Day 131

Dear Diary,

There’s somethin’ about wot’s goin’ on here that’s eerily familiar. It seems only yesterday or the day before when all the biddies was marinated in sweet ‘n’ sour sauce and tied on to a rack so’s they could be barbequed ’til they was done and then some. And here we is, a million miles away and back on the island and without so much as a single delicious, succulent edible biddy in sight. Believe you me, we is muy contento (as they say) to live without a barbequed sacrifice for all of a millennium or two, when suddenly wot does I see in front of my eyes but Howard Donald Da Fardle, still squawkin’ away to beat the band about wot a he-man he is and how he can’t live another second without a dozen or three ladies from The Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic openin’ up their glory-holelujas and suckin’ on his mighty trumpet. Personally I think it’s just a sign of advanced senility movin’ into his brain on account of, out of all the brains currently alive and livin’ on the island, and perhaps even in the world, his was the emptiest and the stupidest and the most eligible. Also, all the other brains, and I’m includin’ Old Wanger Nose and Fergal Da Fecker myself, wasn’t talkin’ at the time so’s we was invisible to the senility germs (as they calls themselves). Plus, the only other brain out there wot might’a been available belonged to Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator, and he was so busy building shelters for us ‘n’ tendin’ to my needs ‘n’ buildin’ a roastin’ and heatin’ fire ‘n’ cookin’ up the dinner so’s we all wouldn’t die to death of starvation, that his brain were workin’ too hard to be a sittin’ target like the others. Ol’ Finian may not be the smartest of classroom swots, in fact he can barely read or write his name, but when it comes to practical matters, there ain’t nobody like him. Anyways, as I said, when the dementia doodle bug was searchin’ for his dinner, Finian Da Fabricator’s brain was so busy zipping this way and that and taking care of all the business wot had to be done to keep us alive, that the bug gave up on him and set his sites on the one wot activity-wise resembles a pile of jellied eels more’n it does a human bein’. Poor Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle. Not only is he shaped just like a haggis wot’s been throwed across a field, but he ain’t got nothing else positive goin’ for him either, and he never has. Probably never will neither the way he’s goin’ at it.

Anyways, as I was sayin’, Howard Donald Da Fardle, wot’s ain’t got so much a tackle box as a snuff box, must’a decided when he was asked to help out Finian Da Fabricator by collecting firewood, that he were too good for ordinary work, which was natural when you consider he’s never done any no how and wouldn’t recognise it if’n it snuck up on him and bit him on the butt. But rather than say straight out, “Fuck you, Rat-face Finian Da Fabricator, get your own fuckin’ firewood on account of I’s the second son of Missus Milly Da Fardle who’s now the megalomaniac dictator of the world and you can kiss my hairy pimpled butt,” he decided only a fool’d be honest like that to Ol’ Finian, who might take him out back of the school and whop the shit outta him. And so, when the Dementia Precoxibobble was askin’ around for volunteers, he raise his hand sky high and said, “me me me.” And since insanity loves nothin’ more than a idiot wot’s standin’ in line waitin’ to be insanitised, we had wot they calls a marriage made in heaven, but hell for the rest of us. When all there is is four of you alive and kickin’ in the world, and one of you is a bus (albeit a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6) without so much as a ounce of petrol or a single kilowatt of electrical juice a’pumpin’ through his veins, and you gotta start all over in the survival and propagatin’ departments, the last thing you wants is for one of you to go gaga. And on top of that, when the gaga one starts in a’singin’ and a’braggin about his bein’ the king of the hill, sexual proclivity-wise, when you know his poor wife had to take a lover to prove to herself she was a woman, then you know he’s gotta be shut up and fast. And that’s why Old Wanger Nose took out his trusty nine millimetre Glock from his secret storage unit and blasted Howard Donald’s foot over into the fifth dimension. Only trouble is, Old Wanger Nose’s plan sorta backfired, on account of Ol’ Howard Donald started in a’squealin’ and a’squeakin’ and a’screamin’ and bringin’ down the house on all of us. And when he didn’t look like he was gonna shut up anytime in the foreseeable future, that’s when Old Wanger Nose, who is nothing if not a natural problem-solver, decided the only thing to do was roast Howard Donald on a spit. However, that’s when Fergal Da Fecker, who’s not good for much outside’a keepin’ his sheep company at night and getting’ married to a duck, spoked up and said if’n we ate Howard Donald up right away, we’d not have a bite to eat tomorrow or the day after that. “Why not,” he suggested, comin’ up with his first good idea of the day, “salt him good and tender and dry him out so’s we can serve him up as a great big fat prosciutto in six or seven months time?”

Howard Donald Da Fardle shut up double quick when he heard Fergal Da Fecker make that there suggestion, and then he thought real hard for a coupl’a hours or so, after which he spoked up real cheerful, “I likes prosciutto in a tomato sandwich with some of that there prooovieloney! Can someone go to the store and git me some o’them big-sized twelve-pack double-crunch choclut bars for an appetiser?”

Sometimes, Dear Diary, all you can do is give up and go home. And since none of us wot were inflicted with what they calls “the presence” of Howard Donald Da Fardle has homes to go to, the others – Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Old Wanger Nose – climbed into me and locked the doors so’s Ol’ Howard Donald’d be left out in the cold. Jeesez shit ‘n’ shine your shoes, wot the fuck was they gonna do with him? Anyways, they’s now holdin’ a deep ‘n’ meaningful confab, and I’m gonna put away my pencil stub and listen in. When somebody’s come up with a solution I’ll let you know by wakin’ you outta your beauty sleep and sayin’ so endeth the peace-keepin’ negotiations and here’s wot we’re gonna do.

Day 130

Dear Diary,

Well, here I am sharing a world and a island on the world and a beach on the island on the world with none other’n Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle ‘n’ Old Wanger Nose. Not to forget Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator, but I gotta mention him in a separate sentence on account of he and me has wot we calls a special relationship. Just to show you how special it is, in the period of time since I runned aground on the beach and now, Ol’ Finian’s washed my bodywork from top to bottom and inside and out, on top of which he’s made hisself some beeswax polish outta the remains of a old abandoned hive wot was half-ruint in the flood. The result is I’m now as shiny as the gold balls on a statue of a bull, and if’n we only had us some petrol and a new battery we could go somewheres and find us a nice abandoned place to live, preferably with a garage for me and a stack of dirty pictures for the boys. I was about to say “a CD player” but then I remembered there ain’t no electricity, not here and probably not in the whole world. However, Ol’ Finian told me not to worry about that, on account of he’s gonna harness the waves or build hisself a windmill or maybe a waterwheel and he says there’s no reason he can’t have something workin’ for us in the way of a generator by the end of the week. And to think, all that time I’d took him for granted as just another soft pair o’hands! Anyways, in so far he sure ain’t let no grass grow under his feet, on account of in the time it’s took me to write these three hundert or so words, he’s already lit us a big old fire so’s he can cook hisself and the others a juicy nutritious dinner from the shitload of flood-kilt dead animals he’s scavenged from all over the beach. It sure is a pity the other men’re unfortunately professional couch-crappers wot can’t do nothin’ for themselves, but of course given that they’re idiots and fucking morons, wot can you expect? Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator’s also built me a lean-to so’s I can get out of the weather if it gets raunchy like it does sometimes, or at least once or twice a day if’n it’s feelin’ especially rambunctious. Unfortunately for me, he couldn’t build the lean-to down here by the water’s edge where I’m stucked in the sand, on account of come the next high tide I’d just float away and then we’d all be where we was before, and that’s in the middle of the sea. And as they says, “fuck that ‘n’ bugger me with a tuning fork!” He also confided in me that since he’s not yet made me up some petrol from the big old field of rape wot’s sitting over there on a hill about half a mile away, it’s gonna be up to him and the others to push me across the beach. Jeeze fuckin’ Louise, I wish I could help, but wot can I do, given that I’m only a bus without enough petrol in me to char-grill a chigger? Poor Ol’ stoat, I know I just said it was up to him and the others to push me across the beach, but wot I should’a said was it’s gonna be up to him without the others, on account of they’s the laziest bunch of fuck shittin’ no-accounts ‘n’ do-nothing’s since the Lord invented shitfaced wangerwagglers on the third day of creation when he got bored o’comin’ up with good ideas. Jeeze Louise, all Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle does is sit around on their butt-cheeks complainin’ and whinin’ and grousin’ and groanin’ about how bad they’s suffering and how uncomfortable everything is and about how they’s men and men don’t do women’s work and where’s them fuckin’ cocksuckin’ twat-twitchin’ bitches wot should’a been serving them their dinner with three kinds of potatoes five hours ago? And Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle, wot’s easily the number one primo example of a test product wot’s failed and should’a been throwed away right at the beginning, told us all he were especially sensitive and couldn’t prove his manhood without a different fresh juicy pussy every hour on the hour. I personally said to him he ought’a shut the fuck up or I’d run over his foot, but he spat in my face and smirked that there weren’t nothin’ I could do, on account of I was just a fuckin’ bus with no petrol and I should learn to keep in my place, which was in the bottom of a barrel o’ junk. “I’m one big man with one big powerful tooler driller,” he bragged. “My monster wanker whacker’s plum swolled up fit to squirtin’ with jizm juice and’s primed to explode a gusset.” Honest to Jeezus Jumpin’ Jehosephat, and to think I’d thought the fart-faced arsehole Hackensack brothers was the primo-est jerk-off dumbfucks in the whole wide world!

