Day 109

Dear Diary,

Things is just climbed another thirteen steps up the ladder to the Land o’Mondo Bizarro. You recall me telling you how The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, wot isn’t a bona fide reverend anymore’n he’s a doctor but is popular nonetheless with those wot believes a collar before they believes the truth, was hiding hisself in the back of the bus (being me) and disguised as Ol’ Miss Luella Da Bunkle, wot used to be dead before she were resurrected as a Man of God? Well, even if you didn’t forget about him entirely and he was pulling at your memory chords from time to time, I bet you didn’t give him a second thought over the past coupl’a days. And I know why, as well. It’s on account of you’re decent God-fearing instruments of the Lord at heart, and the very idea of him swimming naked and unadorned in a clear see-through plastic baggie filled to the brim with slickery oily sweet ‘n’ sour marinade sauce along side two hundert or so biddies wot was also naked and unadorned is enough to bring down thunder and lightning and treacle and brimstone unto your eightieth generation. Even I, as a bus, albeit a sophisticated Daimler CVD6 with custom-designed Burlington 33-seat coachwork, trembles with terror at the thought of conjuring up a picture of wot I just described. Wot I mean is, it’d be like acid on our stomach linings seeing The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser alone with his dingle dangling and dancing in the altogether, and enough to turn a classic bus like me into a Gila monster wot’s been tossed into a campfire just thinking about the biddies cavorting nakeder’n God intended at any time of the night or day, even with ‘em wearing tarpaulins to hide their succulent charms, so to speak. But to imagine both of them two species together and tenderising their tender bits whilst being nuder’n a ripe plum brings to mind Seldom and Gonorrhoea and wot happened to all them folks when God’d got through with ‘em. To put it bluntly, nightmares can get just so horr’ble before you goes insane and jumps off’n the bridge. As someone, whoever it was, said to someone else wot was with him at the time, “I have supped full of horrors.” ‘Course, he was probably talking about a runny blancmange at the time and how they’d had to fire the cook, but you could apply it to the present situation if’n you try hard enough.

But never mind about that. I only mentioned it on account of I don’t want your mind a’wandering hither and thither and yon and into places it don’t belong while I’m in the middle of telling you about the circumstance wot arose at The All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise Entertainment Theatre. It’d come to pass that a few minutes ago Zombie Fartie’d put the finishing touches onto The Las Vegas Floor Show. Well, no sooner’d she said “you’s all excused for your special official union-sanctioned comfort break” to them tall blond bimbo naked dancer nurses wot I told you about yesterday, and after she told ‘em to be back in a hour so’s they could start the real show wot wasn’t no rehearsal, in earnest, than wouldn’t you know it but up piped Ol’ Mrs. Emily Da Onion, who still hadn’t drowned in the marinade in spite of all of the others trying to help her along. And didn’t she open her mouth, wot everybody’d thought was sealed shut real tight with a gallon of that super glue and a hundert strips of burlap wound round and round her head, and didn’t she come out with, “excuse me, but who’s this Earnest fella? I’m a decent God-fearing righteous virgin mother of twelve children wot’s got a husband at home a’hoping I’m gonna die before him so’s he can finally see me naked and have his wicked way where no man’s gone before, and I ain’t pokin’ my thatched cottage inside none of them there Earnests, not even if’n you pays me by the hour and gives me a burial plot right up front and centre where everybody’s gotta stop and bless me or else they can’t get inside Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan’s Church of The Immaculate Septum without a special dispensation from the Lord! Praise be and Gloria Halley Lula!” ‘Course, right away Ol’ Mrs. Drain told her to shut up and mind her own business and that everybody knew Mrs. Emily Da Onion’d worked as a illegitimate contortionist and a whoore round back of Snooter Da Sphincter’s Easy-In-And-Out Trailer Halting Site before along come poor Ol’ Misther Jockoff Jerry Jerkoff Da Onion and made a honest woman outta her even though she were a slag. Poor fella was desperate at the time on account of none of the girls took him serious on account of he were poor as a sardine and couldn’t afford no clothes except wot his older sisters handing on down to him, and besides he always did look better in a dress than in plus fours. And so when he seen Mrs. Emily Da Onion plyin’ her trade out by bus stop, he offered her a cow and a mule if’n she’d come and make his life more miserable then it already was. And, as he pointed out, since her name was already Mrs. Emily Da Onion, it’d be a whole lot easier on the paperwork than if’n she’d been called Little Rachel Grumpel or something pretty and classy like that.

