Day 108

Dear Diary,

I don’t want you to think I’m one of them know-it-alls, but in my humble opinion when they filled up The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s brainpan with voodoo zombie dust, they must’a took it out of a contaminated supply by mistake. Either that or they grabbed for the wrong bag altogether and filled her up with powdered magic mushrooms or maybe even confectioner’s sugar. All I know is I dunno nothing anymore and nothing makes any sense. It seems to me that way back when I was living in the field behind Owld Fingus Da Flatulator’s petrol pumps, life was pretty smooth and sweet. But then he got hisself blowed up by lighting a cigarette while he was drinking a pint of his homemade potheen, after which Fergal Da Fecker came to take care of me, and once more everything was just fine and dandy until one day Misther Patchouli Da Fanny stopped by and bought me off’a him and took me to live in his garage, where I was took care of by Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator. After that, in spite of living in an embarrassing lopsided pink flatpack building, everything was hunky-dory. And then Ol’ Finian De Fabricator went and disappeared outta my life when he and Howard Donald Da Fardle’d up and stole a suitcase full of Missus Milly Da Fardle’s ill-gotten bingo winnings outta the Bank of Old Wanger Nose, and from that minute on it’s been all downhill and headed straight for the toilet. Mind you, for a moment or two I thought I’d saw light at the end of the tunnel when that hot-to-trot part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota bought me off’n Misther Patchouli Da Fanny so’s I could go and live with him and his sex toy Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio. And what made it look even rosier than the prospect of moving out of the pink flatpack building was that The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was gonna come with me as part of wot they calls a package deal. And believe you me, with her hands she can make even a Ford Transit ovulate in his alternator, and that’s saying something. But then, as luck would have it, before I could be took away, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny told me I had to stay behind for another coupl’a weeks, on account of all the biddies on the island had free bus passes to ride around with me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle on a slap up Farewell Tour, complete with a hot lunch of three kinds of potatoes and turnips ‘n’ last year’s carrots and a dried-up boiled ham, all cooked up extra special for the occasion by Ol’ Thelma O’Leary. So far so good. However, before we could get the tour underway, that big ol’ monsoon come along and after that there was the flood, and now here we is in the middle of some ocean on the other side of the planet, or maybe it’s the next planet over from here, the one where all the crazy folks get sent to. One of the upshots is the biddies’ve been kidnapped on account of a bunch o’tourons from Texas is hungry and the biddies is the only thing available wot comes in all-you-can-eat quantities, and another one of the upshots is I’ve been shot in both front tyres by Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon, who I subsequently ground up with my mandibles and fed to the krill fishies to be ate. And the final straw wot broke the camel’s back upshot is The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s been converted into a zombie and she’s now helping set up the pre-barbequed-biddy-banquet Las Vegas floorshow and I’ve been hired as wot they calls a novelty act. Jeez Louise, things just couldn’t get more rumptious if’n they tried. I mean, I don’t mind things going off of the road every once in a while, but it gets downright boring when that’s all it ever does, if’n you know wot I mean.

About a millions things has happened in the last hour, and if I can I’ll expound on it all in words o’one syllable so’s you’ll understand and also so’s you won’t feel let down. My only problem is, I think everybody except me has sniffed a lot of glue, on account of they’s moving so fast I can’t keep track of wot they’s up to. In fact, and I feels a bit ashamed of this, but the only way I could keep from falling on my snoot when everybody else was spinning around me in quadruple time, was to sit down right where I was and stick my head between my knees and breathe through one of them paper bags. But fuck it anyway, I saw wot I saw and I missed wot I missed, and I can’t be shot anymore for fainting on the job and telling the story wrong than I’ve been shot already, so here goes.

As I’ve already wrote down in you, Dear Diary, Zombie Fartie were down on the stage choreographing the big dance number wot comes at the end of the blockbuster Las Vegas entertainment show. Somehow she’d found all these pink and perky blond bimbos wot were good at churning around their hips and throwing their hair this way and that and fortunately didn’t have enough brains to detract from their blown up polyester boobies, and she were teaching them how to stand and which camera they should be pouting into and how to bend over so’s their boobies’d fall outta their cute little nurse’s uniforms at the right time and wouldn’t smack anyone important in the eye and blind ‘em. And over to one side of the stage there were the publicists and managers wot worked for big bucks on behalf of the bimbos, and they was negotiating up a storm for better’n better deals with the executive producer, wot was none other’n good Ol’ Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack. All this was going well and good and even I was impressed with the cheap, over the top production values of the spectacle. In fact, for a minute, I thought it lived up to the shoddy gaudy shows wot Floozie Da Smelley used to put on in the back yard of the pink flatpack building, way back before her precious ‘n’ perfect Candee Da Smelly-Fanny run away from home to become a Cambridge Professor of Astrophysics.

Anyway, like I was about to say, over at the All-You-Can-Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise buffet, the biddies had being took out from their clear plastic tenderising baggie where they’d been soaking up the sweet ‘n’ sour marinade that was guaranteed to make ‘em as succulent ‘n’ juicy as only sweet ‘n’ sour marinade can, and they was in the process of being rolled back and forth in breadcrumbs by none other than Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack and his former brother-in-law Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon. Now, you remember me telling you they was only good at fuckups and nothin’ else? Well, no sooner’d they got the biddies in the bread crumbs and’d calmed ‘em down and fed ‘em some o’them hashish cookies so’s they’d stop a’wriggling and a’bucking, than Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack, wot was the one carrying the money belt, started in a’ranting and a’railing. “You stupid dumbfucks! This here’s a classy all-you-can-eat family dining experience,” he yelled, and you could tell how upset he was by the way the pimples on his nose burst all over the place and showered everyone with green unmentionable. “You stupid fuckin’ dumbfucks, how many time’ve I told you, NO FUCKIN’ BREAD CRUMBS! We’s classy. We don’t use no fuckin’ bread crumbs and if’n you can’t figure out why, you’re too fuckin’ dumb to live another fuckin’ day! Listen up! First of all, you gotta dip the fuckin’ biddies in the fuckin’ flour. And after the fuckin’ flour, you dip the fuckin’ biddies in the fuckin’ raw egg wot’s over there in that fuckin’ big old green plastic bucket. And after the fuckin’ raw egg, you dips the fuckin’ biddies back in the fuckin’ flour again. And after the fuckin’ biddies’ve been dipped in the fuckin’ flour a second fuckin’ time, the fuckin’ biddies gets dipped in that there fuckin’ rich and creamy buttermilk batter wot’s in the fuckin’ blue bucket. Understand?” Well, I’m not even gonna try to describe wot the dumbfucks done then, on account of they’d froze in their tracks and hardly didn’t do nothing at all. Exceptin’ of course to look about as confused as a pair o’dorks wot finds themselves locked in a bedroom with a real live girl wot’s not wearing no underwear.

Since the dumbfucks was frozen on the spot for quite some time, this is probably as good a place as any to take a break so’s you can go to the toilet and get yourself a beer and a plate of nachos. And while you’re at it, you might consider spending enough extra time in that little room for a double whammy, on account of wot’s happening only gets more exciting from here on in and I wouldn’t want you to hafta be excused. Anyway, you toddle along to the john and I’ll endeth writing ‘til after you’ve had a comfort break and a wash and brush up and have ate up your snack and perhaps a slice of pie to boot. As they say, hasta you later baby.