Day 131

Dear Diary,

There’s somethin’ about wot’s goin’ on here that’s eerily familiar. It seems only yesterday or the day before when all the biddies was marinated in sweet ‘n’ sour sauce and tied on to a rack so’s they could be barbequed ’til they was done and then some. And here we is, a million miles away and back on the island and without so much as a single delicious, succulent edible biddy in sight. Believe you me, we is muy contento (as they say) to live without a barbequed sacrifice for all of a millennium or two, when suddenly wot does I see in front of my eyes but Howard Donald Da Fardle, still squawkin’ away to beat the band about wot a he-man he is and how he can’t live another second without a dozen or three ladies from The Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic openin’ up their glory-holelujas and suckin’ on his mighty trumpet. Personally I think it’s just a sign of advanced senility movin’ into his brain on account of, out of all the brains currently alive and livin’ on the island, and perhaps even in the world, his was the emptiest and the stupidest and the most eligible. Also, all the other brains, and I’m includin’ Old Wanger Nose and Fergal Da Fecker myself, wasn’t talkin’ at the time so’s we was invisible to the senility germs (as they calls themselves). Plus, the only other brain out there wot might’a been available belonged to Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator, and he was so busy building shelters for us ‘n’ tendin’ to my needs ‘n’ buildin’ a roastin’ and heatin’ fire ‘n’ cookin’ up the dinner so’s we all wouldn’t die to death of starvation, that his brain were workin’ too hard to be a sittin’ target like the others. Ol’ Finian may not be the smartest of classroom swots, in fact he can barely read or write his name, but when it comes to practical matters, there ain’t nobody like him. Anyways, as I said, when the dementia doodle bug was searchin’ for his dinner, Finian Da Fabricator’s brain was so busy zipping this way and that and taking care of all the business wot had to be done to keep us alive, that the bug gave up on him and set his sites on the one wot activity-wise resembles a pile of jellied eels more’n it does a human bein’. Poor Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle. Not only is he shaped just like a haggis wot’s been throwed across a field, but he ain’t got nothing else positive goin’ for him either, and he never has. Probably never will neither the way he’s goin’ at it.

Anyways, as I was sayin’, Howard Donald Da Fardle, wot’s ain’t got so much a tackle box as a snuff box, must’a decided when he was asked to help out Finian Da Fabricator by collecting firewood, that he were too good for ordinary work, which was natural when you consider he’s never done any no how and wouldn’t recognise it if’n it snuck up on him and bit him on the butt. But rather than say straight out, “Fuck you, Rat-face Finian Da Fabricator, get your own fuckin’ firewood on account of I’s the second son of Missus Milly Da Fardle who’s now the megalomaniac dictator of the world and you can kiss my hairy pimpled butt,” he decided only a fool’d be honest like that to Ol’ Finian, who might take him out back of the school and whop the shit outta him. And so, when the Dementia Precoxibobble was askin’ around for volunteers, he raise his hand sky high and said, “me me me.” And since insanity loves nothin’ more than a idiot wot’s standin’ in line waitin’ to be insanitised, we had wot they calls a marriage made in heaven, but hell for the rest of us. When all there is is four of you alive and kickin’ in the world, and one of you is a bus (albeit a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6) without so much as a ounce of petrol or a single kilowatt of electrical juice a’pumpin’ through his veins, and you gotta start all over in the survival and propagatin’ departments, the last thing you wants is for one of you to go gaga. And on top of that, when the gaga one starts in a’singin’ and a’braggin about his bein’ the king of the hill, sexual proclivity-wise, when you know his poor wife had to take a lover to prove to herself she was a woman, then you know he’s gotta be shut up and fast. And that’s why Old Wanger Nose took out his trusty nine millimetre Glock from his secret storage unit and blasted Howard Donald’s foot over into the fifth dimension. Only trouble is, Old Wanger Nose’s plan sorta backfired, on account of Ol’ Howard Donald started in a’squealin’ and a’squeakin’ and a’screamin’ and bringin’ down the house on all of us. And when he didn’t look like he was gonna shut up anytime in the foreseeable future, that’s when Old Wanger Nose, who is nothing if not a natural problem-solver, decided the only thing to do was roast Howard Donald on a spit. However, that’s when Fergal Da Fecker, who’s not good for much outside’a keepin’ his sheep company at night and getting’ married to a duck, spoked up and said if’n we ate Howard Donald up right away, we’d not have a bite to eat tomorrow or the day after that. “Why not,” he suggested, comin’ up with his first good idea of the day, “salt him good and tender and dry him out so’s we can serve him up as a great big fat prosciutto in six or seven months time?”

Howard Donald Da Fardle shut up double quick when he heard Fergal Da Fecker make that there suggestion, and then he thought real hard for a coupl’a hours or so, after which he spoked up real cheerful, “I likes prosciutto in a tomato sandwich with some of that there prooovieloney! Can someone go to the store and git me some o’them big-sized twelve-pack double-crunch choclut bars for an appetiser?”

Sometimes, Dear Diary, all you can do is give up and go home. And since none of us wot were inflicted with what they calls “the presence” of Howard Donald Da Fardle has homes to go to, the others – Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Old Wanger Nose – climbed into me and locked the doors so’s Ol’ Howard Donald’d be left out in the cold. Jeesez shit ‘n’ shine your shoes, wot the fuck was they gonna do with him? Anyways, they’s now holdin’ a deep ‘n’ meaningful confab, and I’m gonna put away my pencil stub and listen in. When somebody’s come up with a solution I’ll let you know by wakin’ you outta your beauty sleep and sayin’ so endeth the peace-keepin’ negotiations and here’s wot we’re gonna do.