Dear Diary,
Well, Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley may have gone and disappeared themselves to avoid saying “howdy do” to the head honcho foreign sick officer wot’s now sharing their space up on top of my roof, but they’s sure making up for it in the loose lips department. In fact, they hasn’t stopped talking, not even to take a breath, since performing their evaporation trick, and I for one didn’t appreciate been kept awake all night listening to their jabbers ‘n’whispers. I tried to tell ‘em at three in the ayem that I’d be a whole lot happier if’n they directed some of their comments to me, or at least spoke up loud enough so’s I could listen in, but apparently they doesn’t like me anymore or they thinks I’m untrustworthy, on account of I got the cold shoulder and they only whispered softer in that really annoying and irritating way dumb people talk in the theatre when they’re trying to tell folks sittin’ next to ‘em wot’s gonna happen next. Now I may sound arrogant, but I’ve spent my life living as a classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 bus and my coachwork is custom-designed and handmade by folks wot’s got PhDs from the folks over at the Morgan Car factory where they knows that quality ain’t measured by how many tonnes of cereal you sells to fat people over the bank holiday weekend, and I can tell you it’s a cold cold day in December when the likes of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley can treat me like I was a pile of brown stuff their dog’s left behind. But don’t you worry none. I gets desperately nosy when it comes to conversations I can’t quite hear, and I’ll worm my way back into their good graces even if’n I’ve gotta bribe ‘em with gift certificates for two hours’ve free phone sex from good old reliable Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien from down at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic telephone exchange boiler room. I know for a fact both Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley’ve got separate charge accounts with Ol’ Maybelline, so I think a little complimentary time might be just the ticket, bribe-wise. Maybe I’ll do it just as soon as I put away my pencil in a few minutes, on account of I really wants to know wot they was discussing. After all, they is living on top of my roof and it’s not like I’m charging rent or asking for payment in kind or free food or anything.
That’s Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley took care of for now, but it sure don’t explain why they’re hiding away from the head honcho foreign sick officer wot I stuck up on top of my roof to teach him a lesson for shooting me in the rear tyre. ‘Course, it could be he shot one of them in the rear foot in the past and being human beings they’s only got one foot left. But I don’t think that’s it, cuz they sure wasn’t acting like they was afeared of him; it was more like they was on the lam on account of wot they’d done something wot were bad and he’s holdin’ it over their heads. But never you mind, I’ll find out on account of I hates a mystery wot ain’t been solved.
Anyways, back to the head honcho foreign sick officer. When I stuck him up on top of my roof, I made him empty his pockets in a plastic bag so’s he couldn’t sneak up any drugs or cookies wot I might like to enjoy but wot he might want to keep all for hisself. I also didn’t want to risk him pointin’ a gun and blowing out my brains while he was taking target practice, which is something I’m sure you can understand under the circumstance. Along with everything else, and he sure had enough junk on him to fill up a dozen steamer trunks let alone a plastic baggie, there was a wallet packed full of certified official identification documents under three separate identities as well as a fist full o’credit cards and charge cards and travellers’ cheques and letters of credit, as well as a roll o’banknotes that’d choke a hippopotamus, and all of it bona fide and not like the fake pretend Italian shit wot Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie da Smelley runs up for themselves out in back of the lopsided pink flatpack building. I must say I took some time out to count it all up, on account of a unexpected bonus windfall o’cash might come in handy if’n we ever gets back to dry land where there’s shops and malls and the better class of vehicle pimping services. And between you and me, this head honcho foreign sick officer business this guy’s into must be the bee’s knees, on account of he really had wot I calls a shitload of money and then some. Anyways, after’n I put all them credit cards and charge cards and travellers’ cheques and letters of credit and cash away in my secret money belt wot nobody else knowed about ‘til I mentioned it to you just now, I came to grips with why this head honcho foreign sick officer’s got three different names, or in other words, why do I need another multiple personality disorder in my life at this particular moment in time? Now, so far I haven’t figured out wot his real name is, that is if one o’them is more real than the others. Wot I’m thinking is perhaps his mother wrote her telephone number on a piece of paper in case he wants to know the same thing sometime, and if’n I find this piece of paper and can call her, then I’m home and dry. The first place I’ll look, after he’s asleep, is his socks, on account of that’s where mothers sews all sorts of useful information. ‘Course, if his mother makes a funny sound over the phone like she’s swallowed a toad or’s been asked a question wot’s put her on the spot in a way that’s bad, I can always say this head honcho foreign sick officer fella was wandering all alone in the ocean in a tiny coracle and with a bump on his head and does she know which one of the three peoples he is? And if’n she asks why, like I’d stepped on her toes with a pair o’crampons, I can always ask for an address so’s I can ship him home. But wot if he turns out to be three different and separate people all at the same time and his mother says she won’t tell me which is which on account of she’d kicked two of ‘em out the door with big kicks in the behind for sticking a newt in her blancmange and farting in church? Wot do I do then? My mind is boggling and I’m gonna hafta sit still and do nothing until a answer comes to me outta the dark.
You’re gonna hafta forgive me if’n I puts my pencil away for a short while, Dear Diary, but as you see I’m confused. Too much strange stuff’s been happening to me and if’n it don’t come together I’m afeared I’m gonna come down with a attack of the cry babies. Think a couple’a good thoughts and when I’m feeling better I’ll say so endeth my time in torment and I’m ready to begin again. But not from the beginning, on account of no matter how healed up I is, I don’t want to go back that far and hafta live it all over again. Not for less than three million bucks.
