Day 112

Dear Diary,

Well, here I am again, just in case you didn’t recognise me. This morning, I splashed on a different manly eau de cologne from the one wot I normally use when I’m writin’ in you, Dear Diary, on account of my attitude’s been getting dragged down in the dumps by all the shit wot’s been hittin’ the old fan recently, and I thought a change of my personal stink’d be a good place from which to start my new self. In case you’re interested I’m now using L’eau D’Issey Pour Homme’s special summertime pong and believe you me I gets a whole different reaction from wot I got before. I swear for the first time in my life someone actually said it were nice I didn’t smell so much like a daisy wot’s been gave a shower by a neighbourhood dog, though to be honest I think it were only Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack wot said it under orders from his younger brother wot pays him his way, Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack. Now if’n that’s true it means I’ve got to go careful, on account of Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack never does nobody any favours, unless of course it’ll boost him up another notch toward being ruler of the unfree world. And in case you think I wrote it down wrong and I really means the free world, let me make it perfectly clear it’s the unfree part of it wot interests him. First of all, it’s a whole lot bigger. Second of all that’s where all the good stuff lives underneath the ground. And third of all, only a stupid dumbfuck’d be incharge of something if’n he’s not really a hundert million percent in charge of it for life plus ninety-nine years. But where was I?

Oh yes, you’ll never guess wot’s happened since I put my pen away yesterday. ‘Course, you’ll remember that after several of the biddies, namely Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion and their special ‘Ruin Your Day Friendship Society’ clique, tried their best to kill off Ol’ Mrs. Drain, on account of she’s good and kind, and she grows her own organic vegetables and recycles, which according to the others makes her a enemy o’God wot’s out to make everyone homeosexuals and literals. So wot Miss Cabbage and the others done was they shoved Mrs. Drain down into the clear plastic marinating baggie full of sweet ‘n’ sour sauce and after suckin’ all the air out of it with one of them vacuum sealers wot you sees on the TV, they waited for a coupl’a hours while they beat the baggie with a tyre iron just to make sure they’d get the results they wanted. So then when Mrs. Drain didn’t try to get out and she didn’t call up any of ‘em on her little mobile phone, Miss Cabbage said for the first time since Tuesday when the flood started that God had got his way in the ‘Stampin’ Out Iniquity Department’, and she and the others started in a’singing and a’Praising the Lord and shouting “Sweet Land o’Goshen, Land o’Asda ‘n’ Wal-Mart ‘n’ Tesco and all that the Lord has gave us, we’s a comin’ home to yooooo.” ‘Course, right away, Ol’ Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack, owner and mastermind behind The All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise Entertainment Theatre was beginning to wonder if’n he’d made a poor investment and shouldn’t he just cut his losses and leave us all to drown in the ocean. I mean he’s all in favour of family values and Jeezus and all that, but he likes to hedge his bets and vote for the other guy as well and don’t want to get on his wrong side. And in case you don’t know who I’m talkin’ about, I’m talking about the one with the horns wot lives down in the basement apartment and invented central heating. From wot Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack says, and he’s done pretty well outta life for a twelve year old wot still looks like a six year old, in this here life you got’s to go with the better deal if’n you don’t want to end up cryin’. If’n he don’t get rubbed out along the line, I’m bettin’ you the one good tyre I’ve got left that he grows up to be one of them Capo de Capo Cosy Nostril kingpins or – as I said before - president for life of one of them countries full o’poor folk where he’d make a fortune running a bunch of those Holiday Hotel Resort Terrorist Family Camps and Universities. But since that’s not gonna happen for a coupl’a years yet, perhaps we should get back to the mess we is in right at this particular moment in time. And this most recent mess, in case you’ve forgot, started after Miss Cabbage called them foreign sick folks and told ‘em she had a dead body to be looked at, on account of they was all gonna be barbequed up into special extra-greasy deep-fried sweet ‘n’ sour-flavoured biddy kabobs for the tourons wot were staying over at the Deluxe Luxury Pink and Gold Portable Toilet Holiday Home Conversions. And she said she’d read in a book somewhere, either that or it were on the TV, that if’n a biddy died before she were put into the fat or had drowned in the marinade instead of surviving, it’d be normal practice for her to develop wot they calls ‘Foot In The Mouth Dizziness’. And that’s not a good thing to have, especially if’n you got cheap shoes wot stinks like you’s a horse wot’s got the thrush after you’s been wearing them for more’n three or four seconds. Anyway, that’s why the folks over in the official foreign sick department panicked and wasted no more’n a day or three before their crack number one head honcho foreign sick expert was dispatched to check it out. Unfortunately, as you’ve probably guessed, he’s the identical one I ended up stashing up on my roof so’s he could think about wot he wants to do when he grows up.

As it turns out it’s a good thing he ended up on my roof rather’n checkin’ out Mrs. Drain’s mouth for signs of her foot, on account of we found something strange were goin’ on when we checked out the phone number wot Miss Cabbage’d called. The poor dear’s blinder’n a fruit bat and after looking twice at the foreign sick head honcho offer wot arrived, we had a sneaky feeling she’d called in the wrong folks by mistake. And so she had. The honest to God number of the official foreign sick peoples is something like 174902 999205478 65789021 (give or take a few digits), unless you phones after six pee em, in which case you gotta add a extra 1 at the end (or perhaps the beginning). But wot Ol’ Miss Cabbage went and called up was the exact same number, only the next digit over got pressed. She’s got fat fingers and a teeny tiny keypad. Could be that’s why the foreign sick official wot came on over to investigate has that there multiple personality disorderliness and is more’n the sum of all his parts and is definitely not the one we wanted.

Miss Cabbage’s got into a whole lot of trouble over this and Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack is threatening to punish her by not letting her fulfil her wish of becoming a extra-greasy deep-fried biddy kabob along with her friends. From wot I heard, she’s gonna hafta stay behind and wash the floor. Wot I say is it serves her right, but I’m gonna forgive her ifn’t she washes me at the same time and uses a clean sponge and fresh water.

Anyway, Dear Diary, as you can see we’re all in a helluva fucking mess, and the first thing I’ve gotta do is figure out who this head honcho foreign sick officer is wot came to us, and why he looks sorta familiar even though all three of his faces is completely different. I’ve also gotta sort out why Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley are trying so hard to avoid him. So you see, I’ve got no more time to chat with you for a while, and so I’m gonna put away my pencil. As I said before, I doesn’t like mysteries wot ain’t been solved, so when I solves this one I’ll let you know straight away and say so endeth the solving of this here mystery and I’m back with the solution and as happy as a clambake.