Day 117

Dear Diary,

Okay, remember me telling you last time we talked that I was coming up with a idea for rescuing Zombie Fartie from the clutches of Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack and sucking out all them evil black magic zombie powder granules wot he’d pumped into her skullcap where her brain used to be? Well, I spent the whole night long without a intermission a’thinking and a’praying over the situation and promising God I’d be good for the rest of my life, on account of I knows he won’t mind if’n I slips off’n the straight and narrow road from time to time and whenever I’m tempted. But in spite of all my bowing and scraping and singing His praises and thrashing myself with a whip o’thorns, plus a lot of wheedling and begging and sitting on a low stool without eatin’ no chocolate, wouldn’t you know it but the Boss Man must’a put his phone on the ‘don’t bother to answer’ mode and went off on some errand or other, probably on account of He’s had a shitload o’sub-negative bad experiences with us on the island wot’s made him wish he’d been born a strawberry so’s he could get excited over all his children wot was born in his own image. As it is, he’s sorta stuck with us on account of He put his faith in fuckin’ human beings, which only goes to show He may be All Mighty but he’s also dumb as a brick. So now you understand Dear Diary, it’s all the fault of the biddies ‘n’ dumbfucks on the island that whenever anyone wot looks like them - which includes most of the human race exceptin’ possibly the sisters Purdy, on account of they was conjoined triplets - starts out a sentence by saying “Dear Lord,’n’ Holly Berry, gimme me a million bucks,” he answers straight back “Fuck you pissants, I gots other fish to fry and so you can go live down below with the other guy.” ‘Course, another reason why this here God Person might’ve always forgot to answer like He promised to is because He’s always goin’ off somewheres doing His good deed of the week like wot His mother told Him to do and so He’s always someplace else when you needs Him.

Jeeze Louise, this here theological shit’s not wot I should be discussing with you, Dear Diary, on account of you ain’t got a brain for cogitating over heavy crap and it might depress you and make you wanna take your own life. However, while I’m on the subject, has it ever occurred to you that this here Mr. God Fella’s maybe got problems with His short-term memory implants, plus He’s always distracted by all them folks yellin’ in His ear like He was some sort of Santa Clause or father, when everybody knows they’s gotta father of their own, even if’n he a drunk and a no account. How would you feel if everybody’s always screaming at you to find their shoes or fix their homework and kill their little sister wot bugs ‘em? You’d say, “shut the fuck up, I’m not your fucking mother,” wouldn’t you? Well, this is wot Ol’ Misther God has to put up with day and night. So you know wot happens from time to time? Well, He’s over across the road watering the plants for them wot needs it, only instead of shutting up and lettin’ Him get on with the job, all the fuckin’ humanoids nags and nags and tells His mother on him so’s He gets into trouble when He gets home for lunch. Because of this, He forgets wot he’s supposed to be doing, which is why He don’t remember He’s been watering the plants ‘n’ He wanders off and don’t turn the water off again. This might explain why He accidentally floods the world every time you turn around, and it also might explain why, since He don’t remember having turned on the water in the first place, He don’t never say, “I’m sorry I promise not to do it again.”

I must admit the The Big Guy’s did a bang-up job with the Ol’ celestial watering can last week on the island, and I suppose, even if He’s as short-term-memory-challenged as is seems to us, in truth He’s either sick to death of helping us out of the same shithole time and time again, or He’s feeling guilty and don’t really want to know us any more in case He fucks up again and the word gets out. ‘Course, there’s always the chance He flooded us on purpose on account of He’d took one look at all them extra biddies ‘n’ dumbfucks wot was world class pains in the butt, and He said to Hisself that a flood was a cheap and easy way to make ‘em disappear, and also it didn’t require so much planning permission as a earthquake or a volcano or a rain o’fire from Heaven. Now, don’t get me wrong, on account of I ain’t disrespecting’ the Ol’ Fart and I sure ain’t criticising Him other than to suggest perhaps He might be better off if’n He hired some help from one of them big employment agencies. I know for a fact He tried the job centre wot social services runs but He didn’t have all that much luck, no more than anybody else does, even if’n He’s God and they’re not. ‘Course, to be honest, the new part-time employees He had to make do with weren’t no worse’n average and they tried hard enough considering most’a them wasn’t exactly trained to do the sort of jobs wot God needed ‘em for, plus the fact most of ‘em were single mothers of crack heads wot weren’t exactly thrilled about succouring the poor and downtrodden when the poor and downtrodden they was assigned to succour was the boyfriends wot had knocked ‘em up and beat ‘em the crap outta them in the first place. To give Him credit, He wasn’t too annoyed about this, on account of he may be God Almighty with a attitude to match, but He still has a heart, albeit not one wot works all the time. However, wot really did get up his nose was he was fucked over royal by those wot worked there at the job centre on account of they gived Him all the wrong forms to fill out and got Him into trouble with the tax people. Never mind, it’s none of my business and I shouldn’t really be saying nothing bad about anyone, not even them wot works down at the job centre, and in any case God’s more’n capable of blowin’ ‘em up with a bolt of lightning, if’n He gets mad enough.

