgar Rice Bugglers. To her chagrin and also her annoyance, nobody paid much attention to wot she wanted. And in any case, Missus Milly Da Fardle knowed where the bodies was buried and so could sit anywhere she wanted to put her spreading bottom. Never mind that The Lovely Loretta Lookalika Da Minnie Mauser, wot was looking less lovely by the minute on account of all the stress she was being put through, had put it in writing to the director of Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’, namely Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu hisself, that on account of Missus Milly Da Fardle was the mother of Howard Da Fardle, and had spewed him out without a thought in the world, the bitch shouldn’t be allowed within five hundert miles of The Funeral Of The Century. Only she said it in words of one syllable so’s everyone’d get the message. Unfortunately for the bereaved widow, not only did Missus Milly Da Fardle know where the bodies was buried, but she’d solved the problem of how to sell the body of The Distinguished Herman Goring Da Minnie-Mauser to The Gnu-Fanny Deluxe Luxury Cat Food Company even though the corpus deliciosus were all dissolved in a fish (or Hippopotamus). Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, wot are the visible partners of Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’, but who are about as smart as a dog wot feeds hisself worms, had thought they’d get around the problem by ignoring it altogether. And they said to Missus Milly Da Fardle, who was the silent partner, ‘if we ain’t got a body, the body don ‘t exist and we can’t send a body that don’t exist, can we?” Whereupon Missus Milly Da Fardle, who had more smarts in her dried up and desiccated leftover ovary than the two of ‘em had in their whole bouncy ballsacks, said they had an obligation to send a body to The Gnu-Fanny Deluxe Luxury Cat Food Company every time there was a funeral and a contract was a contract, otherwise she (wot was by now the majority shareholder in the cat food company), would not only sue the shite outta them, but move in with them for the rest of their lives. Right away, they started in a’quaking and asked her wot they should do, on account of the thought of them living for the next three or four hundert years with her toilet smells was more’n they could stand. She said all they gotsta do is send a fish over to The Gnu-Fanny Deluxe Luxurious Cat Food Company and say that the corpus delectables were inside. They was so relieved that she’d saved ‘em from having to sleep under the bed next to the pot she twunkles in seventeen or eighteen times a night that they said, “Glory Hallalujah Praise Be The Lord.” She told ‘em if they ever blasphemated in her presence like that again she’d dance nakeder in front of them that wot Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien’d ever done down at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic, even when she was tanked up on some of Fergal Da Fecker’s special premium potheen. Plus she’d put the photos on the Internet with their names attached. ‘Course they immediately apologised up and down and sideways and said, “hot damn Jeesus Lady, fuck our glory hallelujah holes if’n we ever offend you again,” after which they wished they were deader’n a bucket of pig poop left out in the sun, on account of she did what she said she’d do, right then and there and without washing first.

I gotta apologise to you from the bottom of my heart, Dear Diary, for using all sorts of bad language, on account of I know your parents are looking over your shoulder and are sucking at their teeth to beat the band. I’ll put away my pencil while they calms down and washes out your mouth with lye soup and spearmint lard. When it’s safe to write some more, let me know. In the mean time, I’ll say, so endeth whatever it was I was saying before I got carried away.