Anyways, Ol’ Howard Donald looked like he was after continuing on with his tirade for another ten hours or so. And after his whine growed just about as irritatin’ as a person can sit through without killin’ the first innocent passer-by wot’s walkin’ down on the opposite side of the street, someone nearby took his cigar outta his mouth and sucked on his solid gold-plated iron dentures. Jeeze Louise, we all jumped about a mile, all of us except Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle, of course, who was extra busy enjoyin’ the sound of his own voice and had his ears turned off. I for one, looked over to the left, and there was Old Mister Wanger Nose, wot we’d all forgot about in all the fuss, and he was sittin’ on top of the stolen luggage with all of Missus Milly Da Fardle’s ill-got bingo winnings in it. And he was guarding it against it being stoled from him again like it was stoled from him before in The Bank of Old Wanger Nose back before the flood. Anyways, while me and Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker looked on, the old fart took out one of his nine millimetre semi-automatic Glocks wot he keeps for special occasions such as this in secret hidey-holes in his bottom, and he shot Ol’ Howard Donald in his big toe. Jeeze fuckin’ Louise, talk about a stuck pig squealin’! I’ve never heard anything like it since the first day I was wheeled off’n the assembly line right next to the hog farm, and that was way back before the fifties and maybe even in the early thirties.

Well, as somebody or other said, “how the fuckin fuck’d the dumbfuck get so much blood in his fuckin’ self?” A half an hour has passed and the red stuff is still squirtin’ all over the place and everyone looks like they’d rolled around in a great big fat strawberry jam roly-poly. And as for Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle’s imitation of a stuck pig, I think it’s just progressed a couple notches up the decibel scale, until we’s now surrounded by about a hundert pigs wot’s been having their throats cut with a rusty razor. Whooee, wot a fuckin’ mess and then some. But I’ll tell you wot, I’ve just looked over into Old Wanger Nose’s eyes and I’ll bet you anything you want he’s gonna be haulin’ out another one of his guns from his groin bag any minute now, perhaps even a Uzi, and I’m thinkin’ that if’n Ol’ Howard Donald don’t shut the fuck up voluntarily, he’s gonna be shut the fuck up involuntarily. I’m gonna put my pencil away and watch, on account of this is the most fun I’ve had since the day Floozie Da Smelley invited The Women’s Institute around for a picnic at the lopsided pink flatpack building ‘n’ had a wet fart right when she were presenting the prize for the best ever florabundae gherkin dip. So endeth my flappin’ my gums for now, Dear Diary, and I’ll let you know if’n Howard Donald survives the night and does wot he’s told, or whether he’s wot we eats for supper tomorrow.

Day 129

Dear Diary,

Well, here I am, alive and well and standing in the sunshine after spending the night gigglin’ and talkin’ with good Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator. To be honest, I’m still in the dark as to everythin wot’s happened, but I probably know more’n Ol’ Finian does on account of he was here and I was there – wherever ‘there’ was – and in the thick of the action. For example, I know we was bombed into fuck ‘n’ the great beyond and that’s more’n he knows. But never mind, there’s no reason to fret about it and as he says, “I’m fuckin alive and breathin’ and that more’n practically anybody else can say!” You’ve really got to admire Ol’ Finian for his attitude, on account of so many folks these days can’t get through a minute of their lives without tellin’ everybody about everything wot’s wrong with the world ‘n’ sharing whingey whineys with whomever it is sittin’ or standin’ next to ‘em. Never mind, now that them folks from Texas’ve bombed the shit outta the planet and outta themselves as well, which were totally accidental on their part and which proves you can take the dumbfucks outta Texas but you sure as fuck can’t take Texas outta the dumbfucks. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure out wot I’m tryin’ to say.

Anyways, back to Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator and where I is now. And this you ain’t gonna believe. As I already told you, them there dirty bombs wiped out all the dumbfucks and even my old biddies wot unfortunately was not immune to the effects of the dirty bombs, and that includes those biddies wot were already fried up into extra-greasy crispy biddykebabs and served up to the Texas tourons on paper plates with some of that Texas Crisp Forever Lettuce with Salad Cream poured over the top. Even wot I thinks of as decent folks and also my good friend and caregiver, poor Ol’ Widow Fartie Da Whistle got evaporated into the tiniest little bitty invisible particles you never did saw. And let me tell you this were a fuckin piece o’bad luck for Ol’ Fartie, especially comin’ as it did directly after she’d been zombieficated and then cloned into life-size inflatable rubber ready-for-action dollies, which is something you wouldn’t wish even on your sister. And if that weren’t bad enough, after that she had to go and get hunged up and and have her head pulled off and her innards ‘n’ blood ‘n’ guts ‘n’ brains squirted all over the floor. It’s enough to make a body cry, except of course nobody knowed for sure which one was her and which was the dollies. Anyway, as I said, they was all evaporated, every single one down to the last sea slug on the bottom of the sea. ‘Course I should probably mention a few of their names besides The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, just in case when God gets ‘round to checking off who was who, he’ll have a reminder of some of them wot otherwise he’d probably not heard of before. In this list I should be wantin’ to include, even if I don’t personally miss them all that much, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny ‘n’ Floozie Da Smelley ‘n’ that top notch head honcho foreign sick officer wot was never ever called a name of his own, not even by his mama. And then I should write down Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, though why I should want God to remember him I don’t rightly know. And on a more cheerful note I mustn’t forget Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien from down at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic, even if it’s more likely the other fella down below’s more interested in them than Ol’ God is. And talkin’ of God, I suppose I should bring up one of His best friends on the island, Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan of the Church of The Immaculate Septum. I know he’d not been into saving souls as much as drinkin’ cups of tea with exactly two drops of potheen for that extra spiritual dimension, but I guess he did The Lord’s work as best he could figure out, which is something. Oh, and right here and now I hafta add that Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator’s asked me as a special favour to remind God about Myrtleen Da Patootie and (for a second time) Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, on account of both of ‘em was so good about relieving him in his many hours of personal need. Ol’ Finian would’a wrote down their names hisself, only as he says I’ve got the one and only last pencil on the earth and so it’s up to me to be wot he calls The Official Recording Angel. Let’s see, who else? Oh, yes, while I is on the subject of folks wot’s on God’s personal payroll, even if’n they ain’t exactly important enough for Him to’ve programmed their names on his speed-dial, I might write down The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser. ‘Course, for all I know he really is Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women, but I’m addin’ him on account of just in case he was actually a fake, fake preacher and not just a fake preacher wot’d be an abomination to The Lord. I gotta hedge my bets here on account of if I says the wrong thing about The Reverend Doctor I might get into more trouble than I already is with the Old Fella livin’ upstairs. And considering my present circumstances, that wouldn’t be a good idea.

Fuck. Who else? Well, I suppose I should mention Missus Milly Da Fardle, but only in temporary ink and not pencil on account of I know she’s out there somewhere ruling wot’s left of the world and she probably even pushed the little old red button wot let loose all them bombs on the rest of us. And even if’n it weren’t her wot actually done the dirty, I’ll bet you anything you want she’s doin’ all right for herself.

I hear you yelling about those wot you calls ‘serious omissions’ in my list-making activities, especially Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker and Howard Donald Da Fardle ‘n’ Old Wanger Nose. Owld Fingus Da Flatulator was already dead ‘n’ gone to the cat food factory long ago, so if God hasn’t remembered him so far then I’d say he was outta luck. And as for Missus Drain and Miss Cabbage, well all I can say is that wherever they is, they’s sharing company with Missus Milly Da Fardle. Plus I’m willin’ to bet all three of them is up to no good and getting’ rich while they’re doin’ it. Not that there’s anything wrong with bad folks makin’ all sorts of money, on account of I’m all in favour of it, and I hope any bad folks out there wot’re lookin’ to buy a vintage classic Daimler Burlington bus wot’s stranded on a beach’ll remember that I’m available and willing to do just about anything for the right quality of fuel and the right kind of sweet talk. Say I’d like to say here and now, “Let’s talk!”

Ah, but wot about Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle ‘n’ Old Wanger Nose? Well, and I don’t know how to put this, but let’s just say that outta all them millions and billions of folks God could’a chose to miss out on getting’ the evaporation treatment from them dirty bombs, somehow they - along with Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator - is now officially The Chosen People. Sorta pathetic ain’t it, especially when Ol’ God’s gonna be expectin’ them to restart the population explosion right fresh from the beginning and without no help from anybody else. Now, I know you’re gonna butt in ‘n’ say that’s a stupid way to start a new population explosion, on account of there’s no woman to ‘carry the burden’ as it were. Well, to that I can only reply we’ll hafta wait ‘n’ see, and perhaps there’s more ‘n’ meets to eye to Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator. Anyways, I’m sure they’ll get it sorted out between themselves, and until they do they can have all the fun in the world tryin’. Funny old world, ain’t it?

My pencil stub has just about runned outta lead and I got a few more words to add before there ain’t no more to write with. So wot I’m gonna do now is say so endeth an amazin’ day and I’m gonna catch me some rays while the sun is hot and enjoy the sight of them three idiots chasin’ each other around the beach like they was thirteen years old again.

