Dear Diary,
Things was really touch and go after I put away my pencil yesterday, and for a good few hours I thought everything’d be over for good at any moment. In fact, it all got so bad in the excess biddy gas department, wot with me threatening to blow up at any moment and Missus Milly Da Fardle refusing to calm down and inhale back in some of her steam and biddy vapours, that The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, who clearly knew wot was wot and much more’n the rest of us all put together, told me one problem at a time was enough for any of us. She said I shouldn’t worry none about wot the radio news announcer’d said concerning my supposed and beloved soon-to-be owner, the part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his sidekick, Benvolio Da Trampolio, who is definitely a hotstuff red Ducati and not a poncy little bimbo brother called Rigotoni Luigi. In fact, the actual words she used was “cross my heart and hope to die and stick a pin through me eye,” which was good enough for me on account of I knows she’s not into hurting herself or doing bad stuff wot’ll hurt her or make her ugly. So I dried my tears on her black leather bikini top, wot she lent to me for the occasion and wot did wonders for my morale, and she promised she’d get everything straightened out in my head as soon as she’d pacified Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle. I agreed with her right then and there that the dire situation regarding the old biddy was wot you’d call a priority verging on a state of emergency, whereas my worries about Ol’ Malvinio Da Flota-Mota could wait until we knowed for sure we was gonna be alive along enough for me to want to kill myself over it. And I must admit Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle was looking more and more like a pressure cooker wot was gonna explode at any second. In fact, it were safe to say that if she’d been seething any more she would’a put Ol’ Charming Noble to shame in the Ruining the World Department. Now I know I told you about a hundert times or more that I needed to be filled to the brim with old biddy gas to keep us all afloat after our two custom-made flotation devices, the dead bloaty bodies of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous of blessed memory, had decided they wasn’t interested in the job any more and deserted us without first giving the week’s notice wot is the usual procedure for dead bloaty bodies when they quits their employment. However, neither Miss Parsley Da Onker nor Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous of blessed memory was much interested employers’ rights, as they proved when they rotted away to nothing right in the middle of a pleasant conversation on the habits of migratory birds.
Anyway, me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle thought we’d come up with a solution when Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and (to a lesser extent) Mrs. Emily Da Onion, said they’d sell they gas to us if’n we’d cross their palms with silver. And, as has been proved beyond reasonable doubt, their gas floated us better’n a thousand million balloons, which made us happy and content and willing to pay ‘em twice as much money if’n we ever get back to land where there was such a thing as a bank. However, Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle’s temperament got the better of her after she heard a rumour that her second son, Howard Donald Da Fardle, who she thought she’d kilt off last year and’d told the police it was on account of crib death, stole all her money after he heard she’d been washed away in the flood. I guess he figured she couldn’t swim. I, on the other hand, think it proves wot a stupid jerk and prat he is, on account of she’d never die and leave her money behind, not for anything and not to anyone, and especially not to one of her son’s wot ruint her figure during childbirth.
Anyway, Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle got so mad and steamed up she’d been filling me up to the brim and beyond with angry old biddy gas ever since she heard the rumour, and it were looking more and more like I was gonna explode and we was all gonna be kilt off. Well, everyone but Missus Milly Da Fardle. You see, she’s never gonna die as long as she knows where the bodies is buried after God hid ‘em in the grain silo so’s they wouldn’a get found before the second coming. I’m sorry I sprung this version of events on you without letting you know wot was coming, but I guess we can put it down to one more thing I’ve got to explain in the future. That is, if’n we survive and gets back on terra firma and we has such a thing as a future.
Well, while I was busy writing this all down so’s you could read it and know wot’s going on in the world, Dear Diary, The Widow Fartle Da Whistle, who is more practical than I’ll ever be, decided she’d had enough of Missus Milly Da Fardle’s shenanigans and it was past time to do something about it. So right then and there she gets down off of her driver’s seat, even though she’d forgot I was still wiping myself all over with her black leather bikini top and making miracles of my own. And wot do you know but she stormed on back to the third row where the old biddy was strapped in to her seat and grabbed her up and shook her ‘til her teeth rattled and then flew tight outta her head and bonked Ol’ Miss Cabbage on the nose and broke it. Well, Missus Mily Da Fardle was so surprised at being grabbed up out of her seat without being asked real nice that she opened her mouth wide as the Grand Canyon and all the excess gas wot was threatening to blow me up went right back inside her. ‘Course, right away we was in perfect harmony, gas-wise, but on the downside the old biddy was blowed up like a balloon and all her clothes burst to bits. That, of course, were a downside to beat the band and we was all left staring at one ugly fat shrivelled-up biddy, and we could see right away she’d forgot to put on clean knickers before she’d left home.
