Dear Diary,
Well, last time you heard from me, those evil and black-hearted traitors Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley had climbed onto their super speedy turbo-charge pink and gold jet ski and was revving up their boom boxes and engines and preparing to abandon us to our fate worse’n death, which as you know was to drown like a bag full o’kittens wot’s been throwed into a puddle. Now I pride myself on being an even-tempered sort of bus, and other than the occasions when I’ve had to run a gang of wankers off of the cliffs for wot they calls anti-social behaviour in the light of day and in front of womenfolk wot’s not wot you’d call interested in their wares, I’ve always been happier letting bygones be bygones. Where we was for ol’ Problem Number Three clearly was another one o’them occasions when it wasn’t paying good wages to be Mister Nice Guy. Wot I’m trying to say is, it’s all very well ‘n’ good being all mealy mouthed and wishy-washy and politically correct and sweet-tempered and full o’smiles when the going is good and wot’s goin’ down’s not gonna affect you one way or t’other. You know wot I talking about, don’t you? I’m talking about those ‘most of the time days’ when, after all is said and done, all of us’ve been shat on for the fortieth time that afternoon by those wot runs the world and knows better’n we does about wot they calls the common good. On those sort of days, most of us can still go home to a nice hot dinner and turn on the TV and not get heartburn worse’n usual. ‘Course, those of us who’re lucky don’t include the poor Ol’ Uncle Billy Bobs of the world wot’ve lost their homes to Misther ‘SlickDick’ Magroo down at the Borrow-All-You-Want Instant Loan Shop in the Sahara Desert, but, hey, that’s their problem and not ours, on account of it wasn’t us wot was taken for a ride today and we can shake our heads and say “tut tut, Ol’ Uncle Billy Bob must be stupider’n a bucket of boiled cabbage to get took in like that.”
However, on this here occasion wot I’m personally writing about now, Dear Diary, things wasn’t like that at all. This here was about Problem Number Three! This here was wot they calls The Final Countdown! This here emergency concerned me, and poor Ol’ Uncle Billy Bob somehow got let off the hook this time round, which as far as I’m concerned is unfairer than toast wots got soggy on the rack, on account of he was born to be dropped down the crapper and I weren’t. In other words, this here were an actual and genuine life and death earth-shattering emergency to end all emergencies, and not only were the end of the world approaching us faster’n a train speeding down hill, but the innocent folks wot was teetering on the precipice and about to be flung over the edge and into the cauldron of oblivion by Ol’ Misther Grim Reaper, was me and the only friends wot I got left in the world. Not some chicken-shit Ol’ Uncle Billy Bob wot none of us’ve ever heard of and won’t be missed when he’s done and gone and roasted on the spit.
Funny, ain’t it, how on times like this the only friends wot matter are those you can reach out and actually touch and not the ones you dreams about, such as the part-Italian Greek god Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota wot is buying me and his Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, who was counting on being my room mate. Somehow, right then and there when I knowed the end was nigh and I wasn’t gonna see another day, I couldn’t even remember what Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his hot-stuff Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio looked like, whereas the only ones floating in front of my face and sucking at my heart-strings was The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and all the old biddies wot was sitting in back and getting madder’n a bunch of bulls wot’s being doused by a bucket of red paint on account of how bad my farewell tour of the island was being conducted. In fact, they got so angry, especially dear sweet Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle, bless her cotton-picking withered little ant-sized heart, that steam started spurting outta her ears, and that’s when I knowed we was gonna be saved after all. In fact, as soon as I seen the first spray of little old biddy steam, I said as loud as I could, “hot damn and fuck fuck fuck us all like a row of ducks,” and I shouted it louder’n a steamwhistle so’s I knowed everybody on board heard me, especially the old biddies wot were the worst gasbags. And wot do you know, but as soon as them there offensive words got sprunged from my lips, that wot I’d counted on happened, and it happened in spades and hearts put together. With the first o’the ‘fucks’ Missus Milly Da Fardle’s face got redder’n a raspberry and the steam wot was shooting outta her ears grew thicker’n a fart in a stewpot. And with the second ‘fuck’ (which was the ‘fuck’ I liked the best, on account of I spewed the word all the way to the back of my hind end and it ricocheted like a ping-pong ball back up front to my steering wheel), Ol’ Miss Cabbage’s whole head swoled up bigger’n a watermelon and became the colour of a beetroot. And the steam wot came outta her not only shot outta her ears, but outta her nose and mouth as well. And when I said ‘fuck’ the third time, I sorta elongated the word so it came out more like ‘fuuuuuuuuuuuck’ and would you know it but Missus Milly Da Fardle’s head started spinning around and around like a top and flames shot outta her eyes and she screamed like a banshee wot’s been stuck by a cattleprod. ‘Course, all this time Mrs. Emily Da Onion’d been fast asleep, on account of that’s about the only thing she does anymore now that she’s practising up on her senility to see how it works on her idiot son and his persnickety wife, Sue Ann La Donna Pie. But the moment the fires of Hell shot outta Missus Milly Da Fardle’s eyes, it burnt up all the hair on Mrs. Emily Da Onion’s head and woke her up like she’s never been woked up before. As usual she had something to say about the situation, and this time it was, “Shame on you, Missus Milly Da Fardle, shame on you for ruining the new do I got this morning from Ol’ Beryl from down at the Hair Parlour for Old Women, and wait until I tell my idiot son, Rudyard Da Onion wot you did to me on purpose!” Well, right away Missus Milly Da Fardle got sore offended and she steamed up even more, only this time a cloud o’smoke came outta her other end as well, and soon the whole bus was filled up with deadly gas and noxious possibilities.