Well, Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley may have gone and disappeared themselves to avoid saying “howdy do” to the head honcho foreign sick officer wot’s now sharing their space up on top of my roof, but they’s sure making up for it in the loose lips department. In fact, they hasn’t stopped talking, not even to take a breath, since performing their evaporation trick, and I for one didn’t appreciate been kept awake all night listening to their jabbers ‘n’whispers. I tried to tell ‘em at three in the ayem that I’d be a whole lot happier if’n they directed some of their comments to me, or at least spoke up loud enough so’s I could listen in, but apparently they doesn’t like me anymore or they thinks I’m untrustworthy, on account of I got the cold shoulder and they only whispered softer in that really annoying and irritating way dumb people talk in the theatre when they’re trying to tell folks sittin’ next to ‘em wot’s gonna happen next. Now I may sound arrogant, but I’ve spent my life living as a classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 bus and my coachwork is custom-designed and handmade by folks wot’s got PhDs from the folks over at the Morgan Car factory where they knows that quality ain’t measured by how many tonnes of cereal you sells to fat people over the bank holiday weekend, and I can tell you it’s a cold cold day in December when the likes of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley can treat me like I was a pile of brown stuff their dog’s left behind. But don’t you worry none. I gets desperately nosy when it comes to conversations I can’t quite hear, and I’ll worm my way back into their good graces even if’n I’ve gotta bribe ‘em with gift certificates for two hours’ve free phone sex from good old reliable Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien from down at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic telephone exchange boiler room. I know for a fact both Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley’ve got separate charge accounts with Ol’ Maybelline, so I think a little complimentary time might be just the ticket, bribe-wise. Maybe I’ll do it just as soon as I put away my pencil in a few minutes, on account of I really wants to know wot they was discussing. After all, they is living on top of my roof and it’s not like I’m charging rent or asking for payment in kind or free food or anything.
That’s Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley took care of for now, but it sure don’t explain why they’re hiding away from the head honcho foreign sick officer wot I stuck up on top of my roof to teach him a lesson for shooting me in the rear tyre. ‘Course, it could be he shot one of them in the rear foot in the past and being human beings they’s only got one foot left. But I don’t think that’s it, cuz they sure wasn’t acting like they was afeared of him; it was more like they was on the lam on account of wot they’d done something wot were bad and he’s holdin’ it over their heads. But never you mind, I’ll find out on account of I hates a mystery wot ain’t been solved.
Anyways, back to the head honcho foreign sick officer. When I stuck him up on top of my roof, I made him empty his pockets in a plastic bag so’s he couldn’t sneak up any drugs or cookies wot I might like to enjoy but wot he might want to keep all for hisself. I also didn’t want to risk him pointin’ a gun and blowing out my brains while he was taking target practice, which is something I’m sure you can understand under the circumstance. Along with everything else, and he sure had enough junk on him to fill up a dozen steamer trunks let alone a plastic baggie, there was a wallet packed full of certified official identification documents under three separate identities as well as a fist full o’credit cards and charge cards and travellers’ cheques and letters of credit, as well as a roll o’banknotes that’d choke a hippopotamus, and all of it bona fide and not like the fake pretend Italian shit wot Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie da Smelley runs up for themselves out in back of the lopsided pink flatpack building. I must say I took some time out to count it all up, on account of a unexpected bonus windfall o’cash might come in handy if’n we ever gets back to dry land where there’s shops and malls and the better class of vehicle pimping services. And between you and me, this head honcho foreign sick officer business this guy’s into must be the bee’s knees, on account of he really had wot I calls a shitload of money and then some. Anyways, after’n I put all them credit cards and charge cards and travellers’ cheques and letters of credit and cash away in my secret money belt wot nobody else knowed about ‘til I mentioned it to you just now, I came to grips with why this head honcho foreign sick officer’s got three different names, or in other words, why do I need another multiple personality disorder in my life at this particular moment in time? Now, so far I haven’t figured out wot his real name is, that is if one o’them is more real than the others. Wot I’m thinking is perhaps his mother wrote her telephone number on a piece of paper in case he wants to know the same thing sometime, and if’n I find this piece of paper and can call her, then I’m home and dry. The first place I’ll look, after he’s asleep, is his socks, on account of that’s where mothers sews all sorts of useful information. ‘Course, if his mother makes a funny sound over the phone like she’s swallowed a toad or’s been asked a question wot’s put her on the spot in a way that’s bad, I can always say this head honcho foreign sick officer fella was wandering all alone in the ocean in a tiny coracle and with a bump on his head and does she know which one of the three peoples he is? And if’n she asks why, like I’d stepped on her toes with a pair o’crampons, I can always ask for an address so’s I can ship him home. But wot if he turns out to be three different and separate people all at the same time and his mother says she won’t tell me which is which on account of she’d kicked two of ‘em out the door with big kicks in the behind for sticking a newt in her blancmange and farting in church? Wot do I do then? My mind is boggling and I’m gonna hafta sit still and do nothing until a answer comes to me outta the dark.
You’re gonna hafta forgive me if’n I puts my pencil away for a short while, Dear Diary, but as you see I’m confused. Too much strange stuff’s been happening to me and if’n it don’t come together I’m afeared I’m gonna come down with a attack of the cry babies. Think a couple’a good thoughts and when I’m feeling better I’ll say so endeth my time in torment and I’m ready to begin again. But not from the beginning, on account of no matter how healed up I is, I don’t want to go back that far and hafta live it all over again. Not for less than three million bucks.
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