I almost hate to tell you wot happened next, but I will just to be mean. While Missus Milly Da Fardle was floating in the air like a hot air balloon, Ol’ Miss Cabbage remembered all the mean things Missus Milly Da Fardle’d ever done to her, and she took a hat pin from outta her head where it’d been keeping her wig on, and stuck Ol’ Milly right in her bad place. Well, if’n you’ve ever seen or heard wot a balloon does when it’s stuck you probably think that the old biddy must’a blowed sky high with a bang wot could be heard on the moon. But not a bit of it. She was too tough for that on account of her skin’s been around forever and a day, but she did make a squealing squeal like a stuck pig and she started in flying around the bus (being me) and didn’t stop ‘til she was almost as deflated as a bladder wot’s just been emptied.
Well, it goes without saying we was all left speechless and with our mouths hanging open, all except for Miss Cabbage who was smart enough to know wot Missus Milly Da Fardle’d do unto her when she’d recovered her senses. I’ve never seen nobody dive out of a bus window so fast, and I didn’t know it was possible for an old biddy to move through the water like one of them Olympic swimmers. But I guess we learns new stuff every day, that is if we keeps our eyes open and are lucky.
Well, Dear Diary, all this left us with a empty feeling like we’d had sex wot was supposed to be hot but wot’d fizzled out before our engines’d got started. I’ve gotta give us all time to recover and drink a cup of tea, which is wot we usually does when things is the shits and we can’t think of anything better to do. ‘Course, I can’t drink tea while I’m holding on to the end of a pencil, so I’ll do the usual thing and put it away. Don’t worry, I’ll be back on account of there’s no clear and present danger that something bad’s gonna happen in the foreseeable future, and so I’ll say, in my usual manner, so endeth another day, so help me God.
And by the way, I know you’re gonna be thinking all night about The Widow Fartie Da Whistle parading about without her black leather bikini, but tough shit and blue patooties. If you’re that desperate you better go out and get you some of your own.
Things was really touch and go after I put away my pencil yesterday, and for a good few hours I thought everything’d be over for good at any moment. In fact, it all got so bad in the excess biddy gas department, wot with me threatening to blow up at any moment and Missus Milly Da Fardle refusing to calm down and inhale back in some of her steam and biddy vapours, that The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, who clearly knew wot was wot and much more’n the rest of us all put together, told me one problem at a time was enough for any of us. She said I shouldn’t worry none about wot the radio news announcer’d said concerning my supposed and beloved soon-to-be owner, the part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his sidekick, Benvolio Da Trampolio, who is definitely a hotstuff red Ducati and not a poncy little bimbo brother called Rigotoni Luigi. In fact, the actual words she used was “cross my heart and hope to die and stick a pin through me eye,” which was good enough for me on account of I knows she’s not into hurting herself or doing bad stuff wot’ll hurt her or make her ugly. So I dried my tears on her black leather bikini top, wot she lent to me for the occasion and wot did wonders for my morale, and she promised she’d get everything straightened out in my head as soon as she’d pacified Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle. I agreed with her right then and there that the dire situation regarding the old biddy was wot you’d call a priority verging on a state of emergency, whereas my worries about Ol’ Malvinio Da Flota-Mota could wait until we knowed for sure we was gonna be alive along enough for me to want to kill myself over it. And I must admit Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle was looking more and more like a pressure cooker wot was gonna explode at any second. In fact, it were safe to say that if she’d been seething any more she would’a put Ol’ Charming Noble to shame in the Ruining the World Department. Now I know I told you about a hundert times or more that I needed to be filled to the brim with old biddy gas to keep us all afloat after our two custom-made flotation devices, the dead bloaty bodies of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous of blessed memory, had decided they wasn’t interested in the job any more and deserted us without first giving the week’s notice wot is the usual procedure for dead bloaty bodies when they quits their employment. However, neither Miss Parsley Da Onker nor Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous of blessed memory was much interested employers’ rights, as they proved when they rotted away to nothing right in the middle of a pleasant conversation on the habits of migratory birds.