Day 128

Dear Diary,

Will wonders never cease? I was sleepin’ away this mornin’ and I half dreamt it’d be a good idea not to wake up again. I mean, wot if’n I’m the last bus on earth and stranded on a shelf o’sand alone with a tribe of metal-devouring busovours and they was very teeny tiny and it was gonna take ‘em all of three thousand years to eat me up down to my last scrap of spare part? And wot if they was gonna keep me awake whilst they ate me by performing bad Elvis impersonations? If that was you, wouldn’t you rather be dead and unawares of who was eating you up until there was nothing left? And on a more different level - this one not conjectural but a actual physical one wot were more off-putting than a smudge o’shit on a lady’s underpants, I can swear under oath that all night long the fuckin’ wind’d whined and blowed and huffed and puffed, and all the time it were pumpin’ sand into all my cracks and crevasses and caking itself on my headlamps. Now as you know by now, headlamps is wot us buses uses for eyes and so, as you can imagine, it really got me goin’, this gumming up of my eyeballs. However, I managed to hold my temper for a good half-hour or so and was just about to let loose some of them choicer words I’d learned over the years from my old friends Owld Fingus Da Flatulator and Fergal Da Fecker and Finian Da Fabricator and even The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, who had one Hell of a vocabulary when she liked to practice it, which was nearly every day, when lo ‘n’ behold something come along wot jolted me so quick, I actually squirted somethin’ you don’t wanna know about outta my tailpipe. Shit fuck I’ve never been so scared in my entire life, and I’ve been around for a long time, even before the fifties. ‘Course I realise now it were only scufflin’ and snufflin’ noises comin’ from somewheres nearby, but Jeezus shittin’ hot potatoes I was more or less sound asleep at the time the noises started and up ‘til then I was convinced I was aloner’n the last orphan in the world. Fuckin’ crap ‘n’ let it run down your leg, I tell you I started to panic as I’ve never panicked before, and that includes the time I was watching that TV show about foreign aliens landin’ on the planet and kidnapping buses! Anyways, I must’a cried out in my sleep or said somethin’ like “Oh Jeeze Louise, please don’t let me get hurt and please protect me from dumbfucks from outer space wot might want to experiment on me when I says I doesn’t have no leader to take ‘em to.” As I said, my blood were running cold, or to be more accurate I should say it were my oil wot ranned cold at the thought of a bunch of evil-smelling wrinkly creatures with bad dispositions probing in my exhaust and takin’ me apart with a tin-opener. But then something occurred to me and I had to stop myself and chuckle, on account of there’s nothing new on that score wot I ain’t experienced before and so why the fuckity fuck fuck fuck should I be afeared? I mean, there can’t be no evil-stinking evil-dispositioned wrinkly creatures from another planet wot can be any worse’n them evil-stinking evil-dispositioned creatures wot’ve been filling up my life for the last coupl’a years. Thank my chrome ‘n’ pearly sphincter for them biddies is wot I says, on account of after them, there’s nothing out there anywhere wot can frighten me at all, and there’s nobody wot can do me no harm wot hasn’t been done to me already. “Glory’ll put it to ya, if you ask her she will do ya,” as they say.

Well, just about the time I was feeling better about things in general, a whole bucket of water came a’sploosh on my headlamps and then immediately after that a foreign and strangely alien towel or cloth of some sort started a’wipin’ ‘em clean. And blink-a-blink, wot do you know but the blackest night I’d ever saw was suddenly the brightest day I’d ever seen since the time I used to transport ancient old people around the continent for Golden Twilight Years Tours. And boy oh boy was I surprised!

I’ll tell you this much, it took me a while to get my vision apparatus sorted out, on account of I’d accidentally set it permanently to “Black As The Inside Of A Lump Of Coal” mode and I’d forgot where the lever was, but between you and me, I needed some of this extra time to sort out my head as well. You can imagine my annoyance, then, when whoever or whatever it was who’d been splooshin’ and wipin’ my headlamps, started in a ‘wipin off my body parts and cleaning off every last nook and cranny of my outsides and insides as well. You’d better believe right then and there I said, “Hold it right there Bub, on account of you ain’t introduced myself, and I don’t never get intimate with nobody until I knows their real name and not the one they calls themselves when that big old girlie on the stripper pole wot’s really a copper in disguise, sidles on up to you and says, ‘My oh my wot a big boy you are, may I call you Donkey Da Elephant?’”

At this point, whoever it was wot was massaging me with lemon oil burst out laughing and then suddenly so did I. In fact I laughed so hard I forgot to control myself and had my second embarrassing accident of the day. This made him laugh even harder’n he startin’ in a’snortin’ and a’heein’ and a’hawin’ and when my vision finally got cleared from the soapy water he’d sloshed on my headlamps, all I could see clear as day and twice as beautiful was Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator. And all I could think to say was “Jeezus fuck I thought I recognised them hands.” And both of us laughed and laughed and laughed for most of the rest of the day and into the night.

Needless to say, Dear Diary, I’m having to put away my pencil and spend me some quiet time with him. I thought for sure he was dead in the flood, which means we’ve gotta lot of catching up to do. Ya gotta bear with me. I promise I’ll check in with you as soon as he’s told me everything wot’s happened with him and after I’ve done the same thing from my side. In any event, for once I think I can honestly say, so endeth a whole shitload of tribulations and it looks like I’ve got my friend back.

Day 127

Dear Diary,

I tell you, I feel like that old T-shirt slogan wot went, “In Outer Space No One Can Hear You fart.” I’m only saying this on account of the silence wot I’m surrounded by is so complete that even the slightest smacking of my lips cracks like lightning and the tiniest tummy rumble is like thunder rolling around inside my head. Honest to goodness, I feel like a mouse wot’s got sucked into a vacuum cleaner and is packed in by a whole twelve-hundert Persian cats full o’hair. And the worst part is, or at least my favourite worst part at this moment in time is, that I can’t for the life of me see wot time it is. I’d always took it for granted that the clock on my dashboard was at the very least one of them Rolexes wot would run forever, and if that’s the case then all I’ve gotta say is I’ve either been fobbed off with one o’them fake rip-offs or else The Widow Fartie Da Whistle neglected to wind it all the way up while she was still here and alive and had the chance. If it’s all down to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle fuckin’ up and being negligent with the clock, I do hope this is not a sign that she didn’t really attend to any of her duties all that good. I’d hate to think I’ll be stranded on this here beach – or wherever it is – and be nothin’ but a rusting hulk on an island of ghosts and without a workin’ clock or a workin’ anything else to call my own. In a novel or movie that’d be a appealing situation to watch as a participant and it’d add a bit of wot they calls dramatic frisson to the viewing experience. However, I can’t say I’m over the moon about it happenin’ in real life. At least not to me. Never mind, I guess I’ll just have to wait ‘n’ see. One thing is certain however, and that is it ain’t gonna help me adjust to my new lifestyle if’n all I does is worry about wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle did do while she was on the job as my caregiver, and wot she only said she did but never got around to doin’. Either bless or fuck her cotton picking heart, depending upon the truth of the matter. Anyways, as I was sayin’, it’d sure take a load off my mind if’n I knowed wot the fuck time it was. I realise in a cosmic sense it don’t matter a lick o’shit wot hour and minute and second a watch says it is. As them wot’s got big ol’ brains full of sense never get tired of sayin’, “time is relative.” Personally, wot I think they’re trying to tell us is there’s no such thing as time in the universal sense, and the whole fuckin’ business is all man made and was invented just so’s bosses could stop the wages off of their employees if’n they took it in their heads to operate in the universal rather’n in the manmade sense. On the other hand, when they says “time is relative,” they could be talking about how many minutes you can sit ‘n’ listen to rich Great Aunt Ethelgrelda (wot might or might not be leavin’ you a million billion bucks) criticisin’ the cut o’your jib without you wantin’ to slit your throat. Personally I sorta lean towards this second scenario, on account of I used to feel like doing away with myself after a minute ‘n’ a half alone with Floozie Da Smelly or half a second listenin’ to Miss Cabbage (bless ‘em both wherever they is, only thank God it ain’t here), and they’re not even relatives of mine. ‘Course, if’n I’d’a been a human being, according to this six degrees of separation shit so many folks’ve got rich off of, both Miss Cabbage and Floozie Da Smelley’d probably be not only related but kissing cousins. Or perhaps, seeing as how folks got about on the island before it was washed away in the flood, fucking cousins to boot. Fortunately and Thank God For Small Mercies, I’m a bus and not only a bus but a vintage classic Daimler CVD6 with a custom-built 33-seat Burlington coach, and buses ain’t related to no one. Not by six degrees. Not by six hundert degrees. Not by six thousand million billion zillion degrees. In fact, I’m proud to say we’s got not a single atom of human being DNA in our whole entire bodies. Praise the Lord and Pass the Eggnog. But where was I?

Oh yes, I was talking about how I was sitting here in the middle of the darkness and silence and how the watch on my dashboard’s stopped working and I don’t know wot time it is so’s I can plan breakfast for the usual hour and not a minute later. The only thing else I’ve gotta say at the moment is at least it’s not raining. And also I’ve still got my pencil and you, Dear Diary, so’s I can record my thought for posterity, wherever or whoever that is. Anyways, since I can’t think of anything else I want to share with you at the moment, I’m gonna grab me some shuteye. I sure as fuck wish I could turn on my radio and listen to some tunes, but as I’ve said before a million times, my battery’s deader’n a black hole and probably clogged up with anti-matter as well. Or if not anti-matter, then a lot of fucking sand and muck from the sea. As I never get tired of saying, so endeth this particular time of sharing and I’ll be in touch sometime or other depending upon the mood I’m in.

