Dear Diary,
I spent all night hoping I’d figure out wot the fuck was goin’ on in my life and if’n I was still me or if’n I’d been possessed and sucked into the evil heart of Beryl of Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women. And if’n this was wot’d happened, was I the victim of a inkybus or something like that or even something worser? But instead of being left alone to wallow in my fears and misery, I was pestered every minute on the minute and hour on the hour by you, Dear Diary, and also by a whole bunch of your readers wot’ve never met me but treat me like I’m responsible for their personal happiness and entertainment. And wot were they screamin’ and gibberin’ about? Well, It seems they want me to make wot they calls a “list” of all the things wot I’ve started to write about, things wot, according the them, whoever they is, I ain’t stuck with long enough to “find closure” as they says. Fuck closure is wot I say. Give me a chocolate Easter Egg and a anchovy sandwich any day of the week. The only closure wot I’m interested in is wot you does to a door before you drives down the street, and even then I’m only interested in it on account of I don’t want to get the finger pointed at me if’n the fucking door swings open when I’m swerving’ round a corner and a biddy spills out and splats her head open on the tarmac and it leaves a stain. That’s all I have to say about your fucking closure, and if’n there’s any more words from you on the subject don’t expect a answer from me.
Yesterday was full to overflowing with crap and all the other shit and poop and excrement manure related to crap, and I’m beginning to think I’m the dumbest dumbfuck in the world for not running away the minute we was washed out to sea in the flood and I found out that Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Foozie Da Smelley ‘d attached all two hundert of their pink and gold portable toilet holiday home conversions on to my tail pipe so’s they get towed out to sea and wouldn’t get ruint in the horrible torrential rain we was getting’ soaked with at the time. But being that I’m always full o’optimism as well as crap, I went along with things and said to myself everything always turns out for the best. After all, I had The Widow Fartie Da Whistle in charge of the bus (being me) and all the biddies was strapped in their seats and full o’vinegar and piss. And at the time we’d not even heard of that nasty putrid mogul and owner of the Texas entertainment conglomerate, twelve-year-old James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack, nor had we had his dumbfuck family inflicted on us either. ‘Course there were all them Texas tourons stayin’ in the pink and gold portable toilet holiday home floatin’ boat house conversions, but at the time they hadn’t showed their true colours and I hadn’t been unfortunate enough to meet ‘em in person. It was also before The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d been turned into a Zombie and’d been forced to work puttin’ together a Las Vegas-style floorshow for James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack. And as for the business of the biddies being kidnapped and turned into barbeque lunches for the tourons, that was still in the future. In fact, it were so far in the future God hisself couldn’a even dreameded it up yet.
‘Course, when Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack and his idiot moron brother Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack ‘n’ Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon and that brother of hers Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon started up their worldwide conglomerate entertainment empire, they hadn’t planned on the uprisin’ on the part of the Texas tourons when their promised-in-the-brochure extra-greasy crispy deep-fried biddykabob lunch wasn’t served up to ‘em on time. And nobody, except perhaps for some sick mind wot’s even sicker’n any of those others I’ve come into contact lately, could’a envisioned some evil inventor usin’ his Instant Patented Mob Mentality Social Organisin’ Machine to evolve the uprising into a bloody revolution during which many heads ran away from their bodies and a whole lot o’blood spurted all over here and the great hereafter. During all this bloodbath goings on, I managed to steal Zombie Fartie back and I threw her into my washing machine and dryer to de-zombieficate so’s we could get her back the way she was. To be quite frank I needed her something terrible on account of nobody else around here knows how to take care of me or drive without strippin’ my gears or crashin’ into stop signs. And besides, all the biddies wot’re left in the world and haven’t been turned into extra-greasy crispy touron all you can eat lunches misses her like shit. They’d all got to thinking she’s like their daughters. In fact, most’a them think she actually is their daughter, on account of they’s sadly gone soft in the head and unfortunately dementiated something terrible since we’ve got washed out to sea. It’s horrible, I know, but inevitable I suppose.
