Day 120

Dear Diary,

Whooeee and then some! My head’s still a’reeling and a’spinning from all the shit wot’s blasted into space since I talked to you last! I’m still trying to take it all in but I don’t rightly know if’n my brain is big enough to accommodate it all. In fact, wot I’m thinkin’ is that if’n I tell it to you right, your head’ll whip round in circles so fast it’ll fall off in your soup and you can serve it up for supper. And if’n I don’t tell it right, it’ll sound worse’n chaos and your head’ll not only fall off, but it’ll explode.

Okay, you remember (but if’n you don’t, don’t worry your pretty self over it as it won’t affect your chances of goin’ to Heaven, at least not if’n you say a dozen thousand Hail Mary before you go to bed), I was on the verge of snatching the draining rack on which the biddies was reclining prior to being throwed into the fry-o-lator and cooked up for lunch for all them Texas tourons wot was paying guests at Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack’s Pink and Gold Deluxe Luxury Celebrity As Seen On TV Portable Toilet Holiday Home Floatin’ Houseboat Conversions. But no sooner’d I got over there and was about to reach out and steal ‘em from under the noses of them dumbfucks wot were in charge of the all-you-can barbeque and fry-o-lator, namely Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack and his even dumber dumbfuck ex-former brother-in-law Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon, than who should pop up outta the middle of the draining rack but The Reverend Paisley Pisser, and boy oh boy were he pissed off at being mistook for a old biddy wot was headed for the fiery barbeque when he weren’t a biddy at all, but more of a fuckin’ de-frocked fake reverend preacherman wot ‘d been hiding out disguised as a dead old biddy called the late Miss Louella Da Bunkle. He claimed he were only there conducting wot he called “research”, but I have it on good authority that he were only avoiding being called up by the army and made to fight in one o’them countries startin’ with “Ay.” As they says, so much for altruism.

‘Course with this here latest development, things got pretty fuckin’ tense within the ranks of the Texas tourons. First there was the business of the first batch o’biddies, the prime cut ones with the most layers of fat draped over their osteoporosis. It nearly caused a Texas-sized rumpus when they was rolled in crunchy crumbles ‘n’ peanuts when they should’a been dipped in genuine Houston Oil Well-style buttermilk ‘n’ beer batter like wot they buys at home straight outta the frozen biddy aisle over at God’s own personal shopping experience, wot I can’t mention by name in case I gets sued all the way down to my blue suede brake-shoes. Why, as far as them tourons was concerned, everyone wot’s a genuine born-again republican knows that deep-fried crunchy crumbles ‘n’ nut biddy nuggets wasn’t mentioned anywheres in the brochure nor was they advertised on the TV by one of them TV preachers, and this was proof they was an abomination in the eyes of the Lord as well as being un-Amurkun, which is one and the same thing. As they says in Texas, “If’n Jeezus was alive today He’d shoot ‘em in the nuts!” And between you and me, the nuts they was talkin’ about wasn’t the ground-up ones wot that there first batch of prime cut biddies was rolled in. Think about it.

So anyways, after the tourons’d foamed at the mouth and lynched a schoolyard full of children wot was a’bringin’ down property values over where that new shopping mall is being developed, they told their congressmen to send over a coupl’a thousand troops to where the island’d been floating before the flood washed it away to where we ain’t found it yet. Them there troops was ordered to bomb the shit outta us, on account of we don’t speak good Texas and according to Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack, who is not exactly a fan of ours, we’s nothin’ but fuckin’ cocksuckers and satan’s eggs and bacon rolled up into one.

