Day 99

Dear Diary,

Wot a woopdee-doo! One minute I was gonna go right on over and rescue Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley from where they was cooking under the sun on their premium deluxe special edition turbo jet ski, and the next I was diving under the ocean waves to get away from Ol’ Boris, wot was shooting up the world with his tommy gun. I tell you that’s the last time I’ll ever trust a rabbit, and the last time I’ll ever offer to save it from spilling the last of its cocktail and ruining it’s cigarette! In fact, If’n ever I sees a fluffy bunny so much as once more before I dies and I don’t run in the opposite direction as fast as my wheels can take me, I deserve to be smashed up flat up in one o’them vehicle-crushers wot they used to have over at Misther Florian Da Blossom’s Discount Used Tyre Emporium way back last week before the flood washed it over to the good side of the island where it became an Porshe/Audi dealership. And I’ll tell you something else and that’s if’n I ever does rescue Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley from their humiliating predicament of not being able to control their jet ski when all it’s got is a six cee-cee kiddie’s engine, I’m gonna shake ‘em ‘til their teeth rattle for snatching a rabbit from the jaws of death instead of their pet chicken, Eringarde. I mean, I knowed Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley is stupider’n a bucket of squashed zombie brains and turnips, but it turns out they’s even twelve times stupider’n that. Any fool can tell you a rabbit’s not to be trusted. Why else does they make themselves up to be so cute and adorable and fluffy ifn it’s not on account of they’re cornering the market in ulterior motives? On the other hand, not one single chicken has ever took out his tommy gun and sprayed a shitload of full metal jackets at a innocent classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 bus and his ancient biddy passengers wots only crimes has been the wearing of yesterday’s nappies and turning ‘em inside out to make ‘em last. Not never ever ever is wot I says, and that’s going back as far as the time when Ol’ Noah’n his sons Ham ‘n’ Cheese built a big old boat and stole all the animals from Ol’ McDonald’s farm and then got mad at a pigeon for shitting all over the furniture and threw him out through a hole in the roof. ‘Course, the pigeon weren’t as dumb as he looked, on account of he’d stole an olive branch complete with a bucket of seeds and became the first Greek Olive Oil Tycoon. And Noah and Ham ‘n’ Cheese ended up running a deli down in the slums and was stoned to death after’n Noah went to uncovering his nakedness and dancing in the hoochy-coochy. But back to chickens. As I started to say, chickens is righteous mensches and on the good side of The Lord and that’s the truth, which is why they make the only soup wot’s ever cured a cold in the head. Plus the fact they’ve never done nothing bad, not once, exceptin’ perhaps for inventing salmonella mayonnaise. However, you can’t really blame ‘em for trying to save their children from being ate, can you? Anyway, as I was trying to tell you, this here situation were nothing if not a fuckin’ mess, and that’s the long and short of it! Now where was I this time?

Oh, yeh, I was huffing and puffing about how I was forced to take evasion action when Ol’ Boris Rabbit tried to mow we down with wot I calls his hopped-up ouzo. ‘Course, it all happened so quick I’d forgot all about the biddies strapped into their seats and how they’d rolled down all their windows so’s they could refresh themselves from the after-effects eating all them garlic and bean cream buns they’d brung for their afternoon snack. But that was the last thing I should’a worried about, on account of nothin’s gonna kill ‘em wot’s not already killed ‘em before now, and certainly not some dumb psychopathic bunny with a plastic kiddies’ ouzo gun or a little matter of a hundert ninety-nine fathoms of ocean water pouring in through a few open windows. In fact, if’n I’d been thinking straight, I would’a knowed that as far as another dunking in the water was pills. They wasn’t gonna get dead, not for nothing. However, after all them days a’sinking and a’swimming and a’sinking and a’swimming on the deep blue briny, they’d got so fed up over having their hair mussed that they’d took out their little mobile phones and rung up old Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women and they told her to get on over to the bus (being me) with three dozen or so o’them patent plastic waterproof genuine Esther Williams look-alike hairdo wigs. ‘Course if’n I’d been paying attention like I should’a been, I’d’a noticed they was looking a mite too much like Ol’ Esther after she’d been water skiing and not enough like Ol’d biddies wot was ready for Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’. But I didn’t notice nothing of the sort, which only goes to show I’d been stuffing too much unverifiable information into my delicate mind via the chat rooms. And unfortunately, at the moment in question this particular mind wot was in my head was fixated on saving Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley from going round and round on their super duper turbopooper Jet Ski like a egg beater wanting to churn up the sea ‘til it turned into fishie-flavoured butter. And so you know wot I done? I ignored all the rumpus about the old biddies practically drowning again and I ignored Misther Boris Rabbit and his pretend tommy gun and his blue bubblegum daiquiri and I went straight over to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley and said, “See here, chaps, would you mind awfully if I killed you?”

