Day 119

Dear Diary,

I just know some fucking know-it-all’s gonna remember when The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s iPod got whizzed halfway across the ocean and ga-boinked Misther Patchouli Da Fanny on the head and knocked him out colder’n a walleyed dead mackerel. And I also know this same know-it-all’s gonna ask how the fuck did I get the iPod back so’s I could listen to it yesterday and why didn’t I mention it before or was I hoping you wouldn’t notice my omission? Fuckin’ sheepfuckin’ know-it-alls, all I can say is why the fuck does we want to teach idiots how to read and write, when all it does is make ‘em think they’re smarter’n me and can make me look bad and like a cheating dumbfuck wot can’t remember from one day to the next wot I said before. Anyhow and for your information, just because the iPod ga-boinked Misther Patchouli Da Fanny on the head don’t mean it got lost in the deep blue briny. As it so happens, it went and lodged itself in his ear hole wax and I dug it out and washed it off good and clean and disinfected it at the same time as I strapped him and Floozie Da Smelley on top of the bus so’s they wouldn’t get into any more trouble or fuck things up more’n they’d fucked ‘em up already.

Anyways, I wanted to clear this up so’s I wouldn’t waste a lot of time worrying about how you was gonna point out my literary inconsistencies wot’s been ruining the velvet-like fluidity of my narrative (as inconsistencies do when they’re gave half a chance). So where the fuck was I? Oh yes, I’d just took Zombie Fartie outta the washing machine and’d examined her, and in spite of all the colour wot’d been sucked outta her skin and the hair wot’d been yanked outta her head and other places and the fact that she looked like she’d been put through one o’them shredderators for coleslaw, I think she’d come outta the experience better’n I thought she would’ve. I debated a couple minutes as to wot they calls the relative merits of line-drying in the trade winds and under the tropical sun versus parching her out like a prune in the dryer. ‘Course, being that I’m something of a machine myself, on account of I’m a vintage classic hand-tooled Daimler Burlington CVD6 bus, I don’t understand all this fuss over “organic” this and “natural” that and home births at sunrise and backyard new age cremations over apple wood fires at twilight, and so on and so forth. Give me your everyday hi-tech automatic ‘n’ unnatural robot-powered ‘n’ computer-generated smart solutions any day of the week, is wot I say. And so, like I said yesterday, I elected to do wot comes naturally to me and stuffed Ol’ Zombie Fartie into the Automatronic Dryer/Desiccator System and set the dial for twenty-four hours at the TurboMegaBlaster setting. If nothing else, I’m hoping all that heat and them scorching artificial solar-powered sunrays’ll put some colour back into her cheeks, and maybe into her face as well.

Now that she was being finished off to perfection in that there drying machine, I turned my attention to rescuing the biddies from being fried up into extra-greasy crispy sweet ‘n’ sour biddykebabs. ‘Course you probably remember they’d been marinated in a clear plastic baggie full o’oriental-style barbeque flavour-enhancer sauce for twenty-four hours (or maybe it was forty-eight or a hundert and eighty), and after that they’d been dipped in flour ‘n’ egg ‘n’ more flour ‘n’ finally in a buttermilk ‘n’ beer batter, and they was all ready to be tong-dunked into the old fry-o-lator and fried up to a crispy golden brown. It was plain that now was the last chance I’d ever have to act and I had to act fast, on account of I’d just seen Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack, the dumbfuck idiot brother of that scrawny hormone-challenged pustule Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack, jack up the temperature setting on the fry-o-lator to the “Biddies, Crispy ‘n’ Golden Extra-Greasy” mode. And to make things worse, he was being assisted by his former brother-in-law Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon, brother of Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon, wot is thankfully deceased and ate up by the fishies and sea slugs. And believe you me, if’n there ever was something called a hundert tonne gorilla with the brain of a peanut, it’s Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon. Fortunately for me, however, I knowed that this here fry-o-lator was wot they calls old and obsolete on account of it were one that Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’d installed in the Pink and Gold Portable Toilet Holiday Homes Family Entertainment Center ‘n’ Barbeque Pit back before it was stoled from him by Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack and upgraded. And if nothing else, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s cheaper’n the headlines in yesterday’s tabloids, which means he ain’t gonna pay more ‘n’ a euro forty-nine cents for no fry-o-later, and this in turn means this particular piece o’shit fry-o-lator’s gonna take a month of Januaries before’n it hots up enough to cook them poor biddies to perfection. And so, as long as I didn’t doddle like I’m prone to do or get myself to thinking about something else wot was more fun to think about, I figured I had me plenty of time to rescue them biddies from the draining rack wot they was stretched out on whilst they dripped off all that extra batter wot’d just mess up the fat if’n they was wearin’ it when they went into the fry-o-lator. And for once in my life I made a move right away instead of putting it off ‘til later, but as luck would have it, at that very precise second, wouldn’t you know it but The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, the fake preacher wot was hiding out with the biddies and disguised as Ol’ Louella Da Bunkle of blessed memory, decided to stand up and announce that he refused to be a biddy kebab on account of he were a man and not some fucking dead biddy wot’s been ground up into cat food two months ago. As he said, “I’ve got the bits to prove it and you can ask Marcela Da Splodge over at The Fancy-Prancy Club and she’ll tell you I know how to use ‘em better’n I can a knife and fork.” ‘Course, I’d like to be able to say he were really intent on committing an act of supreme bravery in the face of being fried up as a kebab dressed as a old woman. And I’d also like to be able to say he was after saving all them honest-to-goodness real biddies from the fat, but (as I learned later when we was sharing a cup of cocoa under conditions wot was more’n a little improved) he was only suffering from a sudden crampy spasm in his nether region, and the pain’d made him shoot up and scream “Holy Shit ‘n’ Fuck Me Senseless!” which some folks misheard for the other thing I said he’d said a coupl’a sentences back. But I gotta admit that when he confided in me later on, he owned up to being partial to deep-fried biddies, especially extra greasy ‘n’ crispy, and’d had no intention of saving them, at least not physically. “But I swear on a stack o’Gospels,” he cried like a man with the epoploxy, “I was gonna pray over their souls as they went into the cooking pot, and they would’a gone straight on up to heaven at the same time as they was going straight down into the stomachs of them there Texas tourons.”

Whatever, I gotta say I was madder’n a oyster wot’s had his pearls yanked outta him when The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser stood up and messed up my plans to steal that there biddy draining rack and hide it in my boot. But as it turned out, his standin’ up also distracted Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack and Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon just as they was about to dump them batter-dipped biddies into the fry-o-lator, even though the fat were will cold as bog sludge. And so as it turns out, that there fake reverend might’a just saved the biddies’ from a fate worse’n being fried up extra crisp ‘n’ golden. They might’a got their arteries all clogged up and then been eaten cold and still alive, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s not a good way to be ate. ‘Course, this whole business of rescuing ‘em ain’t over yet, but you’re gonna hafta wait and see who survived and who got ate by the fishes and who went into the fry-o-lator when it were finally cranked up hotter’n ten degrees Celsius. It’s been an exciting day and I’m plain tuckered out and then some. Check in tomorrow after about eight in the ayem and not before, and you’ll hear me say so endeth my good night’s sleep and I’m ready to rumble. And in case you’re interested, hidden in this here diary entry is a clue as to wot the fuck happened next.