Day 103

Dear Diary,

Well, here I am, in the middle of an ocean somewheres on the planet and not only am I responsible for a busload of biddies and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley, which is bad enough on account of I’m only a bus and not wot you’d call a qualified caregiver or nursemaid or even a nice person, but I’m now lumbered with a hundert and ninety-nine pink and gold portable toilet holiday home rental cottage conversions, complete with all the tourons wot goes with ‘em. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against any of them personally, but they’s under the impression I’m the answer to all their problems, sorta like fresh-outta-the-egg baby goosies thinks the first thing they sees in their mama mia. I don’t want to be a mama mia or the answer to anybody’s problems or even their personal saviour, on account of if’n I did, I’d’a been a parent of a zillion children, or even worse, a TV chat show host, and not a classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 bus with a hand-finished custom paint job.

‘Course, I know I oughtn’t’a be griping about all the tourons wot’re clustering around me like piglets around their sow, cuz when you thinks about it, it’s some sorta miracle they’s alive at all, and not drowned and bloated like walruses wot’s been boiled in a kettle. Personally, I think their survival has something to the do with all the rain wot suddenly came down on us and drove ‘em indoors from their little patios where they’d been barbequing hot dogs and deep-fried chocolate pizzas and chicken-fried sheep chips. As anyone knows wot’s ever been accidentally locked inside one of them portable toilets without a way to get out, they’s not only sound-proof but water-proof as well. Wot I’m guessing is it were the water-proofing was wot saved ‘em in the long run so’s they could re-appear sooner or later and pester me over the hog dogs wot was washed away when they sank down to the bottom of the sea. And sure enough, the obnoxious one wot was the tourons’ spokesman, and wot looked to be official on account of he wore a big old plastic nametag on his left man boob wot said “Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack,” in bright gold letters wot was wrote in a fancy script so’s everybody’d know the tour group wasn’t one o’ them bargain basement ones wot they books over the Internet. Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack sorta wasted no time at all in fingering me as the only responsible one who’d know wot was wot and who was to blame for wot was wrong with the world, and he walked on the water like he was that fella with the beard and headed straight over to me. ‘Course, I’d noticed right away from the start that he was one of them men wot shoves his shoulders back and struts like he was a banty cock from Texas wot runs the world, which must be nice for him but not for his wife, on account of men like him have wonky weeny winkies wot don’t work unless they’s strapped to the kitchen table with fake black leatherette and beat half to death with a cat o’ nine tails. I can’t say I’m partial to his type, but hell, I’m only a bus and so wot do I know. Wot I can say is I didn’t rightly appreciate it when he strutted right up to me, and instead of introducing hisself he spat a big wad o’baccy phlem on my left front bumper and poked me right on where my chest’d be if’n I had one. He then pushed back his old cheap giveaway baseball cap, the one wot’s got “Mort’s Big Gals’ Pool Hall and Cold Beer” wrote across the front under a picture of one of his Big Gals wot’s got sparkly tassels hiding them two reasons she can’t sleep good on her stomach. And even though Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack’s inside my personal space and about two inches from where my nose’d be if’n I had one, he shouts in a loud voice wot makes my teeths ache and sprays about a gallon o’slime all over my windscreen. “Hey you Bus, you get your Goddamned ass on back over here in five seconds flat or I’m gonna sue the pants off you and kick your keester to kingdom come.” Only I didn’t rightly know wot he was yelling about on account of he talked in a pig ignorant sorta way and it took me a minute to understand wot a keester was. Plus he also said ‘ass’ instead of ‘arse’ which was a double-whammy in the embarrassment and confusion department for me. So there I was trying to figure out wot he wanted a donkey for and why he was gonna sue me if’n I didn’t bring one back on over to his little portable toilet holiday home conversion in five seconds flat. All sorts of visions came into my head on account of Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack were only a short round fat little fella, which is why he probably felt he had to strut like a banty cock so’s the ladies’d think he was a big man, and all I could see in my mind was him and the donkey doing wot comes naturally in Texas. Well, that made me burst of laughing to beat the band, which didn’t empress Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack one bit. He shoved back his cheap free giveaway baseball cap even further, which was a mistake on account of it showed off his ginger comb-over in a way he would’a wanted, and then he poked me in my front a second time. “You Bus,” he said again, sprayin’ even more of his special saliva on my windows, “I said come on back over here on account of I’m wot you calls a customer and I’m always right.” Just then he was joined by a little round woman with a helmet of bright orange-dyed hair and a pink and purple polyester bikini which would’a been too tight on my teeny tiny friend The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, and she was yelling at him and snapping her bubblegum at one at the same time, “Hey Bubba, this here bus is giving’ me a pain in the ass,” and before I knowed wot was happening she took out a six shooter from her bra and shot me in the left tyre.

Well, if’n I’d a been a human being instead of a classic Daimler CVD6 Bus with a custom-designed and equipped 33-seat Burlington coach, I’d blacked out or maybe even died, which would’a meant the end of the world as we know it and possibly the end of civilisation for mankind, or at least wot was left of it in our part of the ocean. But fortunately, at least for me, I’m not a human being, but that’s not to say I wasn’t shocked and more’n a little bit pissed off. And I’ll tell you right here and now, had we been on dry land I would’a wasted no time in running her over or even dragging her along the road and throwing her over the cliff, but being that there weren’t no dry land in sight, I looked down at my blowed out tyre to assess the damage and then over at her with a mean and squinty expression, which I was hoping would let her know I didn’t exactly appreciate wot she’d done. I figured my extra mean look’d make her think twice about shooting me again, and while I was screwing up my face to make me look even meaner, I heard her husband, Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack, say to her, “Now Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon, you done a real good job in showing Misther Bus here that we means business. Now you get your pretty self on back to our portable toilet holiday home conversion and fire up the barbeque and the deep fat fryer and put us some beer on ice, on account of this here bus is gonna be right on over with a truckload of biddies and we’s gonna have ourselves a char-grilled biddy feast with chicken-fried biddy chitlins. And after that I’m gonna skin me a passel of baby seals and make you a brand new fur coat”

Well, Dear Diary, you could’a heard my jaw drop all the way down to China. While I picks it up and figures out how to keep the tourons from burning up Miss Cabbage and Ol’ Mrs. Emily Da Onion and the others on a spit, I’m gonna put away my pencil and think real hard. If’n you come up with any ideas or plans wot might not’ve occurred to me, please whisper them double-quick in my right wing mirror, which is as you know my good ear, and tell me you’ve thought of a way of endething wot could be a very bad situation and one which’d discourage biddies from ever taking the bus again anytime soon.