Well, Dear Diary, I’m gonna draw a curtain over wot happened next, on account of it got pretty bad and even made The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, wot’d been sleeping up on top of the bus (being me) with her iPod frying her brain into a pretzel, wake up with a snort and a cough. In fact, if I may say so, she coughed so hard that the iPod shot outta her ear and flew across the ocean and bonked Misther Patchouli Da Fanny (who was running away from us like greased lightning on his super duper luxury deluxe hot rod turbo-boosted Jet Ski) on the forehead, just above his eyebrow. ‘Course, it put out all his lights faster’n you could scream “Aaaaack!” when you drops a wrench on your foot, but he did always have a soft head, didn’t he?
‘Xcuse me, for a moment, on account of I just had a miraculous vision of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny getting bonked on the head and I got a case of the hysterical giggles coming on. If’n I don’t put away my pencil I might lose it in the ocean, in which case I’ll never be able to tell you all about Problem Number Three and how it were eventually solved. Sorry to leave you like this, but I promise as soon as I can get myself under control, I’ll be back. And as soon as I’m normal again, you’ll know it when I say, “so endeth my laughing fit and I’m all back to normal again, at least until the next time.”
Well, last time you heard from me, those evil and black-hearted traitors Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley had climbed onto their super speedy turbo-charge pink and gold jet ski and was revving up their boom boxes and engines and preparing to abandon us to our fate worse’n death, which as you know was to drown like a bag full o’kittens wot’s been throwed into a puddle. Now I pride myself on being an even-tempered sort of bus, and other than the occasions when I’ve had to run a gang of wankers off of the cliffs for wot they calls anti-social behaviour in the light of day and in front of womenfolk wot’s not wot you’d call interested in their wares, I’ve always been happier letting bygones be bygones. Where we was for ol’ Problem Number Three clearly was another one o’them occasions when it wasn’t paying good wages to be Mister Nice Guy. Wot I’m trying to say is, it’s all very well ‘n’ good being all mealy mouthed and wishy-washy and politically correct and sweet-tempered and full o’smiles when the going is good and wot’s goin’ down’s not gonna affect you one way or t’other. You know wot I talking about, don’t you? I’m talking about those ‘most of the time days’ when, after all is said and done, all of us’ve been shat on for the fortieth time that afternoon by those wot runs the world and knows better’n we does about wot they calls the common good. On those sort of days, most of us can still go home to a nice hot dinner and turn on the TV and not get heartburn worse’n usual. ‘Course, those of us who’re lucky don’t include the poor Ol’ Uncle Billy Bobs of the world wot’ve lost their homes to Misther ‘SlickDick’ Magroo down at the Borrow-All-You-Want Instant Loan Shop in the Sahara Desert, but, hey, that’s their problem and not ours, on account of it wasn’t us wot was taken for a ride today and we can shake our heads and say “tut tut, Ol’ Uncle Billy Bob must be stupider’n a bucket of boiled cabbage to get took in like that.”
However, on this here occasion wot I’m personally writing about now, Dear Diary, things wasn’t like that at all. This here was about Problem Number Three! This here was wot they calls The Final Countdown! This here emergency concerned me, and poor Ol’ Uncle Billy Bob somehow got let off the hook this time round, which as far as I’m concerned is unfairer than toast wots got soggy on the rack, on account of he was born to be dropped down the crapper and I weren’t. In other words, this here were an actual and genuine life and death earth-shattering emergency to end all emergencies, and not only were the end of the world approaching us faster’n a train speeding down hill, but the innocent folks wot was teetering on the precipice and about to be flung over the edge and into the cauldron of oblivion by Ol’ Misther Grim Reaper, was me and the only friends wot I got left in the world. Not some chicken-shit Ol’ Uncle Billy Bob wot none of us’ve ever heard of and won’t be missed when he’s done and gone and roasted on the spit.
