Day 105

Dear Diary,

Well, I sure as heck wish I could say “so endeth Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack’s reign of terror” like I was hoping to, but no such luck. In fact, after I put away my pencil yesterday, things kept getting worser and worser ‘til I thought we was in one of them Kafka books or TV soap operas where there’s always something more horrible and skin-shredding waiting round the bend. If’n our situation’d been a book, I would’a burnt it. Not that I agree with burning books, on account of I don’t. Only dumbfuck chickenshits does that. But that’s ain’t wot were talking about, is it?

One thing I didn’t mention last thing yesterday, which I know is a glaring omission and inexcusable on account of they’re sort of an integral part of wot’s happening, is them two pillocks wot’re not only responsible for The Slap Happy Pink and Gold Deluxe Luxury Portable Toilet Summer Holiday Home Conversions tagging along behind us when we was washed out to sea by the storm, but also for accepting Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack’s reservations and credit card number over the phone. And in case you haven’t cottoned on, my glaring omission wot I didn’t mention had to do with your friends and mine, Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley. And if anyone’s to blame for wot’s going’ down right now, it’s them, on account of if’n they hadn’t blurted out “you come right on over and bring all your friends and tell me your credit card number” over the telephone to Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack, that there Platinum-Plated Texas Touron Travel Plan for Texas and Oklahoma Oil Billionaires would’a gone and spread their joy somewheres else. And that’s the truth! But that’s wot you get when you’re greedy and stupid all at the same time. One or the other separately and you’ll come out smelling like roses, but when you combines ‘em together, you sorta ends up falling into the Turkish toilet of life, as they say.

Anyhow, just so’s you know I haven’t forgot about ‘em, let me remind you that at the time Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon was shooting me in the front tyre and hypnotising The Widow Fartie Da Whistle into the persona of Zombie Fartie and ordering us to bring all them biddies back to the All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise so’s they could be pickled in marinade and roasted up for lunch as Kosher Sweet ‘n’ Sour Biddykabobs, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley was out cold and bound and gagged and sleeping on top of the luggage rack. I mean, they was snoring to beat the band and missing out on all the fun, a state of affairs wot lasted right up to the moment when we pulled up at kitchen entrance the barbeque pit, and even then they might’ve slept right through the horsey doovers had it not been for a whole new fresh set of circumstances coming our way.

Wot happened was this. No sooner’d we arrived at the loading dock back at All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise, than the big hand and the little hand on the clock out in front both pointed up at the number twelve, or more precisely at XII, on account of the clock’d got some of them pretensions and’d had Roman numerals pasted over it’s ordinary old fashioned ones. And when the hands’d got themselves arranged in the proper order, a big old fat man wot had no clothes on excepting for a shred of lion’s skin covering wot was old and wrinkly, come out from a secret door in the top of the clock and banged a gong with his little mallet. Well, it made a sorry be-doing be-doing sorta sound, on account of the fat man’d not hit it very hard, but apparently it were loud enough so’s all the tourons staying in the deluxe luxury pink and gold portable toilet holiday home conversions immediately came over and lined up single-file with their paper plates and knives and forks and glasses of fizzy pop at the ready, and they started in a’chanting for some of them special extra-greasy deep dried biddy kabob fritters and chips wot they’d been promised in the brochure. Only, to tell you the truth, Dear Diary, seeing as how the brochure in question was printed up over in Texas instead of over here where they does things proper, they scrubbed out “chips” and wrote in “French Fries” with a felt-tipped pen. But that were about the time when the so-called president of French, wot weren’t really a president of nothing on account of he don’t speak good English like Jeezus does in the bible, said “non” instead of a automatic “oui”. And even though he’d made up the words on account of his speech impediment and he was really talking about his set o’piles he’d been sitting on since 1947 on account of in French they don’t got good Amurkin doctors like wot they has in Texas, folks over there got all hot under their baseball caps and they decided it were an abomination in the eyes of the Lord to eat French Fries when them biblical prophets had gone into the desert for forty days and forty nights and come out chantin’ “Freedom Fries, Freedom Fries God Almighty they’s Freedom Fries.” But so much for our lesson in why chips has got a bad reputation and they’s banned in good schools for being a bad influence. However, while I’m still on the subject and clearly not in a hurry to talk about anything wot’s happening around me, I’m gonna add another two-bits’ worth, and that is, between you and me, no one in French’d ever be caught dead calling anything a French Fry, unless it were on of them Frenchiscan Friar men wot were sizzled up at Auto Daffy’s Two For The Price Of Nine Fire Sale.

Not that I’ve got that off’n my chest, or rather my oil pan on account of I’m a bus and not a human being, I guess you’ll be wanting me to keep my pedantic opinions and commentaries to myself and get on with telling you all about the excitement arising when the fat man be-goinged the lunchtime gong.

And that’s wot I’m gonna do just as soon as someone gives me a better pencil. This one’s been in my pocket with a sausage roll and a herd of gummy bears, and it’s not writing so good. Perhaps you could phone a friend or go down to the corner store for me, on account of I can’t really do it myself, not when I’m in the middle of the ocean and delivering a busload of biddies to a fate worse’n three kinds of potatoes. Don’t make me wait on you, OK?

Wot I’m gonna do ‘till you gets back is sing us a little song. It’s called “A Hundert Biddies and Beer On The Grill” and if’n you aint come back with a new pencil before I’m finished, I’m gonna let Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon and Ol’ Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack get on with their barbeque preparation, in which case the only thing left to say will be so endeth our biddy-ful world and welcome to a universe where nobody knows how to knit us ugly sweaters for Christmas.