Day 90

Dear Diary,

Well, I said I’d tell you the moment me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d got our bodies re-aligned, and here I is, shipshape and ready to go for another round. Ding Dong Bang Your Gong, and a Hip Hip Hooray!

‘Course you’ll never get none of that sorta action, not even in your dreams (not being the bus wot I am), so I might as well get back to my adventures wot I’ve been talking about and not waste anymore time. So here goes. After yesterday you know why and how Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous (of blessed memory) went about their attempted assassination of Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and poor Ol’ Mrs. Emily Da Onion, who between you and me and the gatepost, is looking more and more like she wants to kick the bucket soon as we get to dry land. I can’t say I blame Mrs. Onion none, but I wish she’d thought of it before we’d left home, on account of it would’a saved us all the bother of wearing black in the summertime when the livin’ is easy. But never mind about that. Wot I’d failed to mentioned, on account of I got distracted by The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and had to take care of business before my sell-by date came and went, was that the actual name of the shell company operated by the secret nonexistent organisation wot them two aforementioned bloaty corpses, namely Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous (of blessed memory) was working for, was something along the lines of The Agency for the Torture and Eradication of Socially Constipative Oar-Doovers (TESCO), of which they was, respectively, president and vice-president of operations. ‘Course, I was curious about the nature of the name and nature of this secret nonexistent organisation and wanted to know exactly wot it actually did for a living, but the Internet people kept pointing me in the direction of some supermarket chain or other wot’s threatening to gobble up the country, or the world or maybe The Isle of Man. At least that’s how it goes according to about a millions billion trillion bloggers wot’s got nothing better to do at night than rant and share their opinions with the whole universe, including parts of it wot’s got other interests and wish they’d keep their ignorant opinions to themselves. Anyway, wot I’ve been thinking is that Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous (of blessed memory) don’t sound like the type of ladies wot’d work in supermarkets, not unless supermarkets now got isles wot sells the implements you needs for killing off folks wot’re poor or buy their groceries off’n the Internet or believe in a God wot don’t get no dinner invitations in your neighbourhood. However, on account of I’m all at sea and things isn’t looking all that great for my present tense, I shall wait to investigate the truth of all this alleged ‘TESCO’ business ‘til if and when I’m on dry land and has a moment or two by myself.

But back to Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous (of blessed memory) and wot they got up to at ‘TESCO’ and why they was targeting Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion and The Da Fardle ‘n’ Gnu Phoney Bingo Gaming Company LLC as Enemies of the People. As they saw it, if’n they could put Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion outta business and sunk down to the bottom of the sea so’s they’d get ate up by wot we calls organisms, then all the other old biddies’d finally get a chance to win more’n €1.50 at bingo per year. According to their findings all the other biddies’d then be able to eat more’n one potato and a boiled pig’s foot every third Sunday of the month. In other words, they’d get enough money back from their bingo gambling activities so’s they could even buy wot they calls ‘fresh green vegetables’ whether they liked ‘em or not. This’d make their dispositions improve no end and’d help out with their bloat and wind, which is, as you know, the bane of old ladies everywhere wot don’t eat a healthy diet. In other words, my Dear Diary, they’d be “Free At Last, Free At Last, Thank God Almighty They’d Be Free At Last!” Anyway, that’s wot the findings of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous (of blessed memory) showed, and as we know, findings is never wrong. And I must say (according to my latest findings) the situation might’ve turned out that way if’n their plans’d worked out the way they’d wrote them down in their organisational grant proposal. But, alas, as the saying goes, Man Plans ‘n’ God Laughs, which in my experience is about the only thing you can plan for.

‘Course, both me and you, Dear Diary, know by now that Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous’s plan to save the world from bingo penury didn’t work out so good and that when they sacrificed themselves to the bottom of the sea so that Missus Milly Da Fardle and her cohorts’d go down with ‘em, they done it in vain. This, of course, made Missus Milly Da Fardle laugh outta the right side o’her mouth in that special way she’d learned from Old Wanger Nose way back in 1927, on account of she’d no intention of drowning like a rat, not for nothing. And Ol’ Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion was smart enough to grab on to her coattails and get drug along behind her in her wake o’dust. And I’ll repeat wot I said about a dozen times a while back, and that it’s on account of Missus Milly Da Fardle’s orneriness and gumption that me and all the biddies are alive today, and not just a lot of collateral damages lying at the bottom of the sea.

By the way, I know some of you are wanting to ask about wot’s happened to Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, on account of he’s wot you could call a business partner of Missus Milly Da Fardle and I haven’t mentioned him for a long time. Well, let’s just say I’ll be catching up with him sooner or later, but he’ll have to wait until the bus (being me) and all my biddies and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle is once again on dry land. Or at least safe and sound. In the mean time, just so you don’t worry and get a wrinkly forehead, rest assured that Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu has wot you’d call a yacht bigger’n the city of Chicago, and so don’t have nothing to worry about when it comes to Tsunamis or floods wot eat up the rest o’the world. Where was I?

I know what comes next, only I haven’t decided in wot particular order I should write it down for you. I’m gonna put away my pencil for a hour or two and think. In the meantime, I suggest you go to the local library and find yourself a book, preferably one where the words’ve got something to say. I’ll give you time to read a paragraph or two for the sake of your morals, and’ll then arrest your attention from the pages by saying, so endeth your time reading about shit wot ain’t doing a thing for your life. And after you put the book away where it ought to be put, I can begin again, or as they says, anew.