Anyway, me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle thought we’d come up with a solution when Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and (to a lesser extent) Mrs. Emily Da Onion, said they’d sell they gas to us if’n we’d cross their palms with silver. And, as has been proved beyond reasonable doubt, their gas floated us better’n a thousand million balloons, which made us happy and content and willing to pay ‘em twice as much money if’n we ever get back to land where there was such a thing as a bank. However, Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle’s temperament got the better of her after she heard a rumour that her second son, Howard Donald Da Fardle, who she thought she’d kilt off last year and’d told the police it was on account of crib death, stole all her money after he heard she’d been washed away in the flood. I guess he figured she couldn’t swim. I, on the other hand, think it proves wot a stupid jerk and prat he is, on account of she’d never die and leave her money behind, not for anything and not to anyone, and especially not to one of her son’s wot ruint her figure during childbirth.
Anyway, Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle got so mad and steamed up she’d been filling me up to the brim and beyond with angry old biddy gas ever since she heard the rumour, and it were looking more and more like I was gonna explode and we was all gonna be kilt off. Well, everyone but Missus Milly Da Fardle. You see, she’s never gonna die as long as she knows where the bodies is buried after God hid ‘em in the grain silo so’s they wouldn’a get found before the second coming. I’m sorry I sprung this version of events on you without letting you know wot was coming, but I guess we can put it down to one more thing I’ve got to explain in the future. That is, if’n we survive and gets back on terra firma and we has such a thing as a future.
Well, while I was busy writing this all down so’s you could read it and know wot’s going on in the world, Dear Diary, The Widow Fartle Da Whistle, who is more practical than I’ll ever be, decided she’d had enough of Missus Milly Da Fardle’s shenanigans and it was past time to do something about it. So right then and there she gets down off of her driver’s seat, even though she’d forgot I was still wiping myself all over with her black leather bikini top and making miracles of my own. And wot do you know but she stormed on back to the third row where the old biddy was strapped in to her seat and grabbed her up and shook her ‘til her teeth rattled and then flew tight outta her head and bonked Ol’ Miss Cabbage on the nose and broke it. Well, Missus Mily Da Fardle was so surprised at being grabbed up out of her seat without being asked real nice that she opened her mouth wide as the Grand Canyon and all the excess gas wot was threatening to blow me up went right back inside her. ‘Course, right away we was in perfect harmony, gas-wise, but on the downside the old biddy was blowed up like a balloon and all her clothes burst to bits. That, of course, were a downside to beat the band and we was all left staring at one ugly fat shrivelled-up biddy, and we could see right away she’d forgot to put on clean knickers before she’d left home.
I almost hate to tell you wot happened next, but I will just to be mean. While Missus Milly Da Fardle was floating in the air like a hot air balloon, Ol’ Miss Cabbage remembered all the mean things Missus Milly Da Fardle’d ever done to her, and she took a hat pin from outta her head where it’d been keeping her wig on, and stuck Ol’ Milly right in her bad place. Well, if’n you’ve ever seen or heard wot a balloon does when it’s stuck you probably think that the old biddy must’a blowed sky high with a bang wot could be heard on the moon. But not a bit of it. She was too tough for that on account of her skin’s been around forever and a day, but she did make a squealing squeal like a stuck pig and she started in flying around the bus (being me) and didn’t stop ‘til she was almost as deflated as a bladder wot’s just been emptied.
Well, it goes without saying we was all left speechless and with our mouths hanging open, all except for Miss Cabbage who was smart enough to know wot Missus Milly Da Fardle’d do unto her when she’d recovered her senses. I’ve never seen nobody dive out of a bus window so fast, and I didn’t know it was possible for an old biddy to move through the water like one of them Olympic swimmers. But I guess we learns new stuff every day, that is if we keeps our eyes open and are lucky.
Well, Dear Diary, all this left us with a empty feeling like we’d had sex wot was supposed to be hot but wot’d fizzled out before our engines’d got started. I’ve gotta give us all time to recover and drink a cup of tea, which is wot we usually does when things is the shits and we can’t think of anything better to do. ‘Course, I can’t drink tea while I’m holding on to the end of a pencil, so I’ll do the usual thing and put it away. Don’t worry, I’ll be back on account of there’s no clear and present danger that something bad’s gonna happen in the foreseeable future, and so I’ll say, in my usual manner, so endeth another day, so help me God.
And by the way, I know you’re gonna be thinking all night about The Widow Fartie Da Whistle parading about without her black leather bikini, but tough shit and blue patooties. If you’re that desperate you better go out and get you some of your own.
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