Day 126

Dear Diary,

A coupl’a minutes ago we runned aground with a thud. And after the thud there was a softish splat, and then after that there was nothin’ but silence. I don’t know where we are and there is no trace of where we came from. No revolutions’re lighting up the sky. No explosions’re blowing out our ear holes. No pink and gold portable toilet holiday home houseboat conversions are to be seen anywhere. Not a Texas touron in sight. And there’s no trace of a glamorous deluxe luxury Las Vegas-style plastic neon resort with a Family Country ‘n’ Western Entertainment Theatre ‘n’ Nudie Bar ‘n’ All-You-Can-Eat Texas-style Barbeque ‘n’ Chili con Carne Twenty-Four Hour Buffet. Not anywhere. Not no how. It’s as if nothing of wot’s been going on in my life recently ever existed. I can’t even see hide nor hair of Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack or his idiot moron brother Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack or Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon (recently deceased but you never can tell around here), or even that brother of hers Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon. Personally, I must say the absence of Ol’ Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ makes my heart go pitty-pat and my pulse rate go down about ten thousand points, on account of he were the baddest news since bad news were invented so’s to give newsreaders something to talk about on the six o’clock news, and if’n he’s gone, I sure as fuck ain’t gonna miss him breathing up the same air as me. He were sure one big bad-arse dumbfuck shitfuck. The last I heard about him was he’d appointed hisself president for life of the pink and gold portable toilet holiday home houseboat conversions, or as it’s now called under its new official name, The Banana Republic of Texas Tourons, and believe me, if ever there was a new country wot deserved him, it were The Banana Republic of Texas Tourons. Perhaps it got exploded up in the revolution it’d started and as they say, fomented, and if it did then they sure as shit got their money’s worth outta them atom bombs they bought surplus from one of them big governments wot has sales from time to time and likes to export democracy ‘n’ open markets ‘n’ shit like that, on account of they’re the good guys and knows wot’s best for mankind, if not for those of us wot’re buses and taxis and big wheel trucks. But, as I always says, we all needs to do anything wot gets us through the day, even if it means nobody else gets a day to get through. Or something like that.

Anyways, as I was trying to tell you when I started writing this diary entry, Dear Diary, there were nothing out there but one great big black hole full of nothing but blackness. And whatever it is I just bumped into don’t seem as if it’s in a hurry to give me any clues to my present whereabouts. According to my wheels ‘n’ tyres’, it feels a awful lot like a beach, but since it’s darker’n a bucket of tar I can’t make out wot sort of beach it is. And before you ask, “Why the fuck don’t you turn on your lights, you fuckin’ dumbfuck dipshit?” let me tell you to shut the fuck up, and then I’ll try to explain to you right here and now in words of one syllable that, wot with all the towing of the pink and gold portable toilet holiday home boathouse conversions across the seven seas, as well days and weeks of to-ing and fro-ing tryin’ to rescue this person or that person and this biddy or that biddy from the clutches of death and even worse, my battery’s gone deader’n a wangerdanger after ten gallons o’vodka’ve been dranked by its owner. In other words, I’m gonna hafta wait ‘til the sun comes up and shines his light on me before I can tell you where the fuck we is. That is if after all the atom bombing and other fireworks wot the Texas tourons’ve been shootin’ off as part of their independence celebrations, there still is a sun left in the sky wot still wants to shine.

In the meantime, the most I can do is take a inventory of wot’s left ridin’ ‘round in me (being the bus and the only mode of transportation in the world, as far as I know). We already’ve figured out there ain’t nobody left outside where all the excitement was going on. And as far as wot’s inside, I’m afeared it don’t look any more promising. First of all, startin’ in the driver’s seat, there ain’t nobody at all. It’s as empty as a plate of cake after a fat family’ve sat down to dinner. And it don’t get much better when we goes back and examines the inside of my 33-seat custom-designed and handcrafted Burlington coach. If you thought my driver’s seat was empty, well this is even emptier. I don’t know wot to say. There’s no sign of no biddy in any of my seats and none under none of my seatbelts, which is no surprise considering most of ‘em’ve been ate up by the Texas Tourons and’re off somewheres bein’ digestipated. The ironing board on which Zombie Fartie was stretched out to be ironed and beautified and turned back into The Widow Fartie Da Whistle is not only empty, but it ain’t even there. There’s only a great big hole where it ought’a be, and only sign that Ol’ Fartie’d even existed is a empty packet o’half-used tampax and a coupl’a twice-used condoms. Shit I’m missing her already, and not only on account of she’s more fun than a whole forest of assorted monkeys, but also because I don’t know wot I’m gonna go without a first-class driver, and the way it’s lookin’ now is I’m not gonna have a driver at all, let alone one wot’s actually qualified. Who else is missing? Well, for a start there’s Ol’ Beryl of Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women or The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser or whoever he or she is. I sure wish the fuck I knowed the truth about him/her/it/them, but as things stand now it’ll have to remain one of life’s little mysteries. And the thing about him/her/it/them is that I doesn’t even have a clue as to why he/she/it/they was here in the first place. And fuck if I doesn’t hate mysteries, as you’d know if’n you’ve been reading me careful-like. Perhaps if you hear anything, Dear Diary, you can tell me, and if’n you do I’ll buy you a special gold pencil the next time we sees a store, that is if’n we ever does.

Who else? Oh, yeh, I checked up on the roof and guess who else don’t exist no more? Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley and, yes, you’ve got it, That Head Honcho Foreign Sick Officer wot was busy fillin’ out all my paperwork for me in case we get stopped by the police anytime soon and they wants to check my logbook. Missing, each and every one of ‘em, and so was everybody else wot’d snuck on board without telling me.

Wot a strange world. One moment you’s in the middle of a revolution and shittin’ bricks that you’re gonna be blowed up by one of them insurgents or as a result of enemy action or friendly fire or even by a fat lady wot’s exploded up from eatin’ too many pans o’toad in the hole, and the next minute you’s completely alone in the world. And there’s not a sound anywhere and nobody’s farted in your face and there’s no biddies talking nasty about one of their neighbours. Truth, as they says, is stranger’n friction. Wot I’m thinkin’ is that them bombs the Texas Tourons dropped on the world was wot they calls smart bombs, and that might explain why, being a bus, I survived. And it also might explain why human beings and dumbfucks and cute fuzzy animals not only didn’t survive but was evaporacated. I sure as fuck hope this is not wot they calls the scenario, as I’d hate to think I’ll be spending the rest of all eternity standing alone on a beach somewheres in the middle of Planet Bumfuck. I’ll try not to panic or even think about this, at least not until the sun rises, if in fact it does do that very thing wot’s it’s done every day up ‘til now. Anyway, until that happens or doesn’t happen, I won’t have anything more to say, except for so endeth the revolution and goodbye to everyone wot’s been keeping me company up ‘til now.

Day 125

Dear Diary,

I spent all night hoping I’d figure out wot the fuck was goin’ on in my life and if’n I was still me or if’n I’d been possessed and sucked into the evil heart of Beryl of Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women. And if’n this was wot’d happened, was I the victim of a inkybus or something like that or even something worser? But instead of being left alone to wallow in my fears and misery, I was pestered every minute on the minute and hour on the hour by you, Dear Diary, and also by a whole bunch of your readers wot’ve never met me but treat me like I’m responsible for their personal happiness and entertainment. And wot were they screamin’ and gibberin’ about? Well, It seems they want me to make wot they calls a “list” of all the things wot I’ve started to write about, things wot, according the them, whoever they is, I ain’t stuck with long enough to “find closure” as they says. Fuck closure is wot I say. Give me a chocolate Easter Egg and a anchovy sandwich any day of the week. The only closure wot I’m interested in is wot you does to a door before you drives down the street, and even then I’m only interested in it on account of I don’t want to get the finger pointed at me if’n the fucking door swings open when I’m swerving’ round a corner and a biddy spills out and splats her head open on the tarmac and it leaves a stain. That’s all I have to say about your fucking closure, and if’n there’s any more words from you on the subject don’t expect a answer from me.

Yesterday was full to overflowing with crap and all the other shit and poop and excrement manure related to crap, and I’m beginning to think I’m the dumbest dumbfuck in the world for not running away the minute we was washed out to sea in the flood and I found out that Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Foozie Da Smelley ‘d attached all two hundert of their pink and gold portable toilet holiday home conversions on to my tail pipe so’s they get towed out to sea and wouldn’t get ruint in the horrible torrential rain we was getting’ soaked with at the time. But being that I’m always full o’optimism as well as crap, I went along with things and said to myself everything always turns out for the best. After all, I had The Widow Fartie Da Whistle in charge of the bus (being me) and all the biddies was strapped in their seats and full o’vinegar and piss. And at the time we’d not even heard of that nasty putrid mogul and owner of the Texas entertainment conglomerate, twelve-year-old James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack, nor had we had his dumbfuck family inflicted on us either. ‘Course there were all them Texas tourons stayin’ in the pink and gold portable toilet holiday home floatin’ boat house conversions, but at the time they hadn’t showed their true colours and I hadn’t been unfortunate enough to meet ‘em in person. It was also before The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d been turned into a Zombie and’d been forced to work puttin’ together a Las Vegas-style floorshow for James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack. And as for the business of the biddies being kidnapped and turned into barbeque lunches for the tourons, that was still in the future. In fact, it were so far in the future God hisself couldn’a even dreameded it up yet.

