Day 129

Dear Diary,

Well, here I am, alive and well and standing in the sunshine after spending the night gigglin’ and talkin’ with good Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator. To be honest, I’m still in the dark as to everythin wot’s happened, but I probably know more’n Ol’ Finian does on account of he was here and I was there – wherever ‘there’ was – and in the thick of the action. For example, I know we was bombed into fuck ‘n’ the great beyond and that’s more’n he knows. But never mind, there’s no reason to fret about it and as he says, “I’m fuckin alive and breathin’ and that more’n practically anybody else can say!” You’ve really got to admire Ol’ Finian for his attitude, on account of so many folks these days can’t get through a minute of their lives without tellin’ everybody about everything wot’s wrong with the world ‘n’ sharing whingey whineys with whomever it is sittin’ or standin’ next to ‘em. Never mind, now that them folks from Texas’ve bombed the shit outta the planet and outta themselves as well, which were totally accidental on their part and which proves you can take the dumbfucks outta Texas but you sure as fuck can’t take Texas outta the dumbfucks. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure out wot I’m tryin’ to say.

Anyways, back to Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator and where I is now. And this you ain’t gonna believe. As I already told you, them there dirty bombs wiped out all the dumbfucks and even my old biddies wot unfortunately was not immune to the effects of the dirty bombs, and that includes those biddies wot were already fried up into extra-greasy crispy biddykebabs and served up to the Texas tourons on paper plates with some of that Texas Crisp Forever Lettuce with Salad Cream poured over the top. Even wot I thinks of as decent folks and also my good friend and caregiver, poor Ol’ Widow Fartie Da Whistle got evaporated into the tiniest little bitty invisible particles you never did saw. And let me tell you this were a fuckin piece o’bad luck for Ol’ Fartie, especially comin’ as it did directly after she’d been zombieficated and then cloned into life-size inflatable rubber ready-for-action dollies, which is something you wouldn’t wish even on your sister. And if that weren’t bad enough, after that she had to go and get hunged up and and have her head pulled off and her innards ‘n’ blood ‘n’ guts ‘n’ brains squirted all over the floor. It’s enough to make a body cry, except of course nobody knowed for sure which one was her and which was the dollies. Anyway, as I said, they was all evaporated, every single one down to the last sea slug on the bottom of the sea. ‘Course I should probably mention a few of their names besides The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, just in case when God gets ‘round to checking off who was who, he’ll have a reminder of some of them wot otherwise he’d probably not heard of before. In this list I should be wantin’ to include, even if I don’t personally miss them all that much, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny ‘n’ Floozie Da Smelley ‘n’ that top notch head honcho foreign sick officer wot was never ever called a name of his own, not even by his mama. And then I should write down Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, though why I should want God to remember him I don’t rightly know. And on a more cheerful note I mustn’t forget Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien from down at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic, even if it’s more likely the other fella down below’s more interested in them than Ol’ God is. And talkin’ of God, I suppose I should bring up one of His best friends on the island, Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan of the Church of The Immaculate Septum. I know he’d not been into saving souls as much as drinkin’ cups of tea with exactly two drops of potheen for that extra spiritual dimension, but I guess he did The Lord’s work as best he could figure out, which is something. Oh, and right here and now I hafta add that Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator’s asked me as a special favour to remind God about Myrtleen Da Patootie and (for a second time) Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, on account of both of ‘em was so good about relieving him in his many hours of personal need. Ol’ Finian would’a wrote down their names hisself, only as he says I’ve got the one and only last pencil on the earth and so it’s up to me to be wot he calls The Official Recording Angel. Let’s see, who else? Oh, yes, while I is on the subject of folks wot’s on God’s personal payroll, even if’n they ain’t exactly important enough for Him to’ve programmed their names on his speed-dial, I might write down The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser. ‘Course, for all I know he really is Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women, but I’m addin’ him on account of just in case he was actually a fake, fake preacher and not just a fake preacher wot’d be an abomination to The Lord. I gotta hedge my bets here on account of if I says the wrong thing about The Reverend Doctor I might get into more trouble than I already is with the Old Fella livin’ upstairs. And considering my present circumstances, that wouldn’t be a good idea.

Fuck. Who else? Well, I suppose I should mention Missus Milly Da Fardle, but only in temporary ink and not pencil on account of I know she’s out there somewhere ruling wot’s left of the world and she probably even pushed the little old red button wot let loose all them bombs on the rest of us. And even if’n it weren’t her wot actually done the dirty, I’ll bet you anything you want she’s doin’ all right for herself.

I hear you yelling about those wot you calls ‘serious omissions’ in my list-making activities, especially Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker and Howard Donald Da Fardle ‘n’ Old Wanger Nose. Owld Fingus Da Flatulator was already dead ‘n’ gone to the cat food factory long ago, so if God hasn’t remembered him so far then I’d say he was outta luck. And as for Missus Drain and Miss Cabbage, well all I can say is that wherever they is, they’s sharing company with Missus Milly Da Fardle. Plus I’m willin’ to bet all three of them is up to no good and getting’ rich while they’re doin’ it. Not that there’s anything wrong with bad folks makin’ all sorts of money, on account of I’m all in favour of it, and I hope any bad folks out there wot’re lookin’ to buy a vintage classic Daimler Burlington bus wot’s stranded on a beach’ll remember that I’m available and willing to do just about anything for the right quality of fuel and the right kind of sweet talk. Say I’d like to say here and now, “Let’s talk!”

Ah, but wot about Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle ‘n’ Old Wanger Nose? Well, and I don’t know how to put this, but let’s just say that outta all them millions and billions of folks God could’a chose to miss out on getting’ the evaporation treatment from them dirty bombs, somehow they - along with Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator - is now officially The Chosen People. Sorta pathetic ain’t it, especially when Ol’ God’s gonna be expectin’ them to restart the population explosion right fresh from the beginning and without no help from anybody else. Now, I know you’re gonna butt in ‘n’ say that’s a stupid way to start a new population explosion, on account of there’s no woman to ‘carry the burden’ as it were. Well, to that I can only reply we’ll hafta wait ‘n’ see, and perhaps there’s more ‘n’ meets to eye to Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator. Anyways, I’m sure they’ll get it sorted out between themselves, and until they do they can have all the fun in the world tryin’. Funny old world, ain’t it?

My pencil stub has just about runned outta lead and I got a few more words to add before there ain’t no more to write with. So wot I’m gonna do now is say so endeth an amazin’ day and I’m gonna catch me some rays while the sun is hot and enjoy the sight of them three idiots chasin’ each other around the beach like they was thirteen years old again.