Day 126

Dear Diary,

A coupl’a minutes ago we runned aground with a thud. And after the thud there was a softish splat, and then after that there was nothin’ but silence. I don’t know where we are and there is no trace of where we came from. No revolutions’re lighting up the sky. No explosions’re blowing out our ear holes. No pink and gold portable toilet holiday home houseboat conversions are to be seen anywhere. Not a Texas touron in sight. And there’s no trace of a glamorous deluxe luxury Las Vegas-style plastic neon resort with a Family Country ‘n’ Western Entertainment Theatre ‘n’ Nudie Bar ‘n’ All-You-Can-Eat Texas-style Barbeque ‘n’ Chili con Carne Twenty-Four Hour Buffet. Not anywhere. Not no how. It’s as if nothing of wot’s been going on in my life recently ever existed. I can’t even see hide nor hair of Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack or his idiot moron brother Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack or Miss Elly May Suzy Honey Wagon (recently deceased but you never can tell around here), or even that brother of hers Big Bubba Lou Axe Blade ‘Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ Honey Wagon. Personally, I must say the absence of Ol’ Mad Perkins The Matchstick Bomber’ makes my heart go pitty-pat and my pulse rate go down about ten thousand points, on account of he were the baddest news since bad news were invented so’s to give newsreaders something to talk about on the six o’clock news, and if’n he’s gone, I sure as fuck ain’t gonna miss him breathing up the same air as me. He were sure one big bad-arse dumbfuck shitfuck. The last I heard about him was he’d appointed hisself president for life of the pink and gold portable toilet holiday home houseboat conversions, or as it’s now called under its new official name, The Banana Republic of Texas Tourons, and believe me, if ever there was a new country wot deserved him, it were The Banana Republic of Texas Tourons. Perhaps it got exploded up in the revolution it’d started and as they say, fomented, and if it did then they sure as shit got their money’s worth outta them atom bombs they bought surplus from one of them big governments wot has sales from time to time and likes to export democracy ‘n’ open markets ‘n’ shit like that, on account of they’re the good guys and knows wot’s best for mankind, if not for those of us wot’re buses and taxis and big wheel trucks. But, as I always says, we all needs to do anything wot gets us through the day, even if it means nobody else gets a day to get through. Or something like that.

Anyways, as I was trying to tell you when I started writing this diary entry, Dear Diary, there were nothing out there but one great big black hole full of nothing but blackness. And whatever it is I just bumped into don’t seem as if it’s in a hurry to give me any clues to my present whereabouts. According to my wheels ‘n’ tyres’, it feels a awful lot like a beach, but since it’s darker’n a bucket of tar I can’t make out wot sort of beach it is. And before you ask, “Why the fuck don’t you turn on your lights, you fuckin’ dumbfuck dipshit?” let me tell you to shut the fuck up, and then I’ll try to explain to you right here and now in words of one syllable that, wot with all the towing of the pink and gold portable toilet holiday home boathouse conversions across the seven seas, as well days and weeks of to-ing and fro-ing tryin’ to rescue this person or that person and this biddy or that biddy from the clutches of death and even worse, my battery’s gone deader’n a wangerdanger after ten gallons o’vodka’ve been dranked by its owner. In other words, I’m gonna hafta wait ‘til the sun comes up and shines his light on me before I can tell you where the fuck we is. That is if after all the atom bombing and other fireworks wot the Texas tourons’ve been shootin’ off as part of their independence celebrations, there still is a sun left in the sky wot still wants to shine.

In the meantime, the most I can do is take a inventory of wot’s left ridin’ ‘round in me (being the bus and the only mode of transportation in the world, as far as I know). We already’ve figured out there ain’t nobody left outside where all the excitement was going on. And as far as wot’s inside, I’m afeared it don’t look any more promising. First of all, startin’ in the driver’s seat, there ain’t nobody at all. It’s as empty as a plate of cake after a fat family’ve sat down to dinner. And it don’t get much better when we goes back and examines the inside of my 33-seat custom-designed and handcrafted Burlington coach. If you thought my driver’s seat was empty, well this is even emptier. I don’t know wot to say. There’s no sign of no biddy in any of my seats and none under none of my seatbelts, which is no surprise considering most of ‘em’ve been ate up by the Texas Tourons and’re off somewheres bein’ digestipated. The ironing board on which Zombie Fartie was stretched out to be ironed and beautified and turned back into The Widow Fartie Da Whistle is not only empty, but it ain’t even there. There’s only a great big hole where it ought’a be, and only sign that Ol’ Fartie’d even existed is a empty packet o’half-used tampax and a coupl’a twice-used condoms. Shit I’m missing her already, and not only on account of she’s more fun than a whole forest of assorted monkeys, but also because I don’t know wot I’m gonna go without a first-class driver, and the way it’s lookin’ now is I’m not gonna have a driver at all, let alone one wot’s actually qualified. Who else is missing? Well, for a start there’s Ol’ Beryl of Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women or The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser or whoever he or she is. I sure wish the fuck I knowed the truth about him/her/it/them, but as things stand now it’ll have to remain one of life’s little mysteries. And the thing about him/her/it/them is that I doesn’t even have a clue as to why he/she/it/they was here in the first place. And fuck if I doesn’t hate mysteries, as you’d know if’n you’ve been reading me careful-like. Perhaps if you hear anything, Dear Diary, you can tell me, and if’n you do I’ll buy you a special gold pencil the next time we sees a store, that is if’n we ever does.

Who else? Oh, yeh, I checked up on the roof and guess who else don’t exist no more? Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley and, yes, you’ve got it, That Head Honcho Foreign Sick Officer wot was busy fillin’ out all my paperwork for me in case we get stopped by the police anytime soon and they wants to check my logbook. Missing, each and every one of ‘em, and so was everybody else wot’d snuck on board without telling me.

Wot a strange world. One moment you’s in the middle of a revolution and shittin’ bricks that you’re gonna be blowed up by one of them insurgents or as a result of enemy action or friendly fire or even by a fat lady wot’s exploded up from eatin’ too many pans o’toad in the hole, and the next minute you’s completely alone in the world. And there’s not a sound anywhere and nobody’s farted in your face and there’s no biddies talking nasty about one of their neighbours. Truth, as they says, is stranger’n friction. Wot I’m thinkin’ is that them bombs the Texas Tourons dropped on the world was wot they calls smart bombs, and that might explain why, being a bus, I survived. And it also might explain why human beings and dumbfucks and cute fuzzy animals not only didn’t survive but was evaporacated. I sure as fuck hope this is not wot they calls the scenario, as I’d hate to think I’ll be spending the rest of all eternity standing alone on a beach somewheres in the middle of Planet Bumfuck. I’ll try not to panic or even think about this, at least not until the sun rises, if in fact it does do that very thing wot’s it’s done every day up ‘til now. Anyway, until that happens or doesn’t happen, I won’t have anything more to say, except for so endeth the revolution and goodbye to everyone wot’s been keeping me company up ‘til now.