Day 121

Dear Diary,

First of all I’ve gotta admit I’ve never been in no revolution before, but if’n they’s anything like the one wot I’ve just been living through I think I’ll avoid livin’ through another one anytime in the future. In fact, the next time I hear that a revolution is due in at the station, I’ll run as fast as I can in the opposite direction. And by ‘run’ I mean I’ll get my wheels whizzin’ round faster’n any wheel’s ever whizzed round since the first wheel was invented, and if necessary I’ll learn to fly, even though you probably think that’s impossible, on account of I’m only a bus, albeit a vintage classic Daimler CVD6 with a custom-designed and hand-built 33-seat coach. ‘Course everybody says buses can’t fly no better’n pigs. However, by now you’ve probably gotta fair idea of wot I thinks about ‘everybody’, on account of whoever ‘everybody’ is they never includes me and therefore they ain’t ‘everybody’ at all but only a bunch o’biddies congregatin’ down at Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Woman back before the flood flushed it away or else some dumbfucks over at the TV station wot don’t know we was gived a brain for a reason. Anyway, wot the fuck was I gonna say and why the fuck does I care about saying it?

Oh yes, I remember now. I was telling you about the revolution, or more precisely, the village idiot imbecile rioting mob wot was comprised of the Texas tourons wot’re staying in the pink and gold portable toilet holiday home floatin’ island conversions wot’s just been renamed The Floatin’ Commode Happy Holiday Bible Camp Furnished Units ‘n’ Good Ol’ Boy Family Entertainment Country ‘n’ Western Theatre ‘n’ All You Can Eat Family-Style Fried Catfish Restaurant. Which looks kind’a stupid crammed on to the neon sign wot costed all of a euro ninety-eight cents down at Madam Bernice’s Nothin’-Over-A-Euro Store ‘n’ Family-Style WiFi ‘n’ MassageParlour ‘n’ Hand-Painted Plastic Spray-Painted Neon Signs, but wot the fuck. If that’s wot they likes, I guess that’s wot they’re gonna get, and a’fiddle dee dee to you and your mother.

Now I’m not one to throw stones at morons and numbnuts, but this ain’t the time to be wot they calls politically correct, or P.C. if’n you’re a TV presenter wot’s gotta lifstyle where a brain ought’a go. The way them tourons reacted to the combination of their deep-fried extra-greasy crispy biddykabobs bein’ served up to ‘em late and then not at all, and then on top of that having a defrocked phoney minister preacher dressed as a old biddy - The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser - rising up in the middle of their Blessing and Praisin’ Jeezus Pre-Lunch Launching Hour and hollerin’ out “I’m Miss Louella Da Bunkle and I’ve got a willy praise be to The Lord,” was not wot you’d call full o’the holy spirit. In fact, to the tourons I thinks them two events was definitively the straw wot broked the camel’s back. When The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser said wot he said, you could’a heard a pin drop, but just as soon as it dropped all them biddies reached for their pitchforks and hangin’ ropes and they charged on over to the All-You-Can-Eat Barbeque Pit where they hanged up Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack and his zombie assistant, Zombie Fartie by their necks the extra slow way so’s to pull off their heads. And the minute they’d accomplished that they declared victory and wasted no time in proclaiming that the pink and gold portable toilet holiday home floating island conversions was now a annexated county of Texas, complete with a new double-lined nylon Texas flag with gold-painted gussets. And then they sanged the new national anthem “Praise Jeesuz and Glory Hallelujah and my gramma got runned over my a manure spreader and I’ve ruptured my spleen cryin’ over my wife wot’s seen wot she likes in my best friend’s wife, Lulu Belle Sweet Marie wot’s a whoore and the mother of my children!” and then afterwards everybody cried and blasted off a coupl’a tonnes of fireworks and celebrated the birth of a new nation under God wot was gonna to have restricted immigration so’s them heathens could all be excluded legal-like. Thank you Jeezus.

To be honest I haven’t saw such a hoo haa since the old movie of “Frankenstein” when a mob wot looked very much like the Texas touron mob runned amok with pitchforks ‘n’ torches and the poor special needs gentleman ended up falling off the roof and into the burnin’ cauldron o’Hell.

Now, before we goes any further, I know several millions of you is screamin and shriekin’ “Whoa fuckin’ whoa, wait a fuckin’ cotton pickin’ minute Mr. Bus”, on account of I just wrote that Zombie Fartie’s head got pulled off in all that picturesque mob lynching excitement of a few minutes ago. “Whoa fuckin’ shittin’ whoa” I hears you shout. But before you gets any more angrier and turns into a picturesque village idiot mob yourselves and set fire to me, let me point out that the Zombie Fartie wot was recently made into two pieces is not the same Zombie Fartie wot I put into my extra heavy duty industrial washing machine the other day and wot is still being dried out in my MegaTurboBlaster Drying Apparatus. And unless there were a accident in the dryin’ tumbrel, which I doubt on account of machines don’t have no accidents without some dumbfucker human being at the controls (and in this case there weren’t nobody in charge of the drying machine outside’ve me), I’d venture to opine that the Zombie Fartie we know and love and wot hopefully will be turned back into The Widow Fartie Da Whistle one day soon, is definitely not Zombie Fartie with the detachable dead on her shoulders. And you might as well shut your mouths on account of they’re hangin’ open and drool’s sloppin’ out on your new celebrity endorsement trainers wot’s costed you two months’ salary plus tax. If you was thinking straight, you’d realise there’s a simple and logical explanation for this problem just as there is for most other problems, exceptin’ perhaps for why the fuck does so many men eat a bucket o’baked beans ‘n’ wash it down with a gallon o’beer the minute they gets lucky with a broad wot says, “I wants to be rotor rooted and I wants it bad” and actually means it.

In other words, you can rest assured the real Widow Fartie Da Whistle is still very much in one piece, and I’ll explain it all to you later on. And I’ll also fill you in on wot’s been happening with the revolution wot was and is still taking place all around me, and wot is turning it into a scary place. Sort’a like Baghdad if’n it was in the middle of the ocean. Right now, however, I’ve gotta get me re-painted up like I was a big fat Texas flag on wheels, or else the mob might set me alight and ruin my chances for a happy future. As soon as I can, I’ll be back, so set back and rest your butts for a spell and drink some o’that sweet as sugar lemonade or a glass of ice tea wot they likes down in Texas. As I always like to say, so endeth the hearts ‘n’ flowers part o’the evening sweetheart, let’s fuck.