Fortunately for wot was left of us after the bombing, someone - and I have a sneaky feeling it had something to do with Mrs. Milly Da Fardle, even though I doesn’t know exactly where she is or wot she’s up to – told ‘em to calm down and get their butts back to the negotiating table and demand that the crunchy crumbles ‘n’ nuts be wiped off’n the first set of biddies, and that them aforementioned premier batch of biddies ought’a then be throwed into the trash on account of by now they was used and not fit for being ate by born-again Texas tourons. Right away, everybody on both sides of the negotiating table said “Yes Boss, sure as you’re shittin’ in a bucket Boss,” and before you knowed it a whole new set of biddies wot’d just had their hair done by Beryl wot used to own The Hair Parlour for Old Women in its glory days before the flood, was brunged in by the CIA and battered the right way like they was told to in The Daughters of Sam Houston Cookbook. And it was these biddies wot was drainin’ off their extra excess batter on the drainin’ rack wot I was fixing to liberate and carry on off to the Promised Land (or in this case, the safety of me, Mr. Bus).

Now we come back to the moment when The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser stood and proclaimed hisself a man dressed as a woman. As I just got through saying, the Texas tourons wot was staying in the Pink and Gold Deluxe Luxurious Fancy Portable Toilet Holiday Home Floatin’ Yacht Conversions with Bullet-Proof Windows and Extra Soft Toilet Paper, was already on the edge of the precipice temper-wise and had just tore their court-appointed liberal anger management consultant into little bite-size shreddie portions and’n fried him up for a horsey doovers. But then, just as I thought they was calming down and goin’ inside to watch demolition derby on TV, they finds out there’s a preevert in a dress with sequins up and down the front zip a’mixin in with the biddies in the sweet ‘n’ sour marinade. And you’d better fuckin’ believe that right away their foamin’ at the mouth went septic and a riot started and builted up to wot they calls an explosive mass wot was more toxic for the future of mankind than anything anybody else’s fomented since the time of the big ol’ cosmic fart wot started it all. I’m tellin’ you, in comparison it made Baghdad after it’d got through importing democracy into itself look like The Garden of Eden before the apple tree got chopped down by George Washington and he said to his pappy “I cannot Tell a Lie, pull my finger.”

Shit it was a ugly fuckin’ Armageddon uprising revolution around here, which only goes to show how them Texas tourons feels about having one o’them pinko commie transvestite queer pretend preachers infilratin’ their lunchtime fried biddy chitterlings with preevert saliva and forcing all their kids to transformicate into homo sapiens wot sprays all of God’s own dollar bills with heathen band Aids so’s they all gets bald and looks like one of them old women wot’s had too many facelifts. At least that’s wot I think they think, but then I’m only a sophisticated Bus of the European persuasion and a pinko commie sinner wot can’t understand the Texas language anymore’n I can grow toes.

Fuck, where the shit was I? Oh, yes, where I was was I was mounting a covert ‘n’ overt action to liberate back all the biddies wot were left in the world, at least all of them wot I knows about and can prove they’s real biddies and not pinko commie pretend defrocked preachers in disguise. And just as I was clamping on to their excess fat drainer with my special jaws of death and lifting the whole thing up with my Mega-Crane, that’s when the tourons flew into a fury and rioted and overthrowed Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack and his sin-filled cabal of evil, wot up to then’d owned and operated the All You Can Eat Barbeque and Las Vegas-style revue. And wot do you know, but they replaced him with a new president wot was a real Texan and a personal friend of You Know Who. And just to show you how much God loved ‘em and wanted ‘em to get their own way, wouldn’a you know it but there was a real Texas on site, or as they say “in situ.” The only trouble was, from my point of view, his name were Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon, and between you and me he’s the dumbest dumbfuck wot’d every snucked out a woman’s hairy cat, and if’n he’d been a duck he’d a’been afeared of water. Fuck it all, to say it bodes evil for all of us still alive is a understatement. Fuck fuck fuck. As I say so endeth any trace of the age of reason, on account of it’s been rubbed out and smothered in the shit and those of us wot’re alive’re gonna wish we was dead. And those of us wot’re dead are gonna wish we was deader’n dead so’s we couldn’t hear wot was goin’ on no more. As I said before, fuck fuck fuck and I’ll be back tomorrow and try to untangle everything or perhaps run away to another part of the world wot ain’t been invented yet and wot I can make in my own image. Like we does.