Day 85

Dear Diary,

OK, last time I was here I told you all about Ol’ Problem Number One, which was about me inadvertently on purpose dumping a hundert and ninety-nine families of tourons into the ocean and getting ‘em ate up my a pack of marauding guppies before they’d had the opportunity to pay Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley in full for their Deluxe Adventure Experience Round The World Cruise. ‘Course, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelly was right pissed off with me over all the money they’d lost out on, but after I told ‘em why I’d done it, they said they understood and they wouldn’t be sneaking up on me in the middle of the night to stab me in the knees, which being that I’m a bus and not a human being (for which I thank the Lord daily and am glad) are really my brake linings. After we’d got that sorted out, I went on to discuss in a in-depth sorta way Problem Number Two, which was more serious than losing a lot of money wot could be replaced in a minute thanks to Patchouli Da Fanny’s printing press and photo copy machine. The gist of this second problem had to do with the plight of the outrigger floats wot keeps me (and hence everybody else wot’s attached to me) from sinking down to the bottom of the sea and becoming part of the great coral reef. As everybody knows, including you if’n you’ve been paying attention like wot your Sunday School teacher, Ol’ Miss Joybladder, always told you to do, our floats was comprised of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, or at least that’s wot they was called before they heard the heavenly trumpets and kicked their buckets. Since then I guess you just call ‘em dead biddies, not that they care one-way or’n other. Anyways, fortunately for me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and all the undead biddies wot’re riding around on me on account of that’s wot they likes to do to pass the time, it were raining to beat the band when the two dead ladies shat the bed, and since neither of them could find their way to the graveyard no more on account of it being under water, they offered to blow themselves up full of gas and save us from drowning and going straight to hell by acting as our pontoons. ‘Course, you know how heroic an offer this was, don’t you? In fact, I’ll bet you more’n Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s truss is worth that there ain’t more’n one dead person out of a million that’d offer themselves up in that way. And I suppose if’n I was a dead person and not a classic Daimler CVD6 bus with custom-made Burlington 33-seat coachwork, I’d agree with most folks and take the easy option, which is to be done up pretty as you please by Beryl from The Hair Parlour for Old Women and be put on display at Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ for a whole week and a half, or until the formaldehyde starts to wear off. But as I was saying, Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous chose option ‘B’, better known as the ‘Flotation Option’, and because of that, when the next crop of sainthoods is up for grabs, they’ll get a look in. That don’t mean they’ll get the gong, but being nominated is a whole lot more’n most folks get, even if’n they prays everyday and don’t kick stray dogs when they’re humping Auntie Mary Margaret Murphy while she’s fiddling with her rosary beads. At least that’s wot I’m told, but you can’t believe everything you hear, not even if Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan at the Church of The Immaculate Septum whispers it in your ear when he’s wearing his stole.

Talking of which, I ain’t heard nothing about wot happened to the aforementioned priest since the flood waters rose up from the abyss and swept us out to sea like helpless orphans. Don’t worry about it, however, on account of he’ll pop up sooner or later or he won’t, and even if he drowns in the sea like the rest of us might end up doing, he won’t do it until I writes about it, and even then I won’t make it more unpleasant than is absolutely necessary. But where was I?

Oh, yes, the plight of The Second Problem, which was about our two flotation devices and wot happened when their sparkly sea creature decorations started to desert ‘em and run away. To put it to you straight, and not in the roundabout way like I’m prone to do most of the time, when the sea creatures yanked themselves free from the bloaty corpuses deliciouses of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, they also yanked away about a million billion jagged patches of their skin. And without all them pieces of skin to keep themselves together, the two floatation devices deflated faster’n you can say ‘shitafuckinbrick and do it now!” And right after that, even before I could reprimand them for using bad language in front of all the biddies wot was riding inside of me and looking shocked, they sank like two blocks of concrete and was never seen again. This, of course, presented Problem Number Three in my direction, and that was this: without my two faithful flotation devices, I’d be headed down to the bottom of the sea faster’n a worm dies when he’s runned over by a car.

“EEEEEK!” I hears you yell, Dear Diary, and I also hears you ask yourself if this is the end of this here classic Daimler CVD bus and his handcrafted Burlington 33-seat coachwork, and if I’m gonna take Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion down with me? Well, if you want to hear the answer you’re gonna hafta wait a while. But before you get all excited and start to plan for all the extra time you’re gonna have when you don’t have my literary contributions to yell at, let me tell you this ain’t one of your Reality TV Programs and you can’t phone in and kick me out even if you want to. I ain’t no democracy in action. And besides, I got The Widow Fartie Da Whistle to consider, and a babe like her’s too hot to die, at least until next year when she’s past her sell-by date. So, while you’re keeping this in mind and imagining wot she looks like doing whatever you want to see her do (bearing in mind I can read your thoughts and’ll track you down as soon as your back is turned if’n I see so much as a puff of smut coming outta your pea brain), I’ll say so endeth the introduction to Problem Number Three and aren’t you glad you didn’t book one of The Smelley-Fanny Rare Exotic Extra-Exciting Adventure Cruises for your nearest and dearest?