Anyways, as it turned out that particular Zombie Fartie might not have been the real Zombie Fartie in spite of all the trouble I’d took to kidnap her back. What I mean by this is that no sooner’d I rescued her and stuck her into the washing machine, than I looked outta my window I sawed her being a victim of the revolution and being hunged up in a bad sorta way. And the worst thing was, whoever was doin’ the lynchin’ of her fucked up the job royal and her head got pulled off in a way that made me want to throw up. Or at least it would’a if’n I’d been a human being and not a bus, on account of buses can’t toss their cookies even if’n we feel like it. When I saw wot they was doin’ to her, I said, “Oh Fuck ‘n’ Jeezus why dontcha fuckin’ do somethin’ you piece o’ shit,” but I seems to spoke too soon, on account of no sooner’d her head been liberated from her body that her body ricocheted all over from Hell and back and deflated down to nothing, sorta like a balloon does. I then said, “Wot the fuck?” and remembered all them big cardboard boxes wot’d been delivered to the All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise Entertainment Theatre and Las Vegas Bling-a-Ding Showroom and Casino. I put two and two together and said “Fuck me purple until my sphincter screams” or something along those lines, on account of it’d hit me wot was goin’ on. And Jeezus was my revelation right on the money. ‘Cus not only wasn’t the Fartie wot’d been hunged up and tore apart the real thing, but she were nothin’ but one of them blowup rubber sex fuck dolls advertised on the back pages of them tabloids. On top o’that, there were about five thousand more exactly like her, and like her they’d got pseudo replica Widow Fartie Da Whistle wigs balanced on the top of their heads. I’m telling you, other than the fact that their boobs was ten times the size of hers and round as watermelons, and their eyes was buggin’ outta their heads, and their mouths was stuck open like they was waitin’ for something about the size of a submarine to park in there for the night, and the hole wot was down below was wearin’ the same expression as the mouth, it looked exactly like her. Which is why, I suppose, I’d got confused for a coupl’a days. ‘Course, I was as relieved as a constipated elephant after he’d been dosed with a oil tanker to find out that Zombie Fartie hadn’t been yanked apart and that I had the real one stretched out over my ironing board. And I would’a gone and gived her a great big hug and said “Welcome back to papa Zombie Fartie,” only I couldn’t on account of first of all The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser was standin’ over her fondling wot he’d forgot to pay for. And then second of all, all of a sudden it weren’t him but he’d changed into Ol’ Beryl the old biddies’ favourite hairdresser ‘n’ beauticians, and she were standing in his place and doing somethin’ I’d never seen one woman doin’ to another, at least not outside of one of them pornogrator films Ol’ Finian De Fabricator use to enjoy back in the good old days when we shared a garage together. Fuckin’ Jeeze Louise, was I embarrassed, on account of I’m a private bus by nature and kinda shy. And so I sorta hid my eyes, only peeping out occasionally, and I pretended I was looking in the other direction and wasn’t seeing wot was goin’ on until finally Ol’ Beryl turned around with a look on her face wot said she’d got wot she wanted and even more. I could’a swore she had a coupl’a red ‘n’ hairy curls caught in the side of her mouth, and her eyes was gauzy and she were sorta wet in the pace where biddies only get wet when they’s forgot to put on a double pair of old biddy nappies.
Directly after this, when standing lookin’ as stupid as stupid could be that the sky and all wot was in it exploded into a mighty armchair a’gedden, and me and all wot was ridin’ in me was throwed about a million miles up into the ozone layer. And I may have blacked out, or it may’ve been that my lights was all blowed out, on account of it was as dark as shit and all I knowed was that we was flyin’ up and up and up, and pretty soon we passed the ol’ moon and we just kept on a’goin’.
All I can say is we haven’t come back down yet and I’m sorta afeared to open my eyes to see wot’s goin’ on. I’ve just lost my pencil, which means to finish this I’ve gotta resort to motor oil. All I can say is so probably endeth wot was a pretty good life, but I’ll let you know either when we crashes down to earth or I rents a space in the great garage in the sky.