After she told her to shut up and mind her manners, Mrs. Drain let Mrs. Emily Da Onion have it straight out that wot was going on at The All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise Entertainment Theatre were only one of them Reality Shows and nothing more. She said even if it was honest-to-goodness real life, which it wasn’t, and she really did get schtupped in all the right places, nobody’d ever want to see a wrinkly old bag o’wind like her being schtupped by The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser’s skinny winkie wot was so puny it’d get lost in that ol’ shrubbery she had planted down there. At least they wouldn’t want’a watch it before seven in the evening when their sponsor, ‘Yummy Crunchy Crinkles A Hundert Percent Sugar Cereal’ was after selling a million billion boxes of their scientifically-tested healthy product to fat kids in the projects where beautiful young bodies spells good business. And there was also the matter of the show being seen in person by none other’n the executive producer wot had all the money, namely Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack. In case you forgot, he’s only twelve and ain’t sprouted his first curly-cue, which means he’s not old enough for his Bar Mitzvah, and if’n he watches Ol’ Mrs. Emily Da Onion being schtupped by a pretend fake reverend preacher, then everybody in the whole Entertainment Theatre, which includes nearly everybody in the world wot’s survived the flood, is gonna be took in and have sekshul pervert child corruption villain branded on their forehead forever’n ever. ‘Course, wot Mrs. Drain forgot to mention was that it didn’t matter a fuck in the hay about who was naked and lyin’ together in the sauce, on account of they’d all be ate up by a bunch of Texas tourons before the afternoon was out, so wot she’d said was all a load of shit. And anyway, Mrs. Drain was only saying all this so’s to shut up Mrs. Emily Da Onion and besides she liked the sound of her own voice. I hope you’ve been paying attention so’s I don’t hafta go back and repeat myself, cuz I won’t.

Anyways, all this yelling and counter-yelling on the part of Mrs. Emily Da Onion and Mrs. Drain (with contributions from all the other biddies on account of there ain’t never been a biddy in the world wot didn’t get in the last word) had a strange effect on Ol’ Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser. It seems in the middle of the rumpus he’d snuck over to the edge of the clear plastic marinating baggie to take a leak, when for the first time in his existence he was filled up with the glory of the Lord, and right away he started in a’preaching. And wot he had to say was straight outta wot they calls them more esoteric chapters and verses of the Ol’ Testicle, and this surprised even him on account of he’d never read any of it before, not even in the Las Vegas Instant Doctor of Divinity and Preacher School, where he finished neither first nor last in the International One Day Special Intensive Ordination Certification Ecole.

Wot happened next were wot they calls mayhem. Several of the biddies wot were getting about as fed up as they could get without actually saying “we’re fuckin’ fed up and we’re outta here, free barbeque lunch with three kind of potatoes and a Las Vegas floorshow or not,” actually did stand up and say and do wot I just said they hadn’t said or done yet. Yep, believe it or not, Mrs. Drain, who is wot they calls the ringleader of the Biddies With Brains, stood up in the marinade and cleared her throat and was about to speak and have her say, when unfortunately she slipped in the greasy sauce and fell right down again. ‘Course the other biddies was terrified they’d lose their complimentary cocktail wot goes with the free barbequed dinner, if’n any of ‘em ruffled a few feathers, especially those of Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack, wot was paying for the biddies to be fried in his special new Fry-O-Lator and served up with a green salad with three kind of dressing and potatoes on the side. And so wot they did was pounce on Ol’ Mrs. Drain and push her back down in that there sweet ‘n’ sour marinade, and unfortunately, I think she may have died. Mind you, no one’s confirmed it yet, but I have a very bad feeling in a place I don’t like to have bad feelings in.

I’m gonna put away my pencil and wait ‘til they have the autopopsy on Mrs. Drain, that is if’n they can find her down at the bottom of all that thick and gooey sauce. And no, please don’t say “but Mr. Bus, they ain’t in the sauce. They is in the middle of having their bread crumbs brushed off’n their bodies and’re being dipped in floor ‘n’ egg ‘n’ flour ‘n’ buttermilk batter.” Well, stupid know-it-all Dear Diary, dramatically-speaking wise, the end of Mrs. Drain works a treat in the marinade, but sounds stupid as a pig at the pianoforte if’n I said she were punched to death in a bucket o‘flour. So endeth your criticising and mind your manners in the future.