Day 114

Dear Diary,

Perhaps if I’d been born Hercule Poirot or Sherlock Homes I might have better luck in the ‘Finding Out Wot The Fuck’s Goin’ On’ department. But as it is, this here Mr. Classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 Bus’s had about as much success playing the great detective as does a newt when he’s after fucking a hippopotamus. It seems to me that, whereas life before the flood wot washed us off’n the island and into the middle of a foreign ocean was bizarre enough and racked with stupidness, it were always wot you’d call predictable. Biddies was permanently biddies. Dumb folks was permanently dumb folks. Greedy folks was permanently greedy folks. Nice folks was permanently nice folks. The truth about wot was going on in the world was permanently told us by TV presenters on daytime chat shows. And women wot still had the curse visiting them every month all shared their PMS with those of us wot thought it was just an excuse to eat more chocolate and go to the sales. And of course they all had it at the same time, sorta in the same way as they all gets up together and goes to the biffy when they’re eatin’ in a restaurant. Being a bus I don’t understand it, on account of I’d stick a screwdriver in my radiator grill before I’d pee with another bus, especially if’n it were a Ford Transit, on account of you never know wot they’re gonna get up to when you drops your soap, or even if they’ll get the hint. But wot I’ve gotta remember is, the island were a small community and everybody on it done everything together, on account of if’n they didn’t they’d get talked about something awful and’d have to leave on the next ferry to the mainland. Anyways, before the flood everything stayed more or less the same, with folks and circumstances not changing much from one day to the next. In other words you knowed where you stood. And even if and when really dumb shit happened, it were the same really dumb kind’a really dumb shit wot happened all the time, and so you never got caught with your pants down round your ankles.

But now the world’s gone crazy and I can’t say as I recognise any of it no more. Ever since we got sweepted out to sea, weird fuckups is happening one on top of another, lickity splickity ka-plowy ga-boing, and no matter how fast we swims we ends up goin’ in the opposite direction and being shat on by a whole new set o’dumbfucks wot we’ve never even heard of before. ‘Course I can go back to the beginning when things started to go wrong and talk about the flotation device biddies wot let us down and told us as far as they was concerned we could all go down to the bottom of the ocean and get drowned. And I could also remind you of all the shit wot’s happened to us on a daily basis ever since then. ‘Course, if’n that’s wot you want, you can always remind yourself of the past without my telling it to you, but you’ll only waste a lot of your valuable time, plus you’ll end up with your faith in the goodness of humanity ruint forever. As for me, I’m all for looking ahead and seeing wot sort of craziness is in store for us next. And believe you me, I’ll bet you a bottom dollar there’ll be plenty of it and then some.

Take today as an example (or for that matter, you can take any day you want, it don’t make no difference to in the long run). Today was supposed to be the day of the “Fancy Ultra Deluxe Luxury Barbeque and Las Vegas Celebrity Bling-a-Ding Entertainment Floorshow” over at Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack’s All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise Entertainment Theatre, featuring all you can eat helpings of extra-greasy double deep fried sweet ‘n’ sour flavour Ol’ biddy gristle kabobs and hoochy coochy dancing by The Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon Commemorative Bar and Grill Titty-Twirlers, which, in case you didn’t know, was originally all trained up to their present high level of artistic expertise by Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, who use to work late night shifts at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic down on the wrong end of the island when there still was an island to have a wrong end of. The program for the festivities said the doors’d open at twelve noon sharp, and so at eleven forty-five on the dot all them Texas tourons wot’re staying in them pink and gold portable toilet holiday home floatin’ island conversions and’d bought tickets for the floorshow ‘n’ barbeque, were standing in line just like they’d been told to do. That was wot was suppose to happen according to the brochure. Instead, wot really went down was that everything got fucked up. And Numero Uno on the fuckup list was the food weren’t nowhere near being anthing past raw. Why, the marinated biddies wasn’t not even battered up, much less fried extra greasy and crisp in the fry-o-lator. And between you and me and the doorpost, I don’t think they’ll be served up like the brochure promised anytime in the foreseeable future, not after Mrs. Drain supposedly got drowned to death in the sweet ‘n’ sour marinade by all the other biddies wot’d took umbrage on account of she’d laughed at a funeral when she was a little girl. And according to Health and Safety Regulation Number 207,795A, because Mrs. Drain died dead as a dodo in the marinade before she could get kilt by the hot grease, it meant she was struck down with foot in the mouth dizziness. According to the regulations, seven hundert emergency crises is gonna come upon us like plagues of radishes outta the dessert. And the first three of them is the newspapers’ve gotta panic, and the government’s gotta get fired, and all them kiddie TV presenters is gonna crinkle their foreheads and lower their voices just to show the rest of us dumbfucks they’re more serious’n we is. And then the fourth crisis wot’s gonna befall us is everyone’s gotta eat nothing but peanut butter ‘n’ pickle sandwiches on soft white bread for the rest of their lives whether they likes it or not, on account of everybody knows peanut butter and pickles and soft white bread ain’t never gonna come down with no foot in the mouth dizziness.

Needless to day, the Texas tourons’d all paid a arm and a leg for their All You Can Eat Barbeque tickets and was madder’n a baby hog wot looks down between his legs and sees he’d got the word ‘bacon’ tattooed on his ball sack. In fact each and every one of them tourons was promised by God He would feed ‘em as much All You Can Eat Extra-Greasy ‘n’ crispy Barbequed Biddy-Gristle Cheese Steaks ‘n’ Grits as they stuff into themselves every day (and twice on Saturdays), if’n they entered into the sacred Texas covenant and promised to vote republican and buy extra large cars and only play golf on courses wot was watered with half the water stoled from Mexico every day. Well, as you can imagine, they didn’t take kindly to the Lord being overruled by a bunch of Godless liberal Healthy and Safety regulator bureaucrats, and right then and there they wrote to their senators and told ‘em to bomb the whole world to death if’n they didn’t get their extra-greasy crispy barbeque and get it NOW. As they said, “wot are atom bombs for if’n not to save the world from them liberal commie urb turrists and make it safe for Texas, where God and Baby Jeezus lived at 75125 Elderberry Wine Crescent on the east side of town.” Oh, by the way, Dear Diary, I apologise if’n I got off’n the track here, but I thought you’d like you know wot the tourons said and did when they was told the barbeque was off the menu today.

Needless to say, this were only the beginning of wot I calls the unilateral action by the tourons living at The Pink and Gold Portable Toilet Holiday Home Floating Island Conversions wot resulted in a regime change and civil war at the All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise Entertainment Theatre. Stay tuned ‘til next time, on account of you’ll never believe wot all them dumbfucks tourons got up to after this. As I like to say and’ll continue to say until the numbnuts change my regime for sayin’ it, so endeth another day living in the company of dumbfuck shitfucks and their buddies.