Well, Dear Diary, I don’t mind telling you that got their attention. Misther Patchouli Da Fanny straightened up right away and turned off the engine to his jet ski and looked at me square in the eye. “Wot the fuck?” was wot he said, and before he’d finished Ol’ Floozie Da Smelley interrupted with “and ditto for me with bells on!” And I says, “haven’t you noticed there’s a flood on and if’n we don’t find land soon the biddies’ll run outta personal gas and we’ll be up the creek without a paddle?” And Floozie Da Smelley, who always did have a big mouth on her, shot back, “don’tcha mean you’ll be feedin’ the fishies and without tartar sauce?” Well, I never said she had a gift for words, did I, just a big mouth. Anyways, while this was going on, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny said to her outta the side of his mouth so’s I wouldn’t catch on he was saying, something along the lines of, “don’t you go wasting time talking to a goddamned bus, especially one wot has lost us the world record prize of thirty-five euros and fifty-three cents.” ‘Course this caught Ol’ Floozie Da Smelley off guard on account of she’d forgot why they’d arranged for the flood in the first place and why they was going round in circles, and she slapped herself right on top of her pouty pink lips and said real loud, “Oh fuck me’n dragged me through the shite, for we’ve lost our one and only chance at fame and fortune!” Unfortunately, when she done that she shook her head like she’d seen them celebrity glamour models do and her wig flew off, and wot do you know but I saw her hair was ginger with greasy roots. ‘Course, I took a picture real quick and figured I could use it on down the line to blackmail the skanky bitch if’n I’ve ever got a day with nothing to do and I’m bored and want some extra spending money.


Anyways, let me tell you wot they’d said to each other said was a complete surprise, and I was at a loss for words for only about the second time in my life, the first time being before I had a mouth stuck on my face back at the Daimler factory in the fifties. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out wot the fuck they was talking about. Here was I trying to save Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley from drowning and looking like bloaty walruses at the bottom of the water, and here they was thinking about their last chance at fame and fortune in some competition I’d never heard about. As they says in period dramas wot can’t afford decent electric lights or sewing machines to shorten their skirts, “gag me with a spoon and ladle on the syllabub.”

I gotta admit this were one of the strangest days since the invention of days way back even before I was built in the fifties, and for a time I was praying it was one of them bad dreams wot they has in television dramas when they wants to pretend nothing dumb was ever broadcast. Unfortunately, this day was so dumb it had to be real. I’m sorry about this, but at least you only had to read about it whereas I was forced to live it. To compensate I’m gonna put away my pencil so’s to give you time to drink more’n you should and forget. And don’t you worry your little head, I won’t wake you up in the morning with a rousing chorus of “Fifteen Hundert Ginger-Headed Sailors” ‘til after you’ve drunk some more and’ve lost your hangover down the toilet. To show you how much I loves you, I’m not even gonna close today with so endething anything, just to prove I’m not stuck in a rut or an obsessive compulsive git.