I spent all night hoping I’d figure out wot the fuck was goin’ on in my life and if’n I was still me or if’n I’d been possessed and sucked into the evil heart of Beryl of Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women. And if’n this was wot’d happened, was I the victim of a inkybus or something like that or even something worser? But instead of being left alone to wallow in my fears and misery, I was pestered every minute on the minute and hour on the hour by you, Dear Diary, and also by a whole bunch of your readers wot’ve never met me but treat me like I’m responsible for their personal happiness and entertainment. And wot were they screamin’ and gibberin’ about? Well, It seems they want me to make wot they calls a “list” of all the things wot I’ve started to write about, things wot, according the them, whoever they is, I ain’t stuck with long enough to “find closure” as they says. Fuck closure is wot I say. Give me a chocolate Easter Egg and a anchovy sandwich any day of the week. The only closure wot I’m interested in is wot you does to a door before you drives down the street, and even then I’m only interested in it on account of I don’t want to get the finger pointed at me if’n the fucking door swings open when I’m swerving’ round a corner and a biddy spills out and splats her head open on the tarmac and it leaves a stain. That’s all I have to say about your fucking closure, and if’n there’s any more words from you on the subject don’t expect a answer from me.
Yesterday was full to overflowing with crap and all the other shit and poop and excrement manure related to crap, and I’m beginning to think I’m the dumbest dumbfuck in the world for not running away the minute we was washed out to sea in the flood and I found out that Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Foozie Da Smelley ‘d attached all two hundert of their pink and gold portable toilet holiday home conversions on to my tail pipe so’s they get towed out to sea and wouldn’t get ruint in the horrible torrential rain we was getting’ soaked with at the time. But being that I’m always full o’optimism as well as crap, I went along with things and said to myself everything always turns out for the best. After all, I had The Widow Fartie Da Whistle in charge of the bus (being me) and all the biddies was strapped in their seats and full o’vinegar and piss. And at the time we’d not even heard of that nasty putrid mogul and owner of the Texas entertainment conglomerate, twelve-year-old James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack, nor had we had his dumbfuck family inflicted on us either. ‘Course there were all them Texas tourons stayin’ in the pink and gold portable toilet holiday home floatin’ boat house conversions, but at the time they hadn’t showed their true colours and I hadn’t been unfortunate enough to meet ‘em in person. It was also before The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d been turned into a Zombie and’d been forced to work puttin’ together a Las Vegas-style floorshow for James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack. And as for the business of the biddies being kidnapped and turned into barbeque lunches for the tourons, that was still in the future. In fact, it were so far in the future God hisself couldn’a even dreameded it up yet.
‘Course, when Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack and his idiot moron brother Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack ‘n’ Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon and that brother of hers Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon started up their worldwide conglomerate entertainment empire, they hadn’t planned on the uprisin’ on the part of the Texas tourons when their promised-in-the-brochure extra-greasy crispy deep-fried biddykabob lunch wasn’t served up to ‘em on time. And nobody, except perhaps for some sick mind wot’s even sicker’n any of those others I’ve come into contact lately, could’a envisioned some evil inventor usin’ his Instant Patented Mob Mentality Social Organisin’ Machine to evolve the uprising into a bloody revolution during which many heads ran away from their bodies and a whole lot o’blood spurted all over here and the great hereafter. During all this bloodbath goings on, I managed to steal Zombie Fartie back and I threw her into my washing machine and dryer to de-zombieficate so’s we could get her back the way she was. To be quite frank I needed her something terrible on account of nobody else around here knows how to take care of me or drive without strippin’ my gears or crashin’ into stop signs. And besides, all the biddies wot’re left in the world and haven’t been turned into extra-greasy crispy touron all you can eat lunches misses her like shit. They’d all got to thinking she’s like their daughters. In fact, most’a them think she actually is their daughter, on account of they’s sadly gone soft in the head and unfortunately dementiated something terrible since we’ve got washed out to sea. It’s horrible, I know, but inevitable I suppose.
