Day 130

Dear Diary,

Well, here I am sharing a world and a island on the world and a beach on the island on the world with none other’n Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle ‘n’ Old Wanger Nose. Not to forget Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator, but I gotta mention him in a separate sentence on account of he and me has wot we calls a special relationship. Just to show you how special it is, in the period of time since I runned aground on the beach and now, Ol’ Finian’s washed my bodywork from top to bottom and inside and out, on top of which he’s made hisself some beeswax polish outta the remains of a old abandoned hive wot was half-ruint in the flood. The result is I’m now as shiny as the gold balls on a statue of a bull, and if’n we only had us some petrol and a new battery we could go somewheres and find us a nice abandoned place to live, preferably with a garage for me and a stack of dirty pictures for the boys. I was about to say “a CD player” but then I remembered there ain’t no electricity, not here and probably not in the whole world. However, Ol’ Finian told me not to worry about that, on account of he’s gonna harness the waves or build hisself a windmill or maybe a waterwheel and he says there’s no reason he can’t have something workin’ for us in the way of a generator by the end of the week. And to think, all that time I’d took him for granted as just another soft pair o’hands! Anyways, in so far he sure ain’t let no grass grow under his feet, on account of in the time it’s took me to write these three hundert or so words, he’s already lit us a big old fire so’s he can cook hisself and the others a juicy nutritious dinner from the shitload of flood-kilt dead animals he’s scavenged from all over the beach. It sure is a pity the other men’re unfortunately professional couch-crappers wot can’t do nothin’ for themselves, but of course given that they’re idiots and fucking morons, wot can you expect? Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator’s also built me a lean-to so’s I can get out of the weather if it gets raunchy like it does sometimes, or at least once or twice a day if’n it’s feelin’ especially rambunctious. Unfortunately for me, he couldn’t build the lean-to down here by the water’s edge where I’m stucked in the sand, on account of come the next high tide I’d just float away and then we’d all be where we was before, and that’s in the middle of the sea. And as they says, “fuck that ‘n’ bugger me with a tuning fork!” He also confided in me that since he’s not yet made me up some petrol from the big old field of rape wot’s sitting over there on a hill about half a mile away, it’s gonna be up to him and the others to push me across the beach. Jeeze fuckin’ Louise, I wish I could help, but wot can I do, given that I’m only a bus without enough petrol in me to char-grill a chigger? Poor Ol’ stoat, I know I just said it was up to him and the others to push me across the beach, but wot I should’a said was it’s gonna be up to him without the others, on account of they’s the laziest bunch of fuck shittin’ no-accounts ‘n’ do-nothing’s since the Lord invented shitfaced wangerwagglers on the third day of creation when he got bored o’comin’ up with good ideas. Jeeze Louise, all Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle does is sit around on their butt-cheeks complainin’ and whinin’ and grousin’ and groanin’ about how bad they’s suffering and how uncomfortable everything is and about how they’s men and men don’t do women’s work and where’s them fuckin’ cocksuckin’ twat-twitchin’ bitches wot should’a been serving them their dinner with three kinds of potatoes five hours ago? And Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle, wot’s easily the number one primo example of a test product wot’s failed and should’a been throwed away right at the beginning, told us all he were especially sensitive and couldn’t prove his manhood without a different fresh juicy pussy every hour on the hour. I personally said to him he ought’a shut the fuck up or I’d run over his foot, but he spat in my face and smirked that there weren’t nothin’ I could do, on account of I was just a fuckin’ bus with no petrol and I should learn to keep in my place, which was in the bottom of a barrel o’ junk. “I’m one big man with one big powerful tooler driller,” he bragged. “My monster wanker whacker’s plum swolled up fit to squirtin’ with jizm juice and’s primed to explode a gusset.” Honest to Jeezus Jumpin’ Jehosephat, and to think I’d thought the fart-faced arsehole Hackensack brothers was the primo-est jerk-off dumbfucks in the whole wide world!

Anyways, Ol’ Howard Donald looked like he was after continuing on with his tirade for another ten hours or so. And after his whine growed just about as irritatin’ as a person can sit through without killin’ the first innocent passer-by wot’s walkin’ down on the opposite side of the street, someone nearby took his cigar outta his mouth and sucked on his solid gold-plated iron dentures. Jeeze Louise, we all jumped about a mile, all of us except Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle, of course, who was extra busy enjoyin’ the sound of his own voice and had his ears turned off. I for one, looked over to the left, and there was Old Mister Wanger Nose, wot we’d all forgot about in all the fuss, and he was sittin’ on top of the stolen luggage with all of Missus Milly Da Fardle’s ill-got bingo winnings in it. And he was guarding it against it being stoled from him again like it was stoled from him before in The Bank of Old Wanger Nose back before the flood. Anyways, while me and Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker looked on, the old fart took out one of his nine millimetre semi-automatic Glocks wot he keeps for special occasions such as this in secret hidey-holes in his bottom, and he shot Ol’ Howard Donald in his big toe. Jeeze fuckin’ Louise, talk about a stuck pig squealin’! I’ve never heard anything like it since the first day I was wheeled off’n the assembly line right next to the hog farm, and that was way back before the fifties and maybe even in the early thirties.

Well, as somebody or other said, “how the fuckin fuck’d the dumbfuck get so much blood in his fuckin’ self?” A half an hour has passed and the red stuff is still squirtin’ all over the place and everyone looks like they’d rolled around in a great big fat strawberry jam roly-poly. And as for Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle’s imitation of a stuck pig, I think it’s just progressed a couple notches up the decibel scale, until we’s now surrounded by about a hundert pigs wot’s been having their throats cut with a rusty razor. Whooee, wot a fuckin’ mess and then some. But I’ll tell you wot, I’ve just looked over into Old Wanger Nose’s eyes and I’ll bet you anything you want he’s gonna be haulin’ out another one of his guns from his groin bag any minute now, perhaps even a Uzi, and I’m thinkin’ that if’n Ol’ Howard Donald don’t shut the fuck up voluntarily, he’s gonna be shut the fuck up involuntarily. I’m gonna put my pencil away and watch, on account of this is the most fun I’ve had since the day Floozie Da Smelley invited The Women’s Institute around for a picnic at the lopsided pink flatpack building ‘n’ had a wet fart right when she were presenting the prize for the best ever florabundae gherkin dip. So endeth my flappin’ my gums for now, Dear Diary, and I’ll let you know if’n Howard Donald survives the night and does wot he’s told, or whether he’s wot we eats for supper tomorrow.