Day 98

Dear Diary,

Well, my pencil didn’t forgive me and it said it didn’t want to work for me anymore, on account of I never included its own adventures in my diary entries and sometimes said bad things in its hearing. So I looked at it real mean with a glint in my eye and I says to it, “fuck you pencil, and fuck the trees and the graphite wot went into you, and fuck the forest wot the tree came from and fuck all them little Chinese or African Children wot’re paid a dollar every other year for making you so’s you have the privilege of recording my adventures in my diary.” And if that wasn’t telling him wot was wot, then nothing was. Anyway, the upshot was I broke him into little pieces and ground him into dust under my wheels and throwed him overboard into the sea, where he’ll sink to the bottom and drown. Fortunately, I’ve got me a extra pencil, one wot is properly subservient and don’t always correct my grammar and spelling like some o’them do wot have been spending too much time hanging around computers. As you can see, my old pencil got rid of my good mood and I’m now feeling like I used to feel way back when I was transporting folks around the island as an employee of the community bus service, and when every so often I was forced to chase dumb people off of the road or throw ‘em over a cliff, or even run over their toes when all they needed was a warning not to fuck with my head. In case I didn’t tell you about it before, it were all part of my official “Fuck With My Head And Die” policy wot I learned when I was a simple country bus in Devon way back in the fifties when I was new and innocent and thought the world was round. How times change. I’m now all growed up and sophisticated as a cow wot’s turned into a swan, but I still think the old policies is the best.

Now that I’ve got all this outta my system I can get back to telling you about wot’s been happening, something I couldn’t do before on account of my mood would’a forced me to say things about them folks I’m writing about that might’a got me throwed off of the world. ‘Course, this might not be a bad thing, but then again it might be. Anyways, I’m definitely better now that I’ve got me a pencil with a more grovelly’n positive attitude and I’ve had me a good A-Number One rant.

Last time you heard from me, I’d just saw Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley roasting under the sun on their pink and gold special edition premium turbo jet ski, and believe me they was in a whole shitload of trouble. The jet ski were racing round in tiny circles like a dumb dog wots chasing its tail and its passengers looked deader’n a cat wot’s got runned over by a bus (not that I’ve ever stooped to doing such a thing). Floozie Da Smelley’s pet rabbit, by name of Boris, was sitting up on his mistress’s head and was smoking a cigarette and sipping on one of them blue cocktails wot’s got fruit sticking outta the top of the sorta martini glass wot Floozie Da Smelley liked to carry around when she was living in her pink marshmallow wedding cake house. ‘Course, you might not’a heard yet, but that house o’hers is no more on account of the flood flattened it flatter’n a pancake wot’s been sat on. Anyway, when I seen Boris sittin’ there in his dark glasses and swilling martinis to beat the band, I yelled out before I could remember to keep my mouth shut, “Yo Boris, don’t you know smoking’s against the law on the high seas and if you drink any more of that shit you’ll turn into a pickle?” and he yells right back, “Fuck you Misther Daimler Burlington CVD6 Bus and fuck all them old biddies wot are riding round inside o’you.” Whereupon I yells over to him once again and says, “Here I come Boris, ready or not, on account of me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’re gonna rescue you whether you likes it or not.” And he yells back again, “Try it Misther Fucky Snooty Misther Daimler Burlington CVD6 Bus and I’ll chew off your nose with my long rabbit teeth.”

Well, to cut a long story short, the nice thing about Ol’ Boris is he’s easy to talk to, and so we yelled back and forth and forth and back for another coupl’a hours until I noticed Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley, wot he was sitting on top of, were starting to smoke from the sun like they was burning up on the barbeque. And so I says, “Yo Boris, have you noticed you’re about to burn up like a cinder and we’re gonna have us some charred rabbit for supper.” And he answers back, “Very funny, Misther Bus, Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha” with that very annoying donkey laugh of his wot he has in common with all other rabbits, which is why they is so annoying when you have ‘em as pets that they usually ends up on a platter in the middle of your dinner table. It’s also why so many of ‘em get runned over and left in the middle of the road so’s they can get runned over again. But where was I?

Oh yeh, well Ol’ Boris got so carried away yelling that he accidentally dropped his cigarette into his two hundert proof blue cocktail and it exploded right in the middle of his face and curdled his eyelashes. Well naturally he were upset at slopping some of his cocktail onto his white artificial rabbit-skin lurex coat, but he were even more upset at ruining his cigarette, on account of cigarettes cost more’n a bright shiny new Ferrari these days and he’d spent all his benefit cheque on the one wot’d just got soaked in booze. Let’s just say he was one angry bunny and before I could see wot he was up to, he got out a tommy gun from his inside coat pocket and started rat-a-tat-tat-tatting in every direction. Naturally I dived for cover, which should’a been more or less impossible on account of me being a bus full o’gas and floating on the water, but I guess I managed it somehow. Hell, anything’s better’n being shot full o’bullet holes, especially when you’re a bus and’ve got your shiny restored classic bodywork to consider.

Well, as you can imagine, Boris sorta changed the situation by shooting at everybody wot was swimming on top of the ocean, but I guess I should’a seen it coming on account of he’s Amurkin and was brought up by Old Wanger Nose’s cross-eyed sister-in-law, who’s called Old’ Wanger Nose’s Cross-Eyed Sister-in-Law and don’t answer to no other name on pain of death. She’s also meaner’n a bull wots got his cojones caught in a vice, which is why she weren’t the best role model for a psychotic bunny to have. And by the way, her older sister’s the one with the wall-eyes, but it sorta ruins your future prospects if you mention it in her presence.

It were a close call, I’ll tell you that much, but it didn’t solve the problem of how to rescue Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley before they fried up under the sun. That part comes next time (if’n I get round to it) or the time after that. You’re gonna hafta hang on to your hats and be patient. In the mean time, I’m gonna close and take me a nap and rest up so I can think straight. Perhaps you should do the same. When I’m all refreshed and ready to continue, you’ll know about it, on account of I’ll say so endeth my rest stop in the ocean comfort station, and then I’ll blow my whistle to wake you up outta your stupor.