Anyways, in a roundabout way all I’m tryin’ to say is that the Ol’ Fella must’a been distracted by all them other folks asking for things wot they doesn’t really need, such as food or clean water or a new country to live in where they doesn’t get chopped up or gunned down or blowed up every coupl’a minutes. And on account of all them others takin’ up His time, He must’a gone out and left my prayers and wish list on His chesterdrawers, which is why the Ol’ Fart forgot to give me wot I asked for. Fuckin’ Sweet Old Bag O’Vomit that He is. But never mind. I forgive Him and I wishes Him well and I hope He has a Nice Day (as they say), but since He didn’t help me come up with a plan to get back Ol’ Zombie Fartie and make her sexy again, I ended up doing it all myself.

And you know wot I done? Well, I said “Wot the fuck and in for a penny, in for a pound” and tootled right on over to where she was putting on the finishing touches to that there Las Vegas-style Floorshow wot they was puttin’ on after the barbeque, and I sweeped her off’n her feet and throwed her straight into the industrial washing machine I keeps up on my roof for the biddies’ clothes after they’ve sat in ‘em and done all sorts ‘o’things I won’t mention during our days’ out. And after I tossed her into the machine, I dumped in about a tonne and a half of industrial strength eco-friendly one hundert percent organic and biodegradable and extra caustic washing powder and lye soap combination. After this I punched the ‘Heavy Toxic Waste ‘n’ Used Biddie Leavings By-Product’ function button on the Ol’ display panel and switched on the engine. And Bingo! Right away the machine started in ‘bumpin’ and a’grindin’ and ‘clunkin’ and a’thunkin’ to beat the band, and through the little round window I could saw Zombie Fartie going round and round, and her mouth was opening and a’closing and filling up with water and choking her half to death, and I could swear if’n the damned thing hadn’t’a been sound proofed better’n a emperor’s lavatory door I would’a heard all sorts of bad words in all the languages of the world including Zombie.

Wot I’m counting on is that all this special extra caustic, radioactive and eco-friendly cleaning powder wot is scrubbing away at her will kill off some of that there black magic evil zombie powder wot Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack pumped into her empty head. And then it’ll clean her out shiny as shiny can be and make it so’s we can fill her up with whatever it was wot runned her batteries before, such as vodka ‘n’ fake orange juice. ‘Course, it might just kill her off and leave her like a limp and lifeless rubber dolly with glow-in-the-dark guts spillin’ out all over the floor, but I sure as fuck hope not. Me and all the biddies prefers her the way she was and not as she is now. Between you and me and the back fence, she makes a lousy zombie and is doin’ a crappy job puttin’ together Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack’s spectacular Las Vegas-style revue, but she were a first class bus driver and sexpot, even if’n I says it myself.

I’ve just noticed through the little window on the door of the washing machine that all the special soap’s took all the colour outta her cheeks, as well as dissolved away all her hair and made her bald as a coot. I’m hoping it’s not nothing to worry about. Anyway, the rinse cycle’s all set to go, so we’ll just hafta wait and see. What I’m gonna do is put away my pencil and watch her go round and round getting all rinsed off, and when the cycle’s done I’ll say so endeth the heavy dirt and biddy leavings cycle and let’s see how good a job it’s done on Zombie Fartie as compared to wot the other machine did on one of the hoochy coochy girls wot was picked at random from the chorus line and wot was washed in a ordinary cycle with mayonnaise and pineapple sudsy powder wot you can get at Tesco for fifty-three cents for twelve boxes.