Day 116

Dear Diary,

Well, for once something were easier’n anticipated rather than a whole lot more aggravatin’ and pain-in-the-butt making. Like I said I was gonna do, I picked up that there Head Honcho Foreign Sick Officer by his globs o’joy and led him on over to a big old box full o’files and position papers and those favourite Godsends of politicians and bureaucrats, six months’ supply of Fact Sheets. ‘Course, the minute he sawed wot I’d left on his desk for him to do, his old eyes lit up like sparklers at a summer picnic and he said to me with great big old tears of gratitude in his eyes, “Thank Gosh ‘n’ Golly Damn ‘n’ Tarnation, Mr. Bus, You just delivered me here in time! Them there Fact Sheets’re not in triplicate, plus they’re out of date order and five of ‘em ain’t been checked and initialled properly by the minister with the right colour ink. It’s no wonder things is up shit’s creek without a paddle, Mr. Bus, on account of it’ll take me and two hundert others at least three years to sort out this mess and another four years of sittin’ on them and reassuring the government we never received ‘em in the first place. And only after that will we even consider thinking about admittin’ the last bunch of folks in charge fucked up and it’ll probably mean another six million homeless people’s gonna be charged double tax and that’s before we ‘vict ‘em from their homes and build new government office buildings on the site.” Needless to say, I were cock the hoop over how easy it was to fool him with the phoney Fact Sheets wot I runned up on the laptop computer wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle kept under my driver’s seat, and just so’s I wouldn’t get into trouble later on down the line for passing off phoney as real, I headed each one with Shitfact Sheet, instead of plain old Fact Sheet like it was supposed to be. Apparently the Head Honcho Foreign Sick Officer don’t speak English so good on account of he don’t seem to know the difference. Never mind, at least he’ll be kept quiet and outta the way until things is either back to normal or we’ve all been replaced by a government office building and all them Texas tourons’ve been hired as civil servants on account of all them extra desks they has to fill. Or something like that. Where was I?

Oh, yeh, I’d solved the first problem on my plate, which was dispensing with the presence of the head honcho foreign sick officer. My next item on my ‘Saving the Situation Agenda’ was promising to be more harder on my nerves. And that’s on account of this next specifically aforementioned item were none other’n Poor Ol’ Zombie Fartie. It done my heart bad to see her parading round as a zombie under the thumb of that little old tinpot teenage pimplepubes despotic ratfucker Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack, especially on account of he’s took to lording it over her with a king-sized bullwhip and wastes no time in partin’ her hair with it. And bein’ a zombie wot worships and adores him and has pledged to obey his every commandment as well as suck on his toes every night about midnight during his cocoa-drinking and flagellation session with Missus Milly Da Fardle and dear Ol’ Mrs. Drain, wot used to be good but now is horrid. Yes, Dear Diary, you heard me right. I said Missus Milly Da Fardle and Mrs. Drain and while I may not be able to prove wot I’m saying yet, I can sure talk cast aspersions to beat the band and ruin their reputations. Not that Missus Milly Da Fardle and Mrs. Drain has much along the lines of reputations to ruin, but it can sure put a dent in Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack’s plans to run for class president in school. Cuz believe you me, just about anybody can be elected to high office or even get a gong and be kicked upstairs to wear ermine and sit at the right hand of The Lord, but it’s quite another when you wants to be elected class president. That there position takes a bucket of fortitude and a whole rectum o’rectitude, and one word from me in the wrong direction into some big old floppy doppy media ears, and ol’ smarty-pansy necromancing Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack’ll be sunk lower’n a snake wot’s been stepped on down at the bottom of the sea. Yessirree Bob, after my mouth gets through with him, it’ll be a cold day in the sauna bath before he’ll get any of his fingers inside a cheerleader’s murkin. But back to the problem as it stands now before I’ve blabbed my mouth and got him run outta town. At the present time, the time we’s in now, this here Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack’s busy standing over poor helpless gormless Zombie Fartie with his whip in his hand and his foot on her head, and I know in her zombieficated state of mind she ain’t not got the sense or the gumption to snatch that there whip away from him and break it over her knee, or even to lay him face down between her both knees and smack her legs together so’s his chances of having babies’ll be nil if not fewer’n that. You might have guessed from listening to me, Dear Diary, that I’m boiling mad enough at him for wot he done to my friend The Widow Fartis Da Whistle to say he should be swunged up by a crane and lowered down on a spike the size of that there new skyscraper in Doby Dooby Bye. Or at least perhaps someone’ll let me beat him and beat him ‘til the Bejeezus comes out from both ends at the same time. You see, even on her worse days when she’s not zombificated and is PMSing ‘til the cows leave home and move to another country, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d never retribute herself on Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack for sucking out her brains the way he did and then laughing about it. No, not even on one of them Saturday nights such as the ones she use to have with my new-owner-to-be-if’n-we-all-gets-outta-here-alive, Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his hot-to-trot bike-muffin Ducati, Ol’ Benvolio Da Trampolio, would she take the sorta umbrage I’d enjoy in a minute. And that’s because in her heart of hearts she’s sweet potato, as well as a secret closet vegetarian. She don’t believe in physical violence of any sort, exceptin’ when it leads to one of her world famous orgasms, the ones wot inspired Ol’ Signore Vesuvius all them years ago. But I’m getting’ off the track here, ain’t I, on account of the whole situation vis-à-vis The Widow Fartie Da Whistle is moot, and the reason for that is wot use to be The Widow Fartie Da Whistle is now Zombie Fartie, and as far as I knows, Zombie Fartie’s one of them vestal virgins and as cold as a hunk of concrete wot’s been left in the freezer. But be that as it may, I’ve gotta figure out a way to save her from a fate worse’n death as a perpetual Zombie ‘n’ hunk of concrete, on account of it’s not wot Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota or his rod o’fire Ducati, Ol’ Benvolio Da Trampolio signed up for when they paid for her to come’n take care of me and him and Ol’ Ducati-Man when we moves to Italy after all this is over. And anyway, if’n I can get her back to normal, she’ll stop messing around dipping and re-dipping the biddies into that super thick and unctuous sweet ‘n’ sour marinating sauce and realise that no matter how you serve ‘em up, biddies make horrible, tough and nasty extra greasy high cholesterol kebabs and always end up tasting like a old cheese after it’s been left out in the sun for a year and a half.

I think I’m coming up with a idea, on account of my brain’s feeling like it’s just been filled up elephant buggers and is gonna burst any minute. And when you’re a bus, especially a vintage classic Daimler CVD6 with a custom-engineered and architected 33-seat Burlington coach, that’s the sign that a great idea is about to be born. Wot I suggest is you go away for a coffee and a donut, and when I’ve sneezed out my plan, I’ll say, so endeth the incubation period and we is ready to rescue The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and turn her back into a Real Woman.