Day 84

Dear Diary,

Well, here I am ready or not, Dear Diary and all my readers, of which there was at least two or three at the last count and I’m hoping my offer of a free colonic irrigation by Arnie Pizzlepod down at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic, wot used to be at the bottom end of the island before it were washed away down to Tierra del Fuego, will attract a coupl’a more gullible, lonely and pathetic losers by the close of business today. But even if my new promotional scheme don’t work any better’n any of the others I’ve been desperate enough to try, I guess it don’t matter none. I got wot they calls an addiction to writing down my life as it happens, so as long as I keep finding pencils in spite of where they hides ‘em, you’ll never get rid of me, not never ever ever never, so you might as well get used to me turning up when you least expect it. Anyways, as I was starting to say before I added that personal note, here I am again. And I must say it’s sort of a miracle I made it, on account of yesterday ended worse than badly. As you might remember, if’n you’d been paying attention the way your mother taught you, I’d just got into an argy-bargy with Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley over them using me to tow their two hundert pink portable toilet holiday homes round and round the ocean without paying me so much as nothing, and I’d also got into a huff over all them tourons blaspheming and’d ended up dumped them off’n their holiday homes, where they’d been barbequing the dead artichokes they’d massacred with their harpoons, and throwed ‘em into the sea. ‘Course, they drowned almost immediately, which was necessary on account of them being so fat and pig ignorant and because nobody wants to hear about ‘em anymore, but unfortunately for Misther Pathouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley, wot owned and operated The Smelley-Fanny Exciting Adventure Holidays Pleasure Cruises, none of the tourons’d paid down more’n a ten percent deposit of the overall cost wot was being fleeced outta them. This presented somewhat of a problem for both Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley and for yours truly (being me), on account of we was expecting all that money so’s we could start up a whole new civilization on a brand new island just as soon as we found one had would have us.

‘Course, that was problem number one, and I suppose not the worse one, on account of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley’re experts in printing out their own fake old-style Italian Lira banknotes, and are so good at it they very nearly fools all of the people all of the time. And even when one of the other times comes around and they end up in jail for about a million years, they always manages to get off scott free so’s they can start anew. Don’t ask me how, but I guess they was born under a lucky star of the sort that’s kind to idiots and perverts and those folks of a religious persuasion wot goes to the wrong sort of church. No, you could definitely say losing all the tourons’ money weren’t the worst thing wot could’a happened. In fact, it were so unimportant that after they’d vented their spleens all over me and made me cry, they plum forgot all about it and started in sketching out plans for some new money wot hadn’t been invented before. You’ve really got to give ‘em credit for grabbing the initiative by the balls and riding it home to roost.

Problem number two was a little less unimportant. In fact it were potentially downright dangerous and fatal and deadly, if you want my opinion on how the cookies’re gonna crumble. You see, it had to do with the state of our flotation devices, better know to the cognoscenti as the dead bloaty bodies of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous. I know when last I talked about them they was looking more lovely than ever, wot with them being all decorated by thousands and millions of sparkly sea creatures. And by looking at them, wot with them looking so pretty and substantial on account of most of them sea creatures having hard shells and being wot they calls bullet-proof, me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle thought they’d last pretty much forever, or at least until we’d found some sort of dry land to climb on to. Unfortunately, and I use this word in all seriousness, we hadn’t took into account the smell factor of them two dearly beloved dead biddies, any more’n we’d thunk about the effect that aforementioned smell factor’d have on them sensitive sea creatures wot was clinging on to their bodies. ‘Course, being that they’d decorated the biddies so careful and had made ‘em look lovelier’n a pig after his bath, they didn’t want to desert and ruin the effect. I mean, sea creatures has their pride to consider, doesn’t they, and they doesn’t like letting folks down unless they have to. But in this case, the smell got so unbearable they thought they was gonna die, so one by one by one and then two by two by two and after that three by three by three, they made their getaway and ran as fast as they could to the other side of the ocean where nobody’d heard about us and our plight. And wot was even worse, or at least as far as we was concerned, they’d spread the news about us far and wide, and in the end we’d not a hope in hell of ever catching us anything for supper. ‘Course, as far as I’m concerned, I’m a bus and don’t have much of an appetite for fish. However, these days the sea does have more’n its fair share of oil slicks and petroleum spills, and these suits me down to a tee. But for The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and the other humans, namely the biddies still strapped into their seats and behaving worse’n dogs in a bag o’cats, this news were bad bad bad and I must admit it sent me into a worrying funk about wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was gonna do to avoid dying and no longer being my best friend. As for Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley, I don’t really care all that much wot happens to them, but wot with their lucky star fucking everything up for everyone else and helping them out so’s they always come up trumps, I didn’t worry none, either. And as for the biddies, well biddies is biddies and you can’t get rid of them even if you tried.

Well, that pretty much covers problem number one and problem number two, which are wot you might call the lesser of the evils wot we was facing. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to hear about problem number three and you will as soon as I rummage around and find me a new pencil. This one’s plum wore out and besides it gone all wet and soggy and don’t want to cooperate with the writing down of my magnum o’puss, as I calls this diary. Don’t worry, however, you know I always find a way to get back to you, so cool your heals and fill in the time by trying some of wot they calls ‘binge drinking’, just in case you haven’t had none of it and’d like to experiment with new things. Anyways, for the time being, I’ll say so endeth the first two great problems facing humanity (as well as us buses).