‘Course, when Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack and his idiot moron brother Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack ‘n’ Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon and that brother of hers Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon started up their worldwide conglomerate entertainment empire, they hadn’t planned on the uprisin’ on the part of the Texas tourons when their promised-in-the-brochure extra-greasy crispy deep-fried biddykabob lunch wasn’t served up to ‘em on time. And nobody, except perhaps for some sick mind wot’s even sicker’n any of those others I’ve come into contact lately, could’a envisioned some evil inventor usin’ his Instant Patented Mob Mentality Social Organisin’ Machine to evolve the uprising into a bloody revolution during which many heads ran away from their bodies and a whole lot o’blood spurted all over here and the great hereafter. During all this bloodbath goings on, I managed to steal Zombie Fartie back and I threw her into my washing machine and dryer to de-zombieficate so’s we could get her back the way she was. To be quite frank I needed her something terrible on account of nobody else around here knows how to take care of me or drive without strippin’ my gears or crashin’ into stop signs. And besides, all the biddies wot’re left in the world and haven’t been turned into extra-greasy crispy touron all you can eat lunches misses her like shit. They’d all got to thinking she’s like their daughters. In fact, most’a them think she actually is their daughter, on account of they’s sadly gone soft in the head and unfortunately dementiated something terrible since we’ve got washed out to sea. It’s horrible, I know, but inevitable I suppose.

Anyways, as it turned out that particular Zombie Fartie might not have been the real Zombie Fartie in spite of all the trouble I’d took to kidnap her back. What I mean by this is that no sooner’d I rescued her and stuck her into the washing machine, than I looked outta my window I sawed her being a victim of the revolution and being hunged up in a bad sorta way. And the worst thing was, whoever was doin’ the lynchin’ of her fucked up the job royal and her head got pulled off in a way that made me want to throw up. Or at least it would’a if’n I’d been a human being and not a bus, on account of buses can’t toss their cookies even if’n we feel like it. When I saw wot they was doin’ to her, I said, “Oh Fuck ‘n’ Jeezus why dontcha fuckin’ do somethin’ you piece o’ shit,” but I seems to spoke too soon, on account of no sooner’d her head been liberated from her body that her body ricocheted all over from Hell and back and deflated down to nothing, sorta like a balloon does. I then said, “Wot the fuck?” and remembered all them big cardboard boxes wot’d been delivered to the All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise Entertainment Theatre and Las Vegas Bling-a-Ding Showroom and Casino. I put two and two together and said “Fuck me purple until my sphincter screams” or something along those lines, on account of it’d hit me wot was goin’ on. And Jeezus was my revelation right on the money. ‘Cus not only wasn’t the Fartie wot’d been hunged up and tore apart the real thing, but she were nothin’ but one of them blowup rubber sex fuck dolls advertised on the back pages of them tabloids. On top o’that, there were about five thousand more exactly like her, and like her they’d got pseudo replica Widow Fartie Da Whistle wigs balanced on the top of their heads. I’m telling you, other than the fact that their boobs was ten times the size of hers and round as watermelons, and their eyes was buggin’ outta their heads, and their mouths was stuck open like they was waitin’ for something about the size of a submarine to park in there for the night, and the hole wot was down below was wearin’ the same expression as the mouth, it looked exactly like her. Which is why, I suppose, I’d got confused for a coupl’a days. ‘Course, I was as relieved as a constipated elephant after he’d been dosed with a oil tanker to find out that Zombie Fartie hadn’t been yanked apart and that I had the real one stretched out over my ironing board. And I would’a gone and gived her a great big hug and said “Welcome back to papa Zombie Fartie,” only I couldn’t on account of first of all The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser was standin’ over her fondling wot he’d forgot to pay for. And then second of all, all of a sudden it weren’t him but he’d changed into Ol’ Beryl the old biddies’ favourite hairdresser ‘n’ beauticians, and she were standing in his place and doing somethin’ I’d never seen one woman doin’ to another, at least not outside of one of them pornogrator films Ol’ Finian De Fabricator use to enjoy back in the good old days when we shared a garage together. Fuckin’ Jeeze Louise, was I embarrassed, on account of I’m a private bus by nature and kinda shy. And so I sorta hid my eyes, only peeping out occasionally, and I pretended I was looking in the other direction and wasn’t seeing wot was goin’ on until finally Ol’ Beryl turned around with a look on her face wot said she’d got wot she wanted and even more. I could’a swore she had a coupl’a red ‘n’ hairy curls caught in the side of her mouth, and her eyes was gauzy and she were sorta wet in the pace where biddies only get wet when they’s forgot to put on a double pair of old biddy nappies.

Directly after this, when standing lookin’ as stupid as stupid could be that the sky and all wot was in it exploded into a mighty armchair a’gedden, and me and all wot was ridin’ in me was throwed about a million miles up into the ozone layer. And I may have blacked out, or it may’ve been that my lights was all blowed out, on account of it was as dark as shit and all I knowed was that we was flyin’ up and up and up, and pretty soon we passed the ol’ moon and we just kept on a’goin’.

All I can say is we haven’t come back down yet and I’m sorta afeared to open my eyes to see wot’s goin’ on. I’ve just lost my pencil, which means to finish this I’ve gotta resort to motor oil. All I can say is so probably endeth wot was a pretty good life, but I’ll let you know either when we crashes down to earth or I rents a space in the great garage in the sky.

Day 124

Dear Diary,

Last time we talked, my mouth was hanging open and I was starin’ googly eyed at Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women, who was standin’ inside my custom-designed and hand-crafted 33-seat coach and fiddlin’ with her make up bag with one had and with the other holdin’ a lock of hair belonging to wot was left of poor Zombie Fartie after I’d took her outta my MegaTurboBlaster Clothes Drying Machine. And since less’n a second before The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser’d been standing in the exact same spot as Beryl and a’doin’ the exact same thing, only with his hand on a different place on her anatomy, naturally my mind was more’n just a little confused, as well as suspicious as fuck. And this is why I said, or at least I said soon’s I got my voice back and my brain’d clicked back into gear again, “Why Beryl of Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Woman, nice to see you again and I’m sure glad you wasn’t drowneded in the flood. But wot the fuck’re you doin’ here anyways inside the bus (which is me) and why the fuck’re you fiddlin’ with Zombie Fartie with your wore out fat fingers?” Well Beryl’s accustomed to answering direct questions with evasive answers on account of her three brothers is politicians and she wouldn’t know the truth if’n it hit her in the face like a dead mackerel, and besides she’s dealing on a daily basis with biddies wot’ll believe lies wot’d make a hustler wince if’n it comes outta the mouth of a beauty parlour beautician. So after she’d finished pretending to listen to my question, she smiled real confidential-like and plastered her cheesiest most sympathetic expression all over her face and lowered her voice so’s you knowed wot she was gonna say was something nasty about someone else. And then she said, “Why I remember your old mammy back at her confirmation. She were so pretty in her new dress wot her auntie’d made out of a potato sack and a coupl’a pieces of turf, and didn’t she look a treat on account of she had the ague and catarrh somethin’ desperate and there was rainbow buggers all down her face and drippin’ down on to the little flat biscuit wafer cookie wot was being shoved into her mouth by Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan’s dear Ol’ pappy, Monsignor Brady Murphy O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan God Rest His Soul and you better genuflect real respectful when you says his name out loud. You never knowed him but he was the priest over at the Church of The Immaculate Septum on the bottom side of the island where it was built in the middle of the slums wot had folks livin’ in them wot needed to be redemptified but didn’t want to be redemptified no how not ever.” And believe it or not, Ol’ Beryl said all this exactly as I’ve wrote it down in one sentence all run together and without even taking so much as a breath from beginning to end. Anyways, it took me a coupl’a minutes to get it all sorted out in my mind, after which I cleared my throat like I knowed wot was wot and I says in the sorta voice wot makes a liar wee in his britches, “In other words, Miss Beryl of Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Woman, you’re after doing a job wot you ain’t been asked to do and then charging double for the extra time you had to put in to travel all this way and do it.” Whereupon Ol’ Beryl shrugged her shoulders like they does when they’re caught with their hand in their dead mother-in-law’s purse, and then she gived me a fuck you flick with one of her fingers. And after that and over the next few minutes, her mind bounced back ‘n’ forth between pretending she weren’t never been here at all in spite of appearances to the contrary and actin’ as if she was innocent as a new born babe right before he’s shat all over the midwife and peed a gallon or two on his mam as a thank you gift for her lettin’ him pound away on her velvet door for four days and seventeen hours. “Heavy labour” is wot they calls it I guess. I calls it somethin’ else, but then I’m only a bus and no bus’d get caught squeezin’ a baby bus outta his tailpipe not even if’n you paid him a billion euros and gived him a hand-wax. Anyways, I guess Ol’ Beryl decided it’d be a dumbfuck idea to say she’d never been where she was when I myself was here talking to her, on account of not even them two idiot constables wot used to run all the police business that there was back on the island when it still was a island would’a been tooked in, at least not without wot they calls corroboration from that Ol’ gangster, Old Wanger Nose, wot’d owned ‘em lock, stock and barrel and’d paid their salaries. And this reminds me, I wonder wot the fuck ever happened to Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, who’s what they use to call a ‘woman policeman’ back in the good old days when everybody knowed all they did was make cups of tea and serve the biscuits? Perhaps we’ll find out one day and perhaps not. Or perhaps it’ll happen next time we goes into Thelma O’Leary’s little falling-down café and orders the fish special, that when we cuts open the fish, instead of dry over-cooked sea trout, we’ll see the face o’PC Humbert Da Elephant starin’ out at us with his mouth open and a apple stuffed in it to make it more presentable. But that’s got fuck all to do with wot I was tryin’ to tell you, don’t it?

