Day 77
Dear Diary,
Last time you heard my cheery voice, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was sitting in a tree watching in horror as the flood waters was rising and rising and threatening to eat up the bus (being me) and all the passengers (being approximately fifty biddies squeezed into thirty-three seats, which ain’t no big deal on account of most ‘em are wizened up down to nothing and you can fit four or five to a seatbelt). Anyway, being that she didn’t want to be out of a job, even if working for Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and driving a community bus is about the worst job in the history of jobs (at least on this here island where folks come in two sizes: idiot and the others wot you wouldn’t want around for dinner), she decided she’d better do something about it. And seeing as how the two bloated corpus deliciouses of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous was still floating around and stinking louder by the moment and ruining the atmosphere of the day, she grabbed hold of ‘em and lashed ‘em to either side of the bus (being me) with some rope she made up from some weeds and marsh grass and hemp and stuff wot happened to be passing by in the flood waters. I won’t tell you where the hemp come from other’n t let you in on a little secret. Now I ain’t exactly no botanist, on account of I’m a bus, but it’s safe to say it weren’t so much hemp as a close relative wot’s sometimes baked up in cookies. And it looked a lot like the stuff wot was growed by the tonne by Floozie Da Smelley out in back of the lopsided pink flatpack building for all them Amurkin college student tourons wot loved to rent cheap accommodation from her when they was on the island. And because she were partial to Amurkin college students and especially to the credit cards wot their folks’d gave ‘em for their summer vacations, she’d put lots o’little pots of her happy little plants here and there around the outside of the terraces of her Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Student Little Vacation Rental Houses. ‘Course, some of you might recall how months ago she’d traded her little blond precious daughter wot was, at the time, the A-One Number One Brat of The Universe, for these self-same cute little vacation rental cottages, which is how she got ‘em in the first place. And you might also remember, if’n you’d not ate more’n a few of her special little cookies, that in their original incarnation, them cottages was Portable Toilets and Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu wanted to get rid of ‘em almost as bad as he wanted to get his hands on Miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny, as she were called before she ran off and went to university and grew a brain and changed her name so nobody’s suspect where she’d come from. But where was I? Oh, yes, with the rope wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d run up outta hemp and weeds and shit.
As I was saying, after The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d made up a couple hundert metres of rope, she grabbed hold of the bloaty bodies of the two dead biddies, namely Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, and lashed ‘em to the side of the bus (namely me). Now being that I knew wot she was doing it for a good cause, namely saving the other biddies from drowning, I didn’t raise no objections. Besides, being a classic Daimler CVD6 bus with custom designed 33-seater coachwork, I don’t have much of a nose, and as such I can’t smell nothing unless I really put my mind to it and concentrate. In this case, seeing as how the two biddies in question’d been dead for about as long as it’s took me to tell the tale, smelling ‘em was about the last thing in the world I was gonna do. In any case, about this time I’d decided I didn’t want to go down to the bottom of the sea and practice being a submarine. Being that this were the case, I said to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, who always listens to me on account of she’s that sort of person, that I was feeling safer already but wouldn’t Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, wot were by now blacker’n a dog’s bottom and swole up completely round like two big balloons, look a whole lot prettier and more cheerful if’n we painted their corpuses delectables all over metallic silver with sparkly black racing stripes? I felt strongly about this on account of just before the flood I’d been repainted classic black with silver accoutrements and I didn’t want to be lugging round no bloating dead people wot clashed and made me look like something dug up from Snooter Da Sphincter’s Easy-In-And-Out Trailer Halting Site on the bad end of the island, right next to the cemetery for protestants. Right away The Widow Fartie Da Whistle saw I had a point and she snagged some spray paint wot were passing in the flood waters, and performed wot they calls a instant makeover on Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous. Needless to say, she’s more talented than a horse with new shoes and I were most impressed with the miracles she’d performed on the dead and decaying. In fact, even if I do say so myself, they was looking ever so much better’n wot they would’a looked like if’n they’d had to rely on the ministrations of ‘Ol Beryl, which is wot they’d a’had to do if’n they’d gone into Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ and’d had to submit to one of her special € 1.99 shampoo and set and plastering jobs.
Well, I see I’ve finally got to the bit where The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d strapped the two bloaty dead biddies to my side so’s I wouldn’t sink down to the bottom of the sea and take all them other biddies with me. It’s a relief to know you is no longer hanging on with baited breath, as they says. We can now go on to the exciting bit about being washed away in the storm, but before we gets there we should all have a little nap. I’ll be back to you in a short while, just as soon as you’re refreshed and’ve had a shower and brushed your teeth and smeared happy stink under your armpits, and maybe washed your bottom for good measure. Don’t forget, you’re humans and not classic Daimler CVD6 buses with handcrafted Burlington 33-seat coachwork, and have problems in that area from time to time.
As I always says, so endeth the morning and I’ll entertain you more after’n you’ve took care of yourself like your mama ought’a’ve learned you.
