Day 123

Dear Diary,

Well, I’ve just took Zombie Fartie outta my super deluxe MegaTurboBlaster Dryer and spread her out on the ironing board. To be quite frank, she ain’t lookin’ too good and I think she’ll never look like new again. That’s wot you gets when you buy discount sub-name brands for bargain basement prices at them big multinational remainder stores where they only sells shit wot nobody’d buy at a sale price in a retail store. And to think I had such high hopes for her getting’ it off with that snazzy hot ‘n’ flashy part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, not to mention his ‘makes-ya-wanna-cream’ Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio. Oh well, I’m not gonna give up quite yet, so wot I’m gonna do is iron her out real careful with the right temperature and extra steam and then hang her up on a good hanger and have a look at her before makin’ my next move. It also’s occurred to me the biddies’d know how to revive wot’s cheap and nasty and make it look presentable enough so’s you could wear it to church, even on Easter. You see, they’s all experienced when it comes to shopping in the aforementioned discount stores and not spending no money on nothing, and to give ‘em credit where credit’s due they can look bang-up elegant when they wears a dress and for once leave them baggy crimpoline trousers with elastic waistbands ‘n’ sweatpants back at home.

But I’m getting’ ahead of myself, and before I continue on with the Zombie Fartie wot I’d put into the washing machine and then the dryer, Id better set your confusion at rest about the other one, the one wot got hunged up and pulled apart like something only heathens do. Well, if you’d’a been paying attention, you might’a noticed that them wot hanged her up wasn’t so much heathens as Texas tourons, and Miss Zombie Fartie may’ve been a zombie but she were a white zombie woman with blue eyes as well, which means she were in her own way Jeezus’s little sister, even though he might not have been seen with her in public on account of her brainpan was full of evil satan zombie dust. And, of course, it can’t help none relationship-wise with Him that she’s under the mind control of the enemies o’The Lord, wot in this case were Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack and his big old fat brother Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack. But you knowed all that already, don’t you, on account of I’ve told it to you a hundert times a day for the past week or so. Well, Dear Diary and dumbfucks everywhere, I’m here to tell you I’ve sorta misled you again. You don’t know a fuckin’ thing on account of wot I’ve just told you is fuckin’ garbage and nothing but fuckin’ garbage. The truth and nothing but the truth lies in them cardboard boxes I mentioned last thing yesterday. The ones I said you should cogitate over and decide wot was important about them, as well as who the deliveryman was wot’d brung ‘em and who opened them and wot was in ‘em.

Let me sorta start over again with the question of who was Zombie Fartie and who was Zombie Fartie wot wasn’t. Let’s put it this way, there’s no such thing as Zombie Fartie and there never wasn’t. You still not smart enough to put two and two together? I’ll give you a clue. Did you bother to notice who the delivery men was wot brung the big old cardboard boxes to the pink and gold deluxe luxury portable toilets and Las Vegas-style spectacular entertainment theatre and all-you-can-eat family restaurant featuring extra-greasy crispy deep-fried biddykabobs with cornbread’n hushpuppies ‘n’ biscuits ‘n’ gravy? You didn’t? Well, if’n I tell you it were none other than Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, wot under other circumstances work late night shifts at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic and wot was disguised as “Quick As A Wink Postal Delivery Service” delivery courier associates, complete with ugly shorts and cheap phoney baseball caps and clipboards, would you recognise ‘em now? And I’ll ask you another question. Wot sort of deliveries would the likes of Arnie Pizzlepod ‘n’ Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien be makin’ in the middle of the night? Think about it, think about it, and I’ll return to you with the answer just as soon as I’ve done talking some more about the Zombie Fartie wot I was planning on ironing extra flat with my special steam iron with extra steam. And listen up careful, on account of now we’s comin’ on to an exciting bit which I think you’ll enjoy. And if’n you doesn’t listen up like I told you to, you’ll get lost again, and then you’ll whine.

Well, as you remember if’n you was paying attention a few minutes ago, I’d hung up Zombie Fartie – the one I’d just took outta the dryer – on a good quality padded wooden hanger so’s she wouldn’a get crinkled lying on the table waitin’ to be flattened out. Cuz you know how it is. You’re thinking of writing a love letter to the love of your life and you puts a sheet of paper on the table and goes to get the ink and a quill pen, on account of love letters is special and you doesn’t want to use a extra soft pencil from your school pencil box. Anyways, naturally this piece of paper is clean and in wot they calls in pristine condition, but while you’re outta the room, some dumbfucks comes along and sets a big old glass of water or a jelly donut right on top of it and gets it all used lookin’, just as though you’d been scribbling all over it when you was drunk. Either that or a fuckin’ cat comes along and sits all over the piece o’ paper and washes its butthole and leaves cat fart smell all over where you’d daubed your best store-bought after shave stink. Anyway, that’s why I hung Zombie Fartie up on a hanger instead of leaving her on the table while I left to get the steam iron from out back in my boot.

And fuck a duck, while I was out who would pop up and put his hands all over Zombie Fartie but that fuckin’ defrocked minister preacher, The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser. Well, when I come back and sawed him, I nearly dropped my teeth, and that’s not easy on account of I’m a bus and I ain’t got no teeth. And I’m afeard I said somethin’ not very nice to him, which was probably not a good thing to do on account of him bein’ a reverend and all, if’n he was only a fake one and defrocked to boot. Wot I said was “unhand that there cleaned and dried deflated zombie woman or I’ll have your guts for garters.” And you know wot he done? He ripped off this dead Miss Louella Da Bunkle disguise and then he took off another layer o’latex wot I didn’t know he had, which proved to be that not only was The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser a fake reverend, but he was a fake Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser to boot. I’ll tell you right here and now I didn’t know where to look and I didn’t know what to think and I almost didn’t know who I was. I certainly was at a loss for words, which was aggravatin’ on account of it’s the second time this week I’ve been in that condition, but this time it was worse. The condition this time was so serious and critical that my loss for words went so far that I couldn’t even remember the bad ones wot’ve never let me down in the past. And I’m gonna tell you why.

Right in front of me, alive as death and twice as ugly, and standing in the exact same spot and breathin’ the exact same air as only a split-second before’d stood The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, was none other than Beryl. As in Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women. And she turned to me and smiled. And my blood runned cold.

I realise, Dear Diary, that I’ve left you up the creek without a paddle again, as well as all tangled up in all the loose ends I’d promised to unravel but didn’t. All I can say is perhaps you should go away for a bit and let off some steam, and I’ll try to pick up where I’ve just left off, first thing in the morning. Take it from me, the unravelling won’t take a lot of time and’ll be so simple you’ll wonder why you needed me to do it for you. Anyway, as I’ve said a million times and it’s just as pointless a thing to say as if was yesterday, so endeth our little conversation, Dear Diary, and I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself as much as I have.