Anyways, as it turned out that particular Zombie Fartie might not have been the real Zombie Fartie in spite of all the trouble I’d took to kidnap her back. What I mean by this is that no sooner’d I rescued her and stuck her into the washing machine, than I looked outta my window I sawed her being a victim of the revolution and being hunged up in a bad sorta way. And the worst thing was, whoever was doin’ the lynchin’ of her fucked up the job royal and her head got pulled off in a way that made me want to throw up. Or at least it would’a if’n I’d been a human being and not a bus, on account of buses can’t toss their cookies even if’n we feel like it. When I saw wot they was doin’ to her, I said, “Oh Fuck ‘n’ Jeezus why dontcha fuckin’ do somethin’ you piece o’ shit,” but I seems to spoke too soon, on account of no sooner’d her head been liberated from her body that her body ricocheted all over from Hell and back and deflated down to nothing, sorta like a balloon does. I then said, “Wot the fuck?” and remembered all them big cardboard boxes wot’d been delivered to the All You Can Eat Floating Island Bar-BQ Picnic Paradise Entertainment Theatre and Las Vegas Bling-a-Ding Showroom and Casino. I put two and two together and said “Fuck me purple until my sphincter screams” or something along those lines, on account of it’d hit me wot was goin’ on. And Jeezus was my revelation right on the money. ‘Cus not only wasn’t the Fartie wot’d been hunged up and tore apart the real thing, but she were nothin’ but one of them blowup rubber sex fuck dolls advertised on the back pages of them tabloids. On top o’that, there were about five thousand more exactly like her, and like her they’d got pseudo replica Widow Fartie Da Whistle wigs balanced on the top of their heads. I’m telling you, other than the fact that their boobs was ten times the size of hers and round as watermelons, and their eyes was buggin’ outta their heads, and their mouths was stuck open like they was waitin’ for something about the size of a submarine to park in there for the night, and the hole wot was down below was wearin’ the same expression as the mouth, it looked exactly like her. Which is why, I suppose, I’d got confused for a coupl’a days. ‘Course, I was as relieved as a constipated elephant after he’d been dosed with a oil tanker to find out that Zombie Fartie hadn’t been yanked apart and that I had the real one stretched out over my ironing board. And I would’a gone and gived her a great big hug and said “Welcome back to papa Zombie Fartie,” only I couldn’t on account of first of all The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser was standin’ over her fondling wot he’d forgot to pay for. And then second of all, all of a sudden it weren’t him but he’d changed into Ol’ Beryl the old biddies’ favourite hairdresser ‘n’ beauticians, and she were standing in his place and doing somethin’ I’d never seen one woman doin’ to another, at least not outside of one of them pornogrator films Ol’ Finian De Fabricator use to enjoy back in the good old days when we shared a garage together. Fuckin’ Jeeze Louise, was I embarrassed, on account of I’m a private bus by nature and kinda shy. And so I sorta hid my eyes, only peeping out occasionally, and I pretended I was looking in the other direction and wasn’t seeing wot was goin’ on until finally Ol’ Beryl turned around with a look on her face wot said she’d got wot she wanted and even more. I could’a swore she had a coupl’a red ‘n’ hairy curls caught in the side of her mouth, and her eyes was gauzy and she were sorta wet in the pace where biddies only get wet when they’s forgot to put on a double pair of old biddy nappies.
Directly after this, when standing lookin’ as stupid as stupid could be that the sky and all wot was in it exploded into a mighty armchair a’gedden, and me and all wot was ridin’ in me was throwed about a million miles up into the ozone layer. And I may have blacked out, or it may’ve been that my lights was all blowed out, on account of it was as dark as shit and all I knowed was that we was flyin’ up and up and up, and pretty soon we passed the ol’ moon and we just kept on a’goin’.
All I can say is we haven’t come back down yet and I’m sorta afeared to open my eyes to see wot’s goin’ on. I’ve just lost my pencil, which means to finish this I’ve gotta resort to motor oil. All I can say is so probably endeth wot was a pretty good life, but I’ll let you know either when we crashes down to earth or I rents a space in the great garage in the sky.
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