If’n you want to know the truth, I’m as lost as fuck. Let me think by myself for a coupl’a seconds… OH, YES, now I remember. I’d just stumbled over The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser bending suspiciously low over the naked and not yet re-beautified body of Zombie Fartie, and when I cleared my throat he turned around to face me with a guilty expression wrote all over his face. And if’n he ever had to reason to look guilty it was this time, on account of no matter how hard he tried to convince me it was him, The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser in person, I could tell it were not nobody but Ol’ Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women. And that’s when I felt my mouth open and words fell outta my face before I could stop ‘em. “Why, Beryl,” I demanded to know. “Wot the fuck’re you doin’ here and wot did you do with The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser?” And then while she were busy hemming and hawing, my mouth continued on slapping its gums and a’babblin’ more dumbfuck words’n I’d ever knowed I had in me. “Why oh why did you eat him, you greedy bitch and a whore to boot! I know The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser’s not a real preacher and I wouldn’a trust him with my kids if’n I had any, but even he’ was better’n a low-down beautician ‘n’ gossip wot’s about as far down on the scale of evolution as a TV presenter, only more intelligent. Why Oh Why you dumb fuckin’ bitch did you kill The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser and skin him alive and drape his skin all over you? Don’t you know it’s bad luck to kill and eat a fake pretend minister preacher man? And besides, for your information, I never did have no mammy wot went to no confirmation to one o’them special biscuit wafer cookies on account of I’m a fuckin’ bus, you imbecile twat and cu…” Whereupon Ol’ Beryl clouted me real good around my ear, or in this case my wing mirror, which made me realise I’d a’been babblin’ just like her. And I thought to myself, “Holy Jeezus Mother Shits a Brick!” I’ve got the verbosical diarrhoea just like her. And I had me a awful thought right then and there. Supposin’ she’d ate me just like she’d done The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, and if’n she had, was this the end of everything?

Fuck fuck ‘n’ double fuck fuck. I gotta put away my pencil and catch my breath and look myself over and over to see if’n I’m still me. If’ n I am I’ll let you know by saying “so endeth wot I thought was the worst thing wot could happen to a bus, namely being ate by beautician for old biddies.” And if’n it turns out I have been sucked inside a fuckin’ slimy “incubus” or “succubus” after all, well never mind, on account of at least I can still write “bus” on my visiting cards, even if’n it’s not the “Community” variety. Why does I have a pain in the pit of my stomach and why was I ever built with such loving care by them good folks at Daimler Burlington all them years ago?

Day 123

Dear Diary,

Well, I’ve just took Zombie Fartie outta my super deluxe MegaTurboBlaster Dryer and spread her out on the ironing board. To be quite frank, she ain’t lookin’ too good and I think she’ll never look like new again. That’s wot you gets when you buy discount sub-name brands for bargain basement prices at them big multinational remainder stores where they only sells shit wot nobody’d buy at a sale price in a retail store. And to think I had such high hopes for her getting’ it off with that snazzy hot ‘n’ flashy part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, not to mention his ‘makes-ya-wanna-cream’ Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio. Oh well, I’m not gonna give up quite yet, so wot I’m gonna do is iron her out real careful with the right temperature and extra steam and then hang her up on a good hanger and have a look at her before makin’ my next move. It also’s occurred to me the biddies’d know how to revive wot’s cheap and nasty and make it look presentable enough so’s you could wear it to church, even on Easter. You see, they’s all experienced when it comes to shopping in the aforementioned discount stores and not spending no money on nothing, and to give ‘em credit where credit’s due they can look bang-up elegant when they wears a dress and for once leave them baggy crimpoline trousers with elastic waistbands ‘n’ sweatpants back at home.

But I’m getting’ ahead of myself, and before I continue on with the Zombie Fartie wot I’d put into the washing machine and then the dryer, Id better set your confusion at rest about the other one, the one wot got hunged up and pulled apart like something only heathens do. Well, if you’d’a been paying attention, you might’a noticed that them wot hanged her up wasn’t so much heathens as Texas tourons, and Miss Zombie Fartie may’ve been a zombie but she were a white zombie woman with blue eyes as well, which means she were in her own way Jeezus’s little sister, even though he might not have been seen with her in public on account of her brainpan was full of evil satan zombie dust. And, of course, it can’t help none relationship-wise with Him that she’s under the mind control of the enemies o’The Lord, wot in this case were Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack and his big old fat brother Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack. But you knowed all that already, don’t you, on account of I’ve told it to you a hundert times a day for the past week or so. Well, Dear Diary and dumbfucks everywhere, I’m here to tell you I’ve sorta misled you again. You don’t know a fuckin’ thing on account of wot I’ve just told you is fuckin’ garbage and nothing but fuckin’ garbage. The truth and nothing but the truth lies in them cardboard boxes I mentioned last thing yesterday. The ones I said you should cogitate over and decide wot was important about them, as well as who the deliveryman was wot’d brung ‘em and who opened them and wot was in ‘em.

Let me sorta start over again with the question of who was Zombie Fartie and who was Zombie Fartie wot wasn’t. Let’s put it this way, there’s no such thing as Zombie Fartie and there never wasn’t. You still not smart enough to put two and two together? I’ll give you a clue. Did you bother to notice who the delivery men was wot brung the big old cardboard boxes to the pink and gold deluxe luxury portable toilets and Las Vegas-style spectacular entertainment theatre and all-you-can-eat family restaurant featuring extra-greasy crispy deep-fried biddykabobs with cornbread’n hushpuppies ‘n’ biscuits ‘n’ gravy? You didn’t? Well, if’n I tell you it were none other than Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, wot under other circumstances work late night shifts at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic and wot was disguised as “Quick As A Wink Postal Delivery Service” delivery courier associates, complete with ugly shorts and cheap phoney baseball caps and clipboards, would you recognise ‘em now? And I’ll ask you another question. Wot sort of deliveries would the likes of Arnie Pizzlepod ‘n’ Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien be makin’ in the middle of the night? Think about it, think about it, and I’ll return to you with the answer just as soon as I’ve done talking some more about the Zombie Fartie wot I was planning on ironing extra flat with my special steam iron with extra steam. And listen up careful, on account of now we’s comin’ on to an exciting bit which I think you’ll enjoy. And if’n you doesn’t listen up like I told you to, you’ll get lost again, and then you’ll whine.

Well, as you remember if’n you was paying attention a few minutes ago, I’d hung up Zombie Fartie – the one I’d just took outta the dryer – on a good quality padded wooden hanger so’s she wouldn’a get crinkled lying on the table waitin’ to be flattened out. Cuz you know how it is. You’re thinking of writing a love letter to the love of your life and you puts a sheet of paper on the table and goes to get the ink and a quill pen, on account of love letters is special and you doesn’t want to use a extra soft pencil from your school pencil box. Anyways, naturally this piece of paper is clean and in wot they calls in pristine condition, but while you’re outta the room, some dumbfucks comes along and sets a big old glass of water or a jelly donut right on top of it and gets it all used lookin’, just as though you’d been scribbling all over it when you was drunk. Either that or a fuckin’ cat comes along and sits all over the piece o’ paper and washes its butthole and leaves cat fart smell all over where you’d daubed your best store-bought after shave stink. Anyway, that’s why I hung Zombie Fartie up on a hanger instead of leaving her on the table while I left to get the steam iron from out back in my boot.

And fuck a duck, while I was out who would pop up and put his hands all over Zombie Fartie but that fuckin’ defrocked minister preacher, The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser. Well, when I come back and sawed him, I nearly dropped my teeth, and that’s not easy on account of I’m a bus and I ain’t got no teeth. And I’m afeard I said somethin’ not very nice to him, which was probably not a good thing to do on account of him bein’ a reverend and all, if’n he was only a fake one and defrocked to boot. Wot I said was “unhand that there cleaned and dried deflated zombie woman or I’ll have your guts for garters.” And you know wot he done? He ripped off this dead Miss Louella Da Bunkle disguise and then he took off another layer o’latex wot I didn’t know he had, which proved to be that not only was The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser a fake reverend, but he was a fake Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser to boot. I’ll tell you right here and now I didn’t know where to look and I didn’t know what to think and I almost didn’t know who I was. I certainly was at a loss for words, which was aggravatin’ on account of it’s the second time this week I’ve been in that condition, but this time it was worse. The condition this time was so serious and critical that my loss for words went so far that I couldn’t even remember the bad ones wot’ve never let me down in the past. And I’m gonna tell you why.

Right in front of me, alive as death and twice as ugly, and standing in the exact same spot and breathin’ the exact same air as only a split-second before’d stood The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, was none other than Beryl. As in Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women. And she turned to me and smiled. And my blood runned cold.

I realise, Dear Diary, that I’ve left you up the creek without a paddle again, as well as all tangled up in all the loose ends I’d promised to unravel but didn’t. All I can say is perhaps you should go away for a bit and let off some steam, and I’ll try to pick up where I’ve just left off, first thing in the morning. Take it from me, the unravelling won’t take a lot of time and’ll be so simple you’ll wonder why you needed me to do it for you. Anyway, as I’ve said a million times and it’s just as pointless a thing to say as if was yesterday, so endeth our little conversation, Dear Diary, and I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself as much as I have.

Day 122

Dear Diary,

All I gotta say is the revolution’s comin’ along just fine, muchas gracias to you very much, and thanks to my new Texas flag coat o’paint, I’m blendin’ in with the fray and gunfire and bombs and explosions, and unless you knows wot you’re lookin’ for, I looks as invisible as a turd in a pile o’pine cones. You’d never pick me out in a million years. I’m only hopin’ somebody wins this here raging dispute sooner rather than later, on account of I wants to get on with my life and settle down to being a community bus again. ‘Course, if’n the Texas touron side wins, I’ll hafta go through eternity dressed like a hillbilly bigot. I guess there could be worse things, although given that I’ve never lived a life o’ chili con carne and stock car racin’ and dancin’ the Texas Two Step, we’ll hafta wait and see. That bein’ said, however, I’m all for tryin anything and everything once or twice or until I gets it like it feels good. I’ll keep you posted.