Dear Diary,
Last time you heard my cheery voice, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was sitting in a tree watching in horror as the flood waters was rising and rising and threatening to eat up the bus (being me) and all the passengers (being approximately fifty biddies squeezed into thirty-three seats, which ain’t no big deal on account of most ‘em are wizened up down to nothing and you can fit four or five to a seatbelt). Anyway, being that she didn’t want to be out of a job, even if working for Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and driving a community bus is about the worst job in the history of jobs (at least on this here island where folks come in two sizes: idiot and the others wot you wouldn’t want around for dinner), she decided she’d better do something about it. And seeing as how the two bloated corpus deliciouses of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous was still floating around and stinking louder by the moment and ruining the atmosphere of the day, she grabbed hold of ‘em and lashed ‘em to either side of the bus (being me) with some rope she made up from some weeds and marsh grass and hemp and stuff wot happened to be passing by in the flood waters. I won’t tell you where the hemp come from other’n t let you in on a little secret. Now I ain’t exactly no botanist, on account of I’m a bus, but it’s safe to say it weren’t so much hemp as a close relative wot’s sometimes baked up in cookies. And it looked a lot like the stuff wot was growed by the tonne by Floozie Da Smelley out in back of the lopsided pink flatpack building for all them Amurkin college student tourons wot loved to rent cheap accommodation from her when they was on the island. And because she were partial to Amurkin college students and especially to the credit cards wot their folks’d gave ‘em for their summer vacations, she’d put lots o’little pots of her happy little plants here and there around the outside of the terraces of her Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Student Little Vacation Rental Houses. ‘Course, some of you might recall how months ago she’d traded her little blond precious daughter wot was, at the time, the A-One Number One Brat of The Universe, for these self-same cute little vacation rental cottages, which is how she got ‘em in the first place. And you might also remember, if’n you’d not ate more’n a few of her special little cookies, that in their original incarnation, them cottages was Portable Toilets and Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu wanted to get rid of ‘em almost as bad as he wanted to get his hands on Miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny, as she were called before she ran off and went to university and grew a brain and changed her name so nobody’s suspect where she’d come from. But where was I? Oh, yes, with the rope wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d run up outta hemp and weeds and shit.
As I was saying, after The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d made up a couple hundert metres of rope, she grabbed hold of the bloaty bodies of the two dead biddies, namely Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, and lashed ‘em to the side of the bus (namely me). Now being that I knew wot she was doing it for a good cause, namely saving the other biddies from drowning, I didn’t raise no objections. Besides, being a classic Daimler CVD6 bus with custom designed 33-seater coachwork, I don’t have much of a nose, and as such I can’t smell nothing unless I really put my mind to it and concentrate. In this case, seeing as how the two biddies in question’d been dead for about as long as it’s took me to tell the tale, smelling ‘em was about the last thing in the world I was gonna do. In any case, about this time I’d decided I didn’t want to go down to the bottom of the sea and practice being a submarine. Being that this were the case, I said to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, who always listens to me on account of she’s that sort of person, that I was feeling safer already but wouldn’t Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, wot were by now blacker’n a dog’s bottom and swole up completely round like two big balloons, look a whole lot prettier and more cheerful if’n we painted their corpuses delectables all over metallic silver with sparkly black racing stripes? I felt strongly about this on account of just before the flood I’d been repainted classic black with silver accoutrements and I didn’t want to be lugging round no bloating dead people wot clashed and made me look like something dug up from Snooter Da Sphincter’s Easy-In-And-Out Trailer Halting Site on the bad end of the island, right next to the cemetery for protestants. Right away The Widow Fartie Da Whistle saw I had a point and she snagged some spray paint wot were passing in the flood waters, and performed wot they calls a instant makeover on Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous. Needless to say, she’s more talented than a horse with new shoes and I were most impressed with the miracles she’d performed on the dead and decaying. In fact, even if I do say so myself, they was looking ever so much better’n wot they would’a looked like if’n they’d had to rely on the ministrations of ‘Ol Beryl, which is wot they’d a’had to do if’n they’d gone into Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ and’d had to submit to one of her special € 1.99 shampoo and set and plastering jobs.
Well, I see I’ve finally got to the bit where The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d strapped the two bloaty dead biddies to my side so’s I wouldn’t sink down to the bottom of the sea and take all them other biddies with me. It’s a relief to know you is no longer hanging on with baited breath, as they says. We can now go on to the exciting bit about being washed away in the storm, but before we gets there we should all have a little nap. I’ll be back to you in a short while, just as soon as you’re refreshed and’ve had a shower and brushed your teeth and smeared happy stink under your armpits, and maybe washed your bottom for good measure. Don’t forget, you’re humans and not classic Daimler CVD6 buses with handcrafted Burlington 33-seat coachwork, and have problems in that area from time to time.
As I always says, so endeth the morning and I’ll entertain you more after’n you’ve took care of yourself like your mama ought’a’ve learned you.
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