Day 110

Dear Diary,

If yesterday was the super duper fuckin’ fuckaduck pooperscooper of all super duper fuckin’ fuckaduck pooperscoopers, I don’t know wot I’d call today. There is just so many words in the alphabet, and after you get through with ‘Z’ and ‘Zyzyw’ there ain’t much left to play with. Anyway, I’ll try to pick up where I left off, keeping in mind that we still haven’t ate lunch and my head’s askin’ me if’n it can faint and fall flat on to the floor, or in this case, into the ocean. And also, in the event you’ve been trying to forget or in the event you’ve came on board thinking this here “Confessions of a Community Bus” is some sorta sex site wrote by a joto under the pseudonym of ‘Community Bus’, let me make it perfectly clear wot I’m writing about today has to do with Mrs. Drain not dying at the end of yesterday and not wot I gets up to when I’m trolling the streets at night. Yessiree, I’m talking about the untimely demise that wasn’t a demise of Mrs. Drain, bless her sweet little heart. Poor old thing, wot wasn’t dead at all, had been deadified so thoroughly that some anonymous busybody wot was after her money called up the foreign sick folks way over in the big city (the ones you’ve saw on TV wot does the checking out of all them bloody cadavers to make sure they’s dead enough for the bodies to be put up for auction), and told ‘em Ol’ Mrs. Drain’d kicked the bucket and wasn’t gonna come back in time for tea. Not only did she say that (and if you want to know who it was, it were Miss Cabbage), but she also said the dead biddy was waiting for ‘em in her best burying frock and was ready and willing to be investigated. So wot the foreign sick folks done was they come round with all their sirens blazing, but then after they’d arrived they got madder’n a bull wot’s got his cojones caught in the refrigerator door. And the reason they was so mad was they couldn’a find a trace of her anywhere. In fact, the see-through plastic baggie full of sweet ‘n’ sour marinade wot she’d supposed to’ve died in and where she ought’ve been now that she were dead, were emptier’n if’n it’d just come out of the box. Well, right there and then, the head honcho foreign sick doctor, wot’s not noted for his sense of humour, put on his second pair of spectacles wot were as black as a witch’s patootie, and took out his gun and, you probably guessed it, he shot me in the left rear tyre. And you’d better believe I said “fuckin’ damn and stick you on a stake!” and then I looked at him real close and squinted my eyes together, only he might not have noticed it real good on account of I’m a bus and’ve only got headlamps and they doesn’t squint to good, at least on so’s you’d notice from the outside. But fuck that, you’d better believe I was squintin’ and narrowing my eyes from the inside of me, and I done it so hard it hurt my head, and if’n that head honcho foreign sick officer’d had the sensitivity of a year old cheese sandwich he would’a picked it up on it. And I’ll tell you something else, from his demeanour I knowed he hadn’t saw wot I’d done to Ol’ Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon after she’d shot me in the two front tyres one after another, or else he would’a showed me a little respect and he would’a said he was sorry about a million times and claimed he’d only shot me by mistake when Jeezus told him to do it. But since he didn’t seem to care one way or t’other, and in fact was raising up his nine millimetre Glock and a’pointed it square at my windscreen, I said to myself, I said, “fuck it, Misther Classic Daimler Bus, are you gonna stand around doing nothing while any Tom, Dick and Harry and Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon and some fuckin’ head honcho foreign sick doctor feels they has the right to play shoot ‘em up with your tyres? And are you gonna bow and scrape and promise to love, honour and obey when the mo’fucker blows up my nose as a encore?” And since my answer to myself was “fuckin’ no way, man,” I decided right then and there I wasn’t gonna give him another chance at rehabilitating hisself. No sirreebob, from now on this classic Daimler CVD6 bus with a custom-designed and crafted 33-seater coach is done playin’ ‘Mister Nice Guy’. I growled over at the head honcho foreign sick officer, “bring it on dickhead,” and with that I started up my engine all by myself, which is a talent I’ve had to learn ever since The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s turned into a zombie wot’s named Zombie Fartie and don’t seem to know I’m alive. Perhaps if’n I was dead like her and everybody called me The Zombie Bus from Hell it’d be different and I’d get me some respect around here, but I’ll tell you this much, I ain’t gonna die so’s I can find out. But where was I?

Oh, yes, I was telling you, Dear Diary, how this here head honcho foreign sick doctor got mad when he had to come all the way out to The All-You-Can-Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise Las Vegas Strip-O-Rama Spectacular and All You Can Eat Buffet to collect the dead body of Mrs. Drain, wot’d died and gone to Heaven in a baggie full of sweet ‘n’ sour sauce, only she hadn’t waited around for him. And since he was used to getting his way any time and any place he took it out on the bus (being me), on account of everyone knows buses ain’t got feelings anymore’n they got brains in their alternators. And so he shot me full o’holes, and on account of I didn’t appreciate that particular gesture of friendship I decided he needed to be taught a little lesson. Ha ha, and now I know you is expecting me to say I’d done him in, and most likely in some interesting and inventive way, on account of I likes to do that to folks from time to time just to keep in practice. But you see, with him being a head honcho foreign sick officer sort’a put me off of my stride in that he’s wot they calls a law enforcement officer as well as being a doctor wot glues together dead people, and not even a bus can get away with rubbing out one of them, not even if it’s done in a interesting and inventive way. ‘Course, that didn’t mean I was gonna let him off scot-free on account of his head were obviously in the wrong place and some major brain adjustment therapy was wot he needed for his own good. So wot I done was stick him up on the roof with Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelly, who I thought was still asleep and deep in the slumber dimension, and I thought it’d be safe to leave him up there ‘til later when I had some extra time on my hands. Big mistake and a fuckin’ joke on me!

You see, and this goes to show you wot happens when you’re planning a negative surprise for a shitfuck shithead wot’s done something bad to you, such as shootin’ you in the knee when you’re minding your own business. It turns out him and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley’d go back along way and’d knowed each other when they was kids and robbing the corner store, and boy was he glad to see ‘em again. Mind you, I thought Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley didn’t exactly reciprocate. In fact, they was downright rude in that disappointing way they has when they’s got their fingers caught in the cookie jar and somebody’s nicked ‘em. Their eyes got as big as bowling balls and they froze like they was in the freezer, and then I swear they evaporated into thin air. Don’t ask my why or how they done it or if’n they’ll teach me how to do the trick so’s I can pull it off at a kids’ party. But I’ll tell you something. They may be invisible, but they sure as fuck forgot to take their voices with ‘em. And I’ll tell you something else, I can tell they’s up to no good on account of they’re snickering and snorting like so many cartoon villains and carrying on like they’ve just stumbled over Missus Milly Da Fardle’s missing bag of stolen bingo winnings. I’m gonna put my pencil away and investigate, and when I find out wot they’s up to I’ll let you know by saying so endeth the mystery of where Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley went when they disappeared.