I’ve gotta apologise to you for playin’ a nasty trick on you, Dear Diary, as well as to all you other folks out there wot might be reading this without payin’ me nothing. To be honest wot I did turned out to be funnier’n I thought it would be, but the credit for that’s gotta go to you and not me, and the reason for this is you fell for wot I wrote hook, line and sinker and didn’t even suspect I was a’pullin’ your leg. ‘Course, it also proves wot they say about being able to fool all of the people all of the time, which in your case makes you out to be about the dumbest dumbfucks I’ve ever met in my whole entire life, and you gotta remember I’ve been around since the fifties, and maybe even before that, dependin’ upon if’n you believe wot they’s wrote down on my title. But that’s another story for another day and one which was deadly serious and frightening at the time. As I recall, it had to do with spies and counter-spies and the bullet-proof iron curtain in the Hotel Grand Continental bathroom adjacent to room number 7026, and it also involved a miraculous escape across five countries and being hid under a haystack with a family of pigs and a secret agent for two years, six months and a day without a bath. Oh, yeh, it were also in black ‘n’ white, which is how murky ‘n’ shady evil spy and counter-spy doins’ was done back then. However, be that as it may, since we is now in the grip of a revolution and bloody insurrection and regime change here at the The Floatin’ Commode Happy Holiday Bible Camp Furnished Units ‘n’ Good Ol’ Boy Family Entertainment Country ‘n’ Western Theatre ‘n’ All You Can Eat Family-Style Fried Catfish Restaurant, the last thing you’ll be wantin’ to hear about is my past adventures, no matter how glamorous they was and no matter how many times Ol’ Miss Mata Hari slept on the very seat Missus Milly Da Fardle likes to occupy when she’s in residence. Plus the fact wot’s gotta be on your mind is you’re dyin’ to know how I fooled you into thinkin’ poor Ol’ Zombie Fartie’d got her head pulled off’n her body while she was bein’ strunged up by the victorious invading revolutionary army from The Republic of Texas, God Bless Amurka. First of all, wot you saw wasn’t wot you thought you’d saw. Her head didn’t go nowhere. In fact, I promise you free grits for breakfast every morning of your life for the next three hundert years that Zombie Fartie’s all in one piece and that’s not on account of she’s been stucked back together with super glue ‘n’ staples. Promise promise cross your heart and hope you’ll die. Again I’m sorrier’n a pineapple upside down cake wot’s been sat on by a fat lady that I fucked up your mind, but you know a mind is a terrible thing to waste and when I seen yours lyin’ around doin’ nothin’ and stuffin’ its face with three kinds of potatoes with potato salad on top, I said to myself, I said, “Fuck me quick and fuck me a second time as slow as molasses in January, if’n that’s not a mind wot’s gone to its wasteline, and fuck me if’n I doesn’t teach the dumbfuck wot lives with it a lesson he’ll never forget.” And yes I said “he” on account of I don’t know of no women who’re quite as high up on the chickenshit-o-meter as those wot wears their wangers hanging outta the front end. Some women come close, of course, but close ain’t no cigar. But I’m getting’ off’n the subject again, ain’t I?

As I said, only not using the same words, you rightly sawed Zombie Fartie get her head pulled off like a cork poppin’ out of a cheap bottle of wine. But you also sawed with you selfsame eyes me takin’ her outta my super heavy duty washing machine and stickin’ her in my deluxe MegaTurboBlaster Dry-o-Matic, and not only that but you bore witness to her goin’ round and round in the dryer and spittin’ out all sorts of vile and heathenish viper venom curses at me for wot I was doin’ to her. Now the question you gotta ask yourself is if’n you sawed her bein’ hunged up like a slab o’eat on a hook and losing her head, how could you’ve seed her in my dryer cursing me into Hell and The Fiery Furnace at one and the same time? And while I knowed you’re all trying to figure this out on your computers and putting to use all o’that physics you was too lazy to study in school, the answer is “None of the Above.” As I said before, wot you seen wasn’t wot you thought you’d sawed. Zombie Fartie may be a whole lot of woman when it comes to sharing wot she has with a whole lot of men, and she may have been passed around to all corners of the earth and back, but the fact remains she can’t be at two places at the same time.

About now I can feel you takin’ out your knives ‘n’ guns and cornering me in a blind alley unless I stops talkin’ like some idiot from down on the farm and comes straight to the point. Okay, you win. The simple truth is one Zombie Fartie was the real Zombie Fartie ‘n’ the other Zombie Fartie wasn’t, and the question I’ve got for you now is didn’t you see them big old empty cardboard boxes and who was it wot took out their contents? Were it me or were it someone else? While you’re cogitatin’ this over, I’m gonna put away my pencil and see how the revolution is coming along. As they says, so endeth the day and I hope you don’t forget to take your precautions in your wallet when you goes out tonight.

Day 121

Dear Diary,

First of all I’ve gotta admit I’ve never been in no revolution before, but if’n they’s anything like the one wot I’ve just been living through I think I’ll avoid livin’ through another one anytime in the future. In fact, the next time I hear that a revolution is due in at the station, I’ll run as fast as I can in the opposite direction. And by ‘run’ I mean I’ll get my wheels whizzin’ round faster’n any wheel’s ever whizzed round since the first wheel was invented, and if necessary I’ll learn to fly, even though you probably think that’s impossible, on account of I’m only a bus, albeit a vintage classic Daimler CVD6 with a custom-designed and hand-built 33-seat coach. ‘Course everybody says buses can’t fly no better’n pigs. However, by now you’ve probably gotta fair idea of wot I thinks about ‘everybody’, on account of whoever ‘everybody’ is they never includes me and therefore they ain’t ‘everybody’ at all but only a bunch o’biddies congregatin’ down at Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Woman back before the flood flushed it away or else some dumbfucks over at the TV station wot don’t know we was gived a brain for a reason. Anyway, wot the fuck was I gonna say and why the fuck does I care about saying it?

Oh yes, I remember now. I was telling you about the revolution, or more precisely, the village idiot imbecile rioting mob wot was comprised of the Texas tourons wot’re staying in the pink and gold portable toilet holiday home floatin’ island conversions wot’s just been renamed The Floatin’ Commode Happy Holiday Bible Camp Furnished Units ‘n’ Good Ol’ Boy Family Entertainment Country ‘n’ Western Theatre ‘n’ All You Can Eat Family-Style Fried Catfish Restaurant. Which looks kind’a stupid crammed on to the neon sign wot costed all of a euro ninety-eight cents down at Madam Bernice’s Nothin’-Over-A-Euro Store ‘n’ Family-Style WiFi ‘n’ MassageParlour ‘n’ Hand-Painted Plastic Spray-Painted Neon Signs, but wot the fuck. If that’s wot they likes, I guess that’s wot they’re gonna get, and a’fiddle dee dee to you and your mother.

Now I’m not one to throw stones at morons and numbnuts, but this ain’t the time to be wot they calls politically correct, or P.C. if’n you’re a TV presenter wot’s gotta lifstyle where a brain ought’a go. The way them tourons reacted to the combination of their deep-fried extra-greasy crispy biddykabobs bein’ served up to ‘em late and then not at all, and then on top of that having a defrocked phoney minister preacher dressed as a old biddy - The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser - rising up in the middle of their Blessing and Praisin’ Jeezus Pre-Lunch Launching Hour and hollerin’ out “I’m Miss Louella Da Bunkle and I’ve got a willy praise be to The Lord,” was not wot you’d call full o’the holy spirit. In fact, to the tourons I thinks them two events was definitively the straw wot broked the camel’s back. When The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser said wot he said, you could’a heard a pin drop, but just as soon as it dropped all them biddies reached for their pitchforks and hangin’ ropes and they charged on over to the All-You-Can-Eat Barbeque Pit where they hanged up Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack and his zombie assistant, Zombie Fartie by their necks the extra slow way so’s to pull off their heads. And the minute they’d accomplished that they declared victory and wasted no time in proclaiming that the pink and gold portable toilet holiday home floating island conversions was now a annexated county of Texas, complete with a new double-lined nylon Texas flag with gold-painted gussets. And then they sanged the new national anthem “Praise Jeesuz and Glory Hallelujah and my gramma got runned over my a manure spreader and I’ve ruptured my spleen cryin’ over my wife wot’s seen wot she likes in my best friend’s wife, Lulu Belle Sweet Marie wot’s a whoore and the mother of my children!” and then afterwards everybody cried and blasted off a coupl’a tonnes of fireworks and celebrated the birth of a new nation under God wot was gonna to have restricted immigration so’s them heathens could all be excluded legal-like. Thank you Jeezus.

To be honest I haven’t saw such a hoo haa since the old movie of “Frankenstein” when a mob wot looked very much like the Texas touron mob runned amok with pitchforks ‘n’ torches and the poor special needs gentleman ended up falling off the roof and into the burnin’ cauldron o’Hell.

