Day 80

Dear Diary,

WOW, Dear Diary, no sooner had I put my pencil away yesterday than a great enormous tidal wave a billion feet tall, wot they calls a Suzy Namby I guess, came crashing down the road and overwhelmed us and washed me and the biddies out to sea. And it happened just as The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d predicted it would, which goes to show once again how brilliant and intelligent she is. If’n we ever get back to shore and go’n live in our new home with the part-Italian Stallion Greek god Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his hot to trot Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, I’m gonna thank my lucky stars I’ll have The Widow Fartie Da Whistle taking care of me and tinkering with my insides whenever I needs it. And I bet both Ol’ Malvinio and Trampolio Da Hunkolio’re gonna feel the same. Unfortunately, we ain’t been rescued yet so’s were not at our new home, but such is life when you’ve been spending too long on this here island, where nothing ever works right or goes the way it’s supposed to.

As I was saying, I was just about to grab me some shut-eye, when there was a roar such as you’ve never heard since Missus Old Wagner Nose first found out her husband was cavorting around behind the bushes with Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien from down at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic. It really were a roaring to beat the band and I can’t help but tell you I was so scared I nearly jumped outta my wheels and farted a cloud of black smoke more powerful’n a tornado from my exhaust pipe, at one and the same time. And as for the biddies, they weren’t so much scared as it gave ‘em something to gripe about over their little mobile phones, and gripe and groan and yell and complain they did, first to the call centre about how the bus service was deteriorating and how some of the tax money the government could’a stole from them probably went into the free bus service wot was getting worse’n the genuine greasy hamburgers wot is served up by Derwood Da Sherbert’s Genuine Country and Western Bar and Clean American-style Comfort Stations, right in back of Thelma O’Leary’s little falling down café. ‘Course, to be honest, none of ‘em ever got round to paying their taxes, but that’s another story for another day, at least if’n I survives to tell it. But at least they can still talk about where the tax money oughta go, even if none of it came from them. Anyways, as I was saying, after the biddies’d got done complaining to the call centre, which about now is looking into changing its free telephone number for the fortieth time this week, they calls up all the other biddies wot is on their speed dials, including several wot was on the bus and sitting right behind or right in front of them. It really were quite a lively conversation going on, and believe me every last one of them was shrieking all the worst things they could think of to each other, everyone except for Ol’ Missus Drain, of course. As usual, all she was doing was sitting there in her seat sweeter’n a plum pudding knitting fluffy soakers for her grandkids. I really must stop here and give credit where credit is due to Ol’ Missus Drain, on account of she tries her best not to leave none of those carbon feetprints you’re always hearing about tracking up and down her white carpets. One thing she does is she always re-uses her own old-time string shopping bags when she goes shopping, and when one of them little kids wot bags groceries for low wages down at Fungus Da Filcher’s SuperMarket tries to give her a dozen new plastic bags instead of the ones she brung, she boxes his ears pronto and tells ‘im to get an education and do it quick before Ol’ mother earth goes to Hell in a handcart. I always liked Missus Drain on account of her heart’s in the right place and she don’t even need more’n a dozen pacemakers to keep it ticking away just like a young person’s. I also like her on account of she’s never figured out wot a mobile phone is for and keeps it in a drawer with all the other labour-saving devices her grandkids is always giving her to make her life easier. Oh yes, the reason she was knitting soakers is she don’t hold with those new fangled store-bought nappies wot keeps the shit alive and kicking forever down in the dump. Now wot was I talking about?

Oh, yes, I was telling you about the gigantic tidal wave wot come down the road and swooped us out to sea. Well, I must admit it happened all of a sudden like, and it were just a split second after’n it got darker’n the inside of a chocolate muffin, that’s how dark it got outside. And I must say there arose a mighty wind, as well, and the very fact that I noticed that were something else, being that winds and gales on this island are a dime a dozen. So wot with the water a’bashing and a’thrashing us from here to eternity and the wind a’howling like a chorus of banshees and the rain a’coming down like someone’d flushed the toilet on top of our heads and the lightning a’blinding us in our eyes like a million billion strobe lights and all the biddies a’shouting insults into their little mobile phones and all the confusion wot was a’going on on top of it all, I sorta lost track of my head. We started in a’spinning to beat the band and all I knowed was that we was flung and spun arse over gusset and I could’a swore my life passed before my eyes. ‘Course, this weren’t necessarily all that wonderful or amusing, seeing as how so much of the last part of it’s been spent on the island and with Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and his dysfunctional family. And when I say dysfunctional I’m trying to be wot they calls politically correct on account of ‘em being as crazy as hootie owls.

Anyway, Dear Diary, we was hurled about hither and thither in the storm and flood for longer’n anchovy lingers in your mouth after you bite into one by accident in a pizza. Plus the Ol’ sky just got darker and darker and the wind screamed louder and louder and the biddies complained even louder’n everything else on account of this here journey weren’t wot they said was advertised. Now, I’m gonna put away my pencil for a bit and let your heads imagine how bad it was, and the reason you can imagine it better’n me is on account of I’m just a bus and never took no creative writing class wot taught me how to write things in the hysterical tense. When you is done picturing everything in your mind, all you gotta say to me is, “Oy, Mister Bus, we’ve done endething our imagining exercise,” and I’ll be right back to tell you how it all come out.