Day 118

Dear Diary,

“Oh fuck yer mama’s mink and ain’t my botty pink!” And I’m only using this sorta language cuz of I really fucked up yesterday and then some. As you remember, I was talking about Ol’ Misther God and all his problems and I was being all disrespectful and makin’ fun of Him on account of He never seems to pay attention anyway so why would He pick this particular moment in time to be listening in? Well, as it turns out He was hearing every fuckin’ bit of it on his fuckin’ patented Sneaky Listening-In-O-Meter, wot He invented so’s He can eavesdrop when we’re saying things wot we shouldn’t. Wot I say to that is “naughty naughty pants on fire and He ought’a be ashamed of Hisself,” because it’s not fuckin’ fair. Why can’t we listen in on Him occasionally when He’s not at His best or when He’s got his robe over His head or He’s got wot they calls in polite society ‘the wind’? Fuckin’ Ol’ discriminating Ponce! Anyways, like I said, the Ol’ Fart turned on His Sneaky Listening-In-O-Meter and pointed it in my direction just at the moment my mouth was a’flapping away to beat the band and making fun at His expense, and I don’t think He appreciated it. In fact, you could say He were fuckin’ pissed off and were after blowing a fuckin’ gasket the size of Chicago! And before I could say “Oh Fuck it I’m sorry,” He went and ripped this here Dear Diary outta my hands (or in my case, outta my wheels on account of I’m a bus and don’t got no hands so to speak) and flinged it into the sea about a million miles away. And the next thing he done was to flush all them toilets wot the good folks up in Heaven uses first thing in the morning and last thing at night and it all poured down on my head, and boy did it smell like it’d been stored up for a long time. And right after that, before I could make my escape, even though - as He pointed out - there wasn’t nowheres I could go where His Splendid and Deevine Wroth couldn’t drown me permanently me in the eternal Bermuda triangle o’the sacred pussy cat dolls. He’d had a good chuckle to Hisself over this for a half hour or maybe it were only a coupl’a minutes while I tried to figure out wot He meant, and then He said to me, “I’ll show you, you little fucker know it all shit fuck bus wot’s no better’n a Ford Transport dressed up in fancy clothes.” And that very instant wot do you know but He sent me a fucking virus via The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s laptop wot I’d been placing bets on the lottery on and He’s also posted all over the Internet photos of me being in fragrant ‘n’ delicious with the pink and gold flashy Amurkin convertible wot I used to share a garage with back when we lived at Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley’s lopsided pink flatpack building before the floodwaters come and washed us out to sea. Jeeze Louise and fuck me with a spoonful of sugar. Not that I should use this kinda language when I’m talkin’ about Him, especially not with me being in Ol’ Misther God’s bad books just now, but Holy Fucking Jeeze Louise, wot’s all this crap about Him being so All Merciful and shit like that? Fuck a Fucking Duck.

Anyfuckinways, as I was gonna say before I had to go fetch my Dear Diary from where He’d throwed it in the Atlantic trench, I promised I’d let you know if’n I’d managed to de-zombieficate Zombie Fartie and return her to a semblance of her normal self. While it’s still too early to say, I think we’re at least part way to home. As I told you, I noticed through the little window when she were still being scrubbed half to death in my industrial heavy duty washer dryer, that the special detergent wot I used on her’d rubbed all the colour off of her skin and also dissolved away most o’the hair from wherever she liked to wear it. Needless to say, this got me more’n a little depressed, on account of she were now starting to look like a slug wot’d been pickled in brandy, and the first thing I thought (which only goes to show how selfish I is) was “Jeeze Louise, I don’t want her touching me lookin’ like she looks now,” but then I felt sore ashamed and scolded myself, saying, “Shame on you fuckin’ bus, how dare you discriminate and say the feel of her hand on your classic hand-polished chassis’d make you barf and act just like one of them provincial bigots wot they had on the island before it got all flooded away!” But then I thought, “why the fuck shouldn’t I say wot I feel, after all she’s nothing but a fuckin’ de-zombieficated zombie wot’s not even had her brain put back in. If’n I can’t discriminate against her now, when can I?” And sure enough I let myself get away with it without reporting me to one of them government agencies wot likes to prosecute us bigots morning noon and night and even when we’re drunk, and I said to myself as the final word on the subject, “I gotta take this opportunity to discriminate agin’ her now while she’s ugly and all deformed and dumber’n a jelly donut, on account of I’m sure as Hell not gonna do it when she’s back to normal and hotter’n a pistol and wants me where I can make her ache like a baked potato.”

Anyway, after I got that off of my chest, I noticed the washing machine’d turned itself off and thought I’d take her out and have a looky lou before sticking her in the dryer. And Jeeze Louise, did she look like a deflated sausage or what? I’d’a almost preferred if’n I’d left her to be a zombie and a sex-slave for life and doing the bidding of that little prepubescent ratfucker Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack. But then I thought, why give him any more fun than he already has, and so I stuffed her into the dryer and stuck a bunch on coins in the slot – about enough for her to go round in circles for a dozen hours, which I figured was about enough time for her to get dried and desiccated inside and out. And then I settled down with a good book and her ol’ iPod in my ear (or, in this case, my wing mirror, on account of I’m a bus in case you’ve forgot and don’t have ears) and watched her go round and round and round again.

It was while this aforementioned drying cycle was just getting under way that I felt this beam o’light coming down straight on my head, and I thought, “Oh fucking Jeeze Louise, wot the fuck did I do now God, on account of I’m only a fucking bus and can’t you at least pick on somebody wot’s got a soul?” But fortunately for me He heard me this time and put me straight so’s I wouldn’t worry about it all night and feel guilty. “It ain’t my light you cocksucker dumbfucker. I wouldn’t waste any of my light on a fistfucker bus like you, so don’t bother me anymore or I’ll give you something to write home to your mama about and that’s a promise.” Well, I sorta didn’t say nothing, only I bowed my head and genuflected just in case he was keeping His eye on me. Not that I really believes in Him, you know, but I’m sure as shit not gonna say that in so many words when He’s in the neighbourhood. But remind me when He’s over on the other side of the world killing other folks wot don’t believe in Him and we can talk about it some more.

Anyway, like I was saying, I’d just stuck Ol’ Zombie Fartie in the dryer and turned it on extra dry ‘n’ shredded and permanent press in hopes she’d come out good as new, when this big old beam of light come straight out of the sky and punched me in the top of my head. And as soon as I figured out it weren’t God up there fucking me about some more, I set about looking for the source of that there light. It sure as fuck is brighter’n a whole bucket of searchlights and even brighter’n that, so wot I think is it’s something like a omen or maybe a sign. Give me a few minutes and I’ll find out. And as soon as I does, I’ll get straight back to you so’s you won’t be worried either, and I’ll say, so endeth the problem of the light wots punctured out my head and why isn’t I more spiritual ‘n I was before it showed up?