Now, before we goes any further, I know several millions of you is screamin and shriekin’ “Whoa fuckin’ whoa, wait a fuckin’ cotton pickin’ minute Mr. Bus”, on account of I just wrote that Zombie Fartie’s head got pulled off in all that picturesque mob lynching excitement of a few minutes ago. “Whoa fuckin’ shittin’ whoa” I hears you shout. But before you gets any more angrier and turns into a picturesque village idiot mob yourselves and set fire to me, let me point out that the Zombie Fartie wot was recently made into two pieces is not the same Zombie Fartie wot I put into my extra heavy duty industrial washing machine the other day and wot is still being dried out in my MegaTurboBlaster Drying Apparatus. And unless there were a accident in the dryin’ tumbrel, which I doubt on account of machines don’t have no accidents without some dumbfucker human being at the controls (and in this case there weren’t nobody in charge of the drying machine outside’ve me), I’d venture to opine that the Zombie Fartie we know and love and wot hopefully will be turned back into The Widow Fartie Da Whistle one day soon, is definitely not Zombie Fartie with the detachable dead on her shoulders. And you might as well shut your mouths on account of they’re hangin’ open and drool’s sloppin’ out on your new celebrity endorsement trainers wot’s costed you two months’ salary plus tax. If you was thinking straight, you’d realise there’s a simple and logical explanation for this problem just as there is for most other problems, exceptin’ perhaps for why the fuck does so many men eat a bucket o’baked beans ‘n’ wash it down with a gallon o’beer the minute they gets lucky with a broad wot says, “I wants to be rotor rooted and I wants it bad” and actually means it.

In other words, you can rest assured the real Widow Fartie Da Whistle is still very much in one piece, and I’ll explain it all to you later on. And I’ll also fill you in on wot’s been happening with the revolution wot was and is still taking place all around me, and wot is turning it into a scary place. Sort’a like Baghdad if’n it was in the middle of the ocean. Right now, however, I’ve gotta get me re-painted up like I was a big fat Texas flag on wheels, or else the mob might set me alight and ruin my chances for a happy future. As soon as I can, I’ll be back, so set back and rest your butts for a spell and drink some o’that sweet as sugar lemonade or a glass of ice tea wot they likes down in Texas. As I always like to say, so endeth the hearts ‘n’ flowers part o’the evening sweetheart, let’s fuck.

Day 120

Dear Diary,

Whooeee and then some! My head’s still a’reeling and a’spinning from all the shit wot’s blasted into space since I talked to you last! I’m still trying to take it all in but I don’t rightly know if’n my brain is big enough to accommodate it all. In fact, wot I’m thinkin’ is that if’n I tell it to you right, your head’ll whip round in circles so fast it’ll fall off in your soup and you can serve it up for supper. And if’n I don’t tell it right, it’ll sound worse’n chaos and your head’ll not only fall off, but it’ll explode.

Okay, you remember (but if’n you don’t, don’t worry your pretty self over it as it won’t affect your chances of goin’ to Heaven, at least not if’n you say a dozen thousand Hail Mary before you go to bed), I was on the verge of snatching the draining rack on which the biddies was reclining prior to being throwed into the fry-o-lator and cooked up for lunch for all them Texas tourons wot was paying guests at Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack’s Pink and Gold Deluxe Luxury Celebrity As Seen On TV Portable Toilet Holiday Home Floatin’ Houseboat Conversions. But no sooner’d I got over there and was about to reach out and steal ‘em from under the noses of them dumbfucks wot were in charge of the all-you-can barbeque and fry-o-lator, namely Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack and his even dumber dumbfuck ex-former brother-in-law Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon, than who should pop up outta the middle of the draining rack but The Reverend Paisley Pisser, and boy oh boy were he pissed off at being mistook for a old biddy wot was headed for the fiery barbeque when he weren’t a biddy at all, but more of a fuckin’ de-frocked fake reverend preacherman wot ‘d been hiding out disguised as a dead old biddy called the late Miss Louella Da Bunkle. He claimed he were only there conducting wot he called “research”, but I have it on good authority that he were only avoiding being called up by the army and made to fight in one o’them countries startin’ with “Ay.” As they says, so much for altruism.

‘Course with this here latest development, things got pretty fuckin’ tense within the ranks of the Texas tourons. First there was the business of the first batch o’biddies, the prime cut ones with the most layers of fat draped over their osteoporosis. It nearly caused a Texas-sized rumpus when they was rolled in crunchy crumbles ‘n’ peanuts when they should’a been dipped in genuine Houston Oil Well-style buttermilk ‘n’ beer batter like wot they buys at home straight outta the frozen biddy aisle over at God’s own personal shopping experience, wot I can’t mention by name in case I gets sued all the way down to my blue suede brake-shoes. Why, as far as them tourons was concerned, everyone wot’s a genuine born-again republican knows that deep-fried crunchy crumbles ‘n’ nut biddy nuggets wasn’t mentioned anywheres in the brochure nor was they advertised on the TV by one of them TV preachers, and this was proof they was an abomination in the eyes of the Lord as well as being un-Amurkun, which is one and the same thing. As they says in Texas, “If’n Jeezus was alive today He’d shoot ‘em in the nuts!” And between you and me, the nuts they was talkin’ about wasn’t the ground-up ones wot that there first batch of prime cut biddies was rolled in. Think about it.

So anyways, after the tourons’d foamed at the mouth and lynched a schoolyard full of children wot was a’bringin’ down property values over where that new shopping mall is being developed, they told their congressmen to send over a coupl’a thousand troops to where the island’d been floating before the flood washed it away to where we ain’t found it yet. Them there troops was ordered to bomb the shit outta us, on account of we don’t speak good Texas and according to Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack, who is not exactly a fan of ours, we’s nothin’ but fuckin’ cocksuckers and satan’s eggs and bacon rolled up into one.

Fortunately for wot was left of us after the bombing, someone - and I have a sneaky feeling it had something to do with Mrs. Milly Da Fardle, even though I doesn’t know exactly where she is or wot she’s up to – told ‘em to calm down and get their butts back to the negotiating table and demand that the crunchy crumbles ‘n’ nuts be wiped off’n the first set of biddies, and that them aforementioned premier batch of biddies ought’a then be throwed into the trash on account of by now they was used and not fit for being ate by born-again Texas tourons. Right away, everybody on both sides of the negotiating table said “Yes Boss, sure as you’re shittin’ in a bucket Boss,” and before you knowed it a whole new set of biddies wot’d just had their hair done by Beryl wot used to own The Hair Parlour for Old Women in its glory days before the flood, was brunged in by the CIA and battered the right way like they was told to in The Daughters of Sam Houston Cookbook. And it was these biddies wot was drainin’ off their extra excess batter on the drainin’ rack wot I was fixing to liberate and carry on off to the Promised Land (or in this case, the safety of me, Mr. Bus).

Now we come back to the moment when The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser stood and proclaimed hisself a man dressed as a woman. As I just got through saying, the Texas tourons wot was staying in the Pink and Gold Deluxe Luxurious Fancy Portable Toilet Holiday Home Floatin’ Yacht Conversions with Bullet-Proof Windows and Extra Soft Toilet Paper, was already on the edge of the precipice temper-wise and had just tore their court-appointed liberal anger management consultant into little bite-size shreddie portions and’n fried him up for a horsey doovers. But then, just as I thought they was calming down and goin’ inside to watch demolition derby on TV, they finds out there’s a preevert in a dress with sequins up and down the front zip a’mixin in with the biddies in the sweet ‘n’ sour marinade. And you’d better fuckin’ believe that right away their foamin’ at the mouth went septic and a riot started and builted up to wot they calls an explosive mass wot was more toxic for the future of mankind than anything anybody else’s fomented since the time of the big ol’ cosmic fart wot started it all. I’m tellin’ you, in comparison it made Baghdad after it’d got through importing democracy into itself look like The Garden of Eden before the apple tree got chopped down by George Washington and he said to his pappy “I cannot Tell a Lie, pull my finger.”

Shit it was a ugly fuckin’ Armageddon uprising revolution around here, which only goes to show how them Texas tourons feels about having one o’them pinko commie transvestite queer pretend preachers infilratin’ their lunchtime fried biddy chitterlings with preevert saliva and forcing all their kids to transformicate into homo sapiens wot sprays all of God’s own dollar bills with heathen band Aids so’s they all gets bald and looks like one of them old women wot’s had too many facelifts. At least that’s wot I think they think, but then I’m only a sophisticated Bus of the European persuasion and a pinko commie sinner wot can’t understand the Texas language anymore’n I can grow toes.

Fuck, where the shit was I? Oh, yes, where I was was I was mounting a covert ‘n’ overt action to liberate back all the biddies wot were left in the world, at least all of them wot I knows about and can prove they’s real biddies and not pinko commie pretend defrocked preachers in disguise. And just as I was clamping on to their excess fat drainer with my special jaws of death and lifting the whole thing up with my Mega-Crane, that’s when the tourons flew into a fury and rioted and overthrowed Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack and his sin-filled cabal of evil, wot up to then’d owned and operated the All You Can Eat Barbeque and Las Vegas-style revue. And wot do you know, but they replaced him with a new president wot was a real Texan and a personal friend of You Know Who. And just to show you how much God loved ‘em and wanted ‘em to get their own way, wouldn’a you know it but there was a real Texas on site, or as they say “in situ.” The only trouble was, from my point of view, his name were Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon, and between you and me he’s the dumbest dumbfuck wot’d every snucked out a woman’s hairy cat, and if’n he’d been a duck he’d a’been afeared of water. Fuck it all, to say it bodes evil for all of us still alive is a understatement. Fuck fuck fuck. As I say so endeth any trace of the age of reason, on account of it’s been rubbed out and smothered in the shit and those of us wot’re alive’re gonna wish we was dead. And those of us wot’re dead are gonna wish we was deader’n dead so’s we couldn’t hear wot was goin’ on no more. As I said before, fuck fuck fuck and I’ll be back tomorrow and try to untangle everything or perhaps run away to another part of the world wot ain’t been invented yet and wot I can make in my own image. Like we does.