Funny, ain’t it, how on times like this the only friends wot matter are those you can reach out and actually touch and not the ones you dreams about, such as the part-Italian Greek god Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota wot is buying me and his Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, who was counting on being my room mate. Somehow, right then and there when I knowed the end was nigh and I wasn’t gonna see another day, I couldn’t even remember what Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his hot-stuff Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio looked like, whereas the only ones floating in front of my face and sucking at my heart-strings was The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and all the old biddies wot was sitting in back and getting madder’n a bunch of bulls wot’s being doused by a bucket of red paint on account of how bad my farewell tour of the island was being conducted. In fact, they got so angry, especially dear sweet Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle, bless her cotton-picking withered little ant-sized heart, that steam started spurting outta her ears, and that’s when I knowed we was gonna be saved after all. In fact, as soon as I seen the first spray of little old biddy steam, I said as loud as I could, “hot damn and fuck fuck fuck us all like a row of ducks,” and I shouted it louder’n a steamwhistle so’s I knowed everybody on board heard me, especially the old biddies wot were the worst gasbags. And wot do you know, but as soon as them there offensive words got sprunged from my lips, that wot I’d counted on happened, and it happened in spades and hearts put together. With the first o’the ‘fucks’ Missus Milly Da Fardle’s face got redder’n a raspberry and the steam wot was shooting outta her ears grew thicker’n a fart in a stewpot. And with the second ‘fuck’ (which was the ‘fuck’ I liked the best, on account of I spewed the word all the way to the back of my hind end and it ricocheted like a ping-pong ball back up front to my steering wheel), Ol’ Miss Cabbage’s whole head swoled up bigger’n a watermelon and became the colour of a beetroot. And the steam wot came outta her not only shot outta her ears, but outta her nose and mouth as well. And when I said ‘fuck’ the third time, I sorta elongated the word so it came out more like ‘fuuuuuuuuuuuck’ and would you know it but Missus Milly Da Fardle’s head started spinning around and around like a top and flames shot outta her eyes and she screamed like a banshee wot’s been stuck by a cattleprod. ‘Course, all this time Mrs. Emily Da Onion’d been fast asleep, on account of that’s about the only thing she does anymore now that she’s practising up on her senility to see how it works on her idiot son and his persnickety wife, Sue Ann La Donna Pie. But the moment the fires of Hell shot outta Missus Milly Da Fardle’s eyes, it burnt up all the hair on Mrs. Emily Da Onion’s head and woke her up like she’s never been woked up before. As usual she had something to say about the situation, and this time it was, “Shame on you, Missus Milly Da Fardle, shame on you for ruining the new do I got this morning from Ol’ Beryl from down at the Hair Parlour for Old Women, and wait until I tell my idiot son, Rudyard Da Onion wot you did to me on purpose!” Well, right away Missus Milly Da Fardle got sore offended and she steamed up even more, only this time a cloud o’smoke came outta her other end as well, and soon the whole bus was filled up with deadly gas and noxious possibilities.
Well, Dear Diary, I’m gonna draw a curtain over wot happened next, on account of it got pretty bad and even made The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, wot’d been sleeping up on top of the bus (being me) with her iPod frying her brain into a pretzel, wake up with a snort and a cough. In fact, if I may say so, she coughed so hard that the iPod shot outta her ear and flew across the ocean and bonked Misther Patchouli Da Fanny (who was running away from us like greased lightning on his super duper luxury deluxe hot rod turbo-boosted Jet Ski) on the forehead, just above his eyebrow. ‘Course, it put out all his lights faster’n you could scream “Aaaaack!” when you drops a wrench on your foot, but he did always have a soft head, didn’t he?
‘Xcuse me, for a moment, on account of I just had a miraculous vision of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny getting bonked on the head and I got a case of the hysterical giggles coming on. If’n I don’t put away my pencil I might lose it in the ocean, in which case I’ll never be able to tell you all about Problem Number Three and how it were eventually solved. Sorry to leave you like this, but I promise as soon as I can get myself under control, I’ll be back. And as soon as I’m normal again, you’ll know it when I say, “so endeth my laughing fit and I’m all back to normal again, at least until the next time.”
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