Day 115

Dear Diary,

I’ve gotta figure out how to un-zombiefy Zombie Fartie and turn her back into The Widow Fartie Da Whistle. It’s like I’m alone in the sanity department around here, and even if’n she can’t help me escape from wot is fast becoming The Land of the Dumbfucks, I’d sure as heck like someone to talk to wot has a brain, that is if they hasn’t extracted hers outta her nose permanently and put it into a lifesaving scientific ex-spearment. But even if she’s got nothing but an empty brainpan left, once I sucks out all the special sacred zombie powder and washes her head out with good strong carbuncle soap, at least she might remember wot she used to did to me with her magic thrill-fingers and rubber gloves. ‘Course, I know it’s not right dreaming about The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s hands of joy and wonderment at a time like this when the whole world is gone to Hell in a handbasket, and I must be stupider’n cheese for even telling you about it, Dear Diary. I mean, you’ve never told me the first thing about your personal inner life, but then again I’m a lot more open about things than you is, as well as a whole lot more interesting, so I’d be wasting a lot of time if’n I lost so much as a minute’s sleep over it.

I guess one of the reasons I’m letting my mind wander into frickin’ dumbfuck alleyways at the moment is that, to be honest, everything is the worst tangled fucked-up mess you’ve ever saw. In fact, I’d be mighty surprised if’n anything’s ever been so fucked-up since the first time God pulled on the light cord and the fuse went.

Right at this moment it’d be easier’n honey running out of a bucket for me to blame Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley for the way things is. After all, if it hadn’t been for them secretly attaching their two hundert pink and gold portable toilet holiday home conversions to my trailer hitch when the floodwaters rosed up and the island sank down, then at least some of this wouldn’a happened. First of all there wouldn’a be all them Texas tourons to contend with. And second of all, nasty ol’ prepubescent “The Masturbator Spankulator” James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack and the rest of his unnecessarily inclined family wouldn’a took over the special luxurious pink and gold portable toilet holiday home conversion wot Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley was using as a office and private health spa and home away from home. And if’n that hadn’t happened, that there special pink ‘n’ gold portable toilet holiday home conversion wouldn’a been remodelled into the All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise Entertainment Theatre and Las Vegas Bling-a-Ding Showroom and Casino. And if’n it hadn’t been for that, for which he didn’t pay Misther Patchouli Da Fanny a plug nickel, on account of he takes wot he wants and no questions asked, the biddies wot’d never done nothin’ wrong in their lives other’n to get up to the usual irritating biddy stuff, wouldn’a been marinated in that there sweet ‘n’ sour sauce so’s they could get deep fried up into extra greasy crispy biddykabobs. And so on and so forth, and I don’t think I need to remind you of any more. So you see why I could be angry at Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley. On the other hand, they can’t help themselves being stupider’n a toad practicing his two times twos, so I might as well forget about being angry and move on to self-flagellation.

Wot I’m thinking about now is I ain’t never gonna solve the problem of them Texas tourons and Ol’ Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack’s Number One in the World Entertainment Conglomerate. I’s only a bus and they’s too rich ‘n’ full o’shit. But wot I can try to do is steal back the biddies before they’s tenderised more’n is good for them, and hopefully de-zombiefy Zombie Fartie at the same time. And while I’m about it, perhaps I can even persuade Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley they’d be better off on our side, on account of they ain’t never reclaiming back their holiday homes, not from the likes of the Huckleberry Hackensack Conglomerate wot came and stoled ‘em without a by your leave. Then, of course, there’s the matter of Missus Milly Da Fardle, wot’s apparently running the new one world government wot I hadn’t heard about before with the help of Mrs. Drain, and I’m sure if I looked hard enough I’d find Ol’ Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu lurking in the shadows and pulling on a mile of strings. Plus, and this makes me sorta sad to think about it, there’s others wot probably didn’t survive the flood but if’n they did they’re still out there ready and willing to give us a hand and get in the way. And here I’m talking about good Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker and possibly even Finian Da Fabricator and Howard Donald Da Fardle, that is if’n the last two ain’t been caught by Old Wanger Nose and rubbed out by now for running off with Missus Milly Da Fardle’s ill-gotten bingo winnings and showing the world that there’s even homeosexualpaths wot don’t know how to dress good and is football hooligans on the side. ‘Course there’s quite a few more of them wot lived on the island wot I ain’t mentioned in a month of Sundays, but we won’t worry about them until such time as they turns up and we screams, “Oh my God, you’re alive and I’d heard you was dead and’d rotted into slime by more’n a week ago yesterday!”

After thinking about it and putting off doing anything for as long as I can without being blamed, I’ve decided the first thing wot I’m gonna do is stick that there head honcho foreign sick officer and his other selves into a box and hide it in my boot outta harm’s way. I don’t think he’ll mind all that much, on account of I’ll give him a piece of paper wot says “Official Government Document, Do Not Read” along with a bag of donuts to keep him amused. And after that’s took care of I’m gonna do the next best thing and snatch the clear plastic marinating baggie full o’biddies from the refrigerator at the The All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise Family-style Restaurant and hide it behind my back seat, back where The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser liked to hang out when he was masquerading as the dead Miss Louella Da Bunkle. No one’ll think of lookin’ back there, on account of that’s where folks likes to dump their empty chip packets and coke cans and used old biddy nappies, and it also has the advantage of The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser’s still being with ‘em in the plastic baggie. And you gotta admit, what with it being his home for such a long time (even though for most of it he were wearing a dress and pretending to be someone else wot was dead), he can show ‘em where the toilets is and the teapot and the windows wot ain’t been washed since last Tuesday. In other words, he can make ‘em feel right at home.

After I’ve took care of those two items on my list of “Things I Gotta Do”, my next task will be to rescue The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and un-zombiefy her. ‘Course, I still ain’t figured out how I’m going to go about solving that particular problem, on account of it’s not as straightforward as nicking a plastic bag o’marinating biddies from a fridge or sticking a civil servant at a desk with nothing to do. But I’m sure I’ll come up with a idea that’s foolproof and artistic at the same time. I am, after all, a classic Daimler CVD6 Bus with a custom-made Burlington 33-Seat Coach for a body, and when you’re made as good as I is, you can do anything you like. Providing, of course, you’ve gotta good tailwind blowin’ up your tailpipe and someone’s changed your oil in the past three months. I think it’s safe to say, therefore, that I’ll have some good news for you, Dear Diary, next time I takes up my pencil. And if’n I do, I hopes you has the good grace to tell me so endeth a bunch of days when nothing much has happened and wot you’ve wrote’s been more irritating’n a dry fuck when you’re not drunk as a skunk.