Day 64

Dear Diary,

OK, away we go, or should I say ‘away we’ll go one day’ on my farewell tour around the island, me all spit ‘n’ polished and shining in my new classic revival paintwork and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle dolled up in her skin-tight spray-on white lycra leggings, black spingle-spangle see-through illusion thong and a flashing laser Murkin just to let you know there’s a God. She told me she stuck on the last bit of gear on account of it makes some of the men she knows bend over all of a sudden and rush outta the room, which gives her a cheap laugh, and that’s always a good thing in a world so full o’misery. Personally, I think she practiced on Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, but that’s hardly fair on account of he’s got only one very small brain wot’s about five inches long and’s got an eye in the middle of its waggly end). She also said ifn’n she went out without the Murkin and as nature’d intended, she might get arrested and the last thing she wants is to be shut up in a cell at the moment, not with the likes of Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle headed in that direction. I thought you’d like to know, Dear Diary, that Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny wasn’t originally planning to go on my farewell tour, on account of he was busy packing a suitcase for his sudden emergency overseas holiday to the other side of Albania where they don’t extradite folks for selling bodies fresh from their funerals to be made into Deluxe Luxury Tasty-Fancy Cat Food. I’m thinking they must do it all the time over there, on account of they didn’t seem too concerned when he told ‘em why he wanted to come and live in their country. Perhaps they’s planning to set him up in business on account of him being wot they calls an International Multinational Expert in the Getting Rid of Bodies Industry. The thing is, most countries has far too many people up and dying on ‘em every day, and as a consequence they’ve hunderts and thousands of extra bodies on their hands and only a coupl’a old-time attractive graveyards to stick ‘em in. As every chamber of commerce’ll tell you, graveyards are only kept around on account of the tourons like to visit ‘em and take pictures of each other in front of the funny headstones and maybe buy coffee in the quaint little coffee shoppes wot are operated in the best crypts (the ones wot’s got the best mummies). The last thing in the world tourons want in their pictures is big holes in the ground where new fresh bodies is being buried. New dead fresh bodies isn’t very attractive and besides they don’t exactly smell nice. So, wot I was thinking and wot I was about to say is that these countries is after hiring Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and, especially, Missus Milly Da Fardle for their expertise is solving their problem on an industrial scale. ’Course, they can only do it where there are lots of cats, otherwise it’d be dumb as a cabbage patch to build a great big old cat food company, wouldn’t it? That might be the reason they don’t set up business where there’s more’n a certain amount of killing each other going on. Not enough cats to eat all the cat food.

By the way, in case you’ve not been following our adventures or you’ve not got much of a mind for storing things in, a touron is wot you gets when you cross a tourist with a moron. You sees a lot of ‘em around, but you don’t need my help to point ‘em out.

Anyways, as I was saying before I had to stop and explain wot was going on, Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny wasn’t planning on coming on my farewell tour, on account of he was in the middle of shoving his suitcases and extra emergency money belts into the Pink American Convertible for a quick getaway when The Widow Fartie Da Whistle happened to parade in front of him in her special new togs. All I can say is he must have even less going on in the concentration department than I thought, on account of the moment he seen her, he forgot all about going to Albania and followed her right the way to the bus (being me). Only trouble was, he was too close behind her when she sashayed up the steps cuz her black spingle-spangle see-through illusion thong were sharing the same square inch of the ozone layer as his nose. She tripped or something, and one thing led to another and before you knowed it, his nostrils had followed her thong all the way into wot some folks call her bottom pumping station. It promptly got stuck in there tighter’n a size twelve foot in a size four fuck-me pump. ‘Course, that made her fart up his nose, which in turn made his eyes water. He sneezed, and right then and there Misther Patchouli Da Fanny clapped his hands over wot he shouldn’t touch in public, and not even in private, not unless he wants to go blind, and started in a’dancing the sort of jig you sees on television when a lot of Irish folk get together. He squeaked and moaned and squawked to beat the band and said a lot of things wot’re not meant for the ears of parents of small children, and then before you knowed it, he bent right over double (just like The Widow Fartie Da Whistle said he would) and a blast of steam wot’d make a locomotive proud shot out of his ears. While this was going on, his nose, wot had the disadvantage of being shaped like a corkscrew with a hook on the end, was after working itself all the way up into furthest recesses of wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle keeps inside her bottom cushions and, in the process, it got snarlied up in her thong. No matter how bad he tried to dislodge and pull hisself loose, his nose was there to stay. Not only that, but wot with his a’twitchin’ and drooling and dribbling, the batteries wot’d been keeping The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s special iridescent laser Murkin a’flashing was short-circuiting. ‘Course, before anybody knowed wot was wot, there was an explosion bigger’n one o’them American atom bombs and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s most important fashion accessory got down to sending out sparks and flames until the whole sky was lit up like a whole tonne of fireworks’d been set off. In the meanwhile, wouldn’t you know, there was a whole queue of biddies a mile long trying their best to get on the bus (being me), but when they saw something exciting was going on at the front of the queue they forgot they was suppose to be standing in their assigned places (which is something you never does if’n you’re polite), and rushed up like a bunch of football hoodlums to see wot all the fireworks was about and wot Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose was finding so interesting.

I won’t tell you straight out wot the first thing was The Widow Fartie Da Whistle said after this happened, on account of I don’t know how to spell it. But let’s just say it gave the biddies something bad to talk about for two months of Sundays. It also made for a delay before we could get started on my farewell tour of the island.

I know you’re all dying to know wot happened next, but I’m gonna put my pencil away for a bit. I can only stand so much excitement in a day and I know the same’s for you. I’m gonna take a nap, but in case you’re interested there’s that barrel of potheen Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator’d left in the back of the bus (being me) if you want some to get your blood pressure back down where it should be. As I always say, so endeth another coupl’a hours in stupidville. I’ll be talking to you soon and’ll fill you in on everything else wot’s been going on.