Day 100

Dear Diary,

Well, I’m not gonna apologise to you again for the merry chase wot I took you on yesterday, on account of, if you remember me saying at the time, I was the one actually being took for a ride and you was the one reading about it from the comfort of your living room. Well, okay, some of you might’ve been at work and wanking the time away when you was supposed to be at work at one of them call centres where they pretends to be blind and are selling light bulbs so folks can see better, but I won’t tell on you if’n you won’t make up stories about me. Folks is always fibbing about me and wot I gets up to, on account of I’m sort of a celebrity among us buses. Still and all I’m entitled to a private life ain’t I? After all, I’m not only human. I’m a bus and there’s a difference. For example, it’s none of your business wot I done between the time I was a young and innocent Daimler Burlington CVD6 sashaying through the downs of Devon and the time I was lugging ancient retired decrepits around the continent for The Golden Twilight Years Tours and was tinkered with by Mingus Da Pingus. ‘Course, I doubt if you’d remember him more’n to say hello in a dark alley, on account of I don’t talk about the Ol’ fool much and haven’t dragged him into one o’my conversations for at least a coupl’a months or more. Anyways, he’s none of your business any more than is Fergal Da Fecker and wot he got up to with them cows. But that’s not wot we was talking about yesterday, were it, and I don’t want to get you any more confused than you already is.

Actually wot I was ranting about last time concerned the unholy mess we was in. Ol’ Boris Rabbit’d been trying to exterminate us with his tommy gun, and this got us off to a bad start even though it weren’t a real ouzo after all, but one he’d found in a box of cereal which’d gave him ideas he thought’d be fun to try out. And while he was busy play acting the spoiled brat wot ruins the birthday party for the others, I was trying to save Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley from burning up in the sun and being kilt by their special deluxe premium pink and gold turbo jet ski, which looked from where I stood to be outta control and ready to explode. And then fuck me, on account of for the second time in less’n a minute I was made a fool of. It sure was demonstrated to me once and for all that only a fool wot wants to die in shit believes his eyes or trusts his pride, anymore’n he ought’a listen to wot his neighbour spouts over the back fence. And do you want to know wot learned me this and makes me hope I never hafta learn it again? It turns out this super duper excellencio primo turbofartin’ jet ski of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley was nothing more or less than the pretend kind wot came outta the same cereal box as the fuckin’ ouzo. Fuckin’ell! I tell you if’n I hadn’t shat first thing in the morning and if’n I’d had any more personal waste product stored up in my tail pipe, I would’a messed up the sea for good and ruined wot they calls the delicate balance of nature in so far as the marine environment is concerned. And the thing is, I’d been trying my level best to keep all the biddies wot is strapped into my insides safe and sound and dry as a old maid’s heart and there was Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley and Ol’ Boris Rabbit yankin’ on my chain and fuckin’ with my head space.

So you want to know wot I done? Well since I weren’t gonna take no more of their adolescent pranks and horseplay, I revved up my engine, with the help of The Widow Fartie Da Whistle on account of I can’t do it alone, and I programmed in my digger attachment wot normally isn’t visible to the layman. And right then and then I plucked up snotty Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and stupid Floozie Da Smelley and stuck ‘em up in the luggage rack wot is on top of me. ‘Course they was yelling and screaming to beat the band and trying to make a jump from it down into the sea so’s they could play some more on their jet ski, but I wasn’t having none of it. They’d been pretending to be in mortal danger and I’d gone outta my way to save their lives, only to find out they was doing wot they calls ‘donuts’ for one o’them reality TV programs. You know the show I’m talking about, the one where stupid people does stupid things more times in a row than wot anyone else’s done without dying in the attempt? Mind you, in the show everything’s rigged and they’s not competing against nobody wot actually makes donuts for a living, is they? The real ones is too busy living to appear on TV and make fools of themselves. But never mind about that. The thing is I was so mad and fed up that I strapped ‘em down and said “shut the fuck up, you’ve endangered me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and about a hundert fifty old biddies wot’s nearly drowned on account of you.” I told ‘em whether they liked it or not they was saved, at which point The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, the vicar wot wasn’t even a proper vicar, couldn’t help hisself but yelled out “and glory hallelujah to the lord and take us home sweet Jeezuz!” I don’t hafta tell you the world stopped like it’d died and turned into one of them vacuum cleaners where there ain’t no sound or nothing. “Wot the fuck is that?” I said to myself amazed as anything. “It’s only me,” said The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser from his hiding place under the back seat of the bus (being me) where the portable inflatable toilet is stashed in case of emergency drainage problems on the part of the biddies. “And who is you?” I answered back real official like, “and unless I’m mistaken you don’t sound to me like no biddy.”

Well right then and there I could see we had wot they calls a situation in back of the bus, on account of this here excursion, before we was washed away in the flood, was supposed to be my special farewell tour around the island before I left to live with my new owner, the part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his super A-One hot stuff hunk of a Ducati motorcycle, Benvolio Da Trampolio. Only biddies was allowed on board on account of the government department wot’d paid for the tour only had money for biddies, and it looked like we had wot they calls a stowaway, even if he was a artificial reverend wot’d got his preacher papers mail-order from Nevada and was after disguising hisself as Ol’ Miss Luella Da Bunkle. Now I know I haven’t mentioned this before, but I’d been secretly eyeing The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser for some time, trying to figure out where I’d seen him before. You see, I’d suspected he wasn’t the genuine Miss Luella Da Bunkle, on account of she’d been dead for at least two months and even at her best she didn’t look this good. Besides, as far as I could recall, she’d been sold off from Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ before she’d got more stiff or cold than wot she was back when she used to dance the seven deadly veils over at Marcela Da Splodge’s Fancy-Prancy Club behind the Women’s Institute. And also, I remember how impressed I was when she were bundled off in unseemly haste over to The Gnu-Fanny Deluxe Premium Fancy Cat Food Company, on account of there were enough of her to fill up a thousand special edition cans and they’d paid her sister extra for the instant super-fresh service.

In case you is interested, I only told you about the real Miss Luella Da Bunkle so’s you’d understand why I was wot they calls troubled over the new artificial edition, plus this one had a voice more or less like a man, and a man wot’s been spending time in Nevada. And Miss Luella Da Bunkle’d never been off of the island, not in her whole life from the day she was born ‘til the day she were shipped off to the cat food company. Mind you, I don’t really know wot happened to her after that, not in this day and age of shipping off the best and freshest local produce to foreign countries and leaving all the cheap shit for us.

Anyway, as you can gather I was left with yet another problem and one I’d got to solve before the inspectors showed up and found I was carrying illegal cargo.

So, wot I’m gonna do is I’m gonna put on my thinking cap like wot I used to do in school when I had to work out one of them equations I’d never saw before, and you’re gonna hafta shut up extra quiet and not bother me until I comes up with an answer wot makes everyone think I know wot I’m talking about. And when I does, I’ll pick up my pencil again and say “eureka I’ve got the answer,” so you can endeth being silent as a mouse wot’s not cleaning his whiskers.