Day 162

Dear Diary,

Well, as I feared, I’m gonna hafta continue my investigation into the mysterious circumstances surrounding the four dead bodies in my backseat without the assistance of my little grey cells. At least that’s how it appears at this moment in time. A pity really, on account of it would’a been a whole new ball game, me actually working together with my brain instead of us workin’ as cross purposes. As they says, ce la vie or celery to those wot’re in the know ‘n’ speak the way things is supposed to be spoke when you’re in Parlee Voo Frenzie. Perhaps I’ll try draggin’ out my little grey cells the next time I’ve got a problem, and perhaps not on account of intelligence is not really worth all the trouble it causes.

Anyways, to get back to my investigation. If’n you recalls, the four dead bodies of Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ the other, Miss Louella Da Bunkle, wot appeared to be a spare part, hadn’t been dead before their heads’d popped off ‘n’ rolled on to their laps a coupl’a days ago. In fact, up until that moment, they’d been a’jabberin’ away to beat the band and I’d thought they’d never shut the fuck up. Now I know your probably wonderin’ about wot ever happened to Missus Milly Da Fardle after she’d took off like a balloon wot’s got a leak ‘n’ she whizzed round ‘n’ round the inside of the bus (being me, in case you’ve forgot). Well, she exploded to pieces is wot happened. Or did she? And was them bodies wot’d got folded up ‘n’ packed into the pretty-as-a-picture cardboard boxes with hand calligraphied name tags attached to the tops really all they was purported to be? That, as they say, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question. And the answer, as least as I can figure it out at the moment, is not on your nelly.

To arrive at my conclusion I spent most’a the night examinin’ and re-examinin’ them aforementioned corpses. I unzipped ‘em up the from all the way down, ‘n’ then I re-zipped ‘em back up to the top, ‘n’ then when I’d did that a coupl’a dozen times I decided it’d be fun to turn ‘em all inside out. And this is when I really started to get more suspicious than ever that things wasn’t as they was supposed to be. And do you wanna know why? Because, my dear friend ‘n’ Dear Diary, their insides was as clean as a whistle. There wasn’t a trace of any inside-o’the-body ucky stuff. ‘Course, I already knowed there weren’t no bones, on account of whoever’d packed ‘em up like Christmas presents’d de-boned ‘em neater’n if’n they’d never had no bones in the first place. This of course, was a moment wot made me say, “Aha!” And indeed I said “Aha” at the time, but not really convincingly, on account of I figured the butcher wot de-boned ‘em might’a had one of them really sharp knives you see advertised on TV for ninety-nine cents wot can do anything ‘n’ everything includin’ choppin’ down a skyscraper ‘n’ a tomato at the same time. And only a knife like that could clean everything up so good. Anyways, since that seemed to me to be a rational explanation, I didn’t pursue that line of enquiry any further. Funnily enough, it didn’t really occur to me to ask WHY the bodies’d been de-boned the way they was, but you hafta rememberate I’d just had a argument with my little grey cells a few minutes before ‘n’ they’d staged wot they calls a work stoppage. And just in case you don’t see the ramifications of wot I’m sayin’, it has to do with me not thinkin’ so good on account of I’d not had nothin’ to think with.

I doesn’t really think I’m gonna get any further solvin’ this current mystery by talkin’ any more about why the bodies didn’t have no bones or who de-boned ‘em out or why they’s been scrubbed so clean. On the other hand, keepin’ on the track of the bones regardless, perhaps they doesn’t have any on account of they didn’t have none to begin with! That could account for the fact there ain’t no trace of bones anywhere on the bus (bein’ me), and believe me I know everythin’ wot goes on in there (or me, to be more precise). And don’t try to tell me the reason for the lack of bones is because the bodies was so dirt poor they had to sell their skeletons to earn money to give their grannies a operation. And anyway, if you want to be honest, who on earth would buy their rickety old bones? And don’t you go suggestin’ the buyer were one of them fancy restaurants wot needs ‘em so’s they could make a big old batch of veal stock so’s they could reduce it down to demi-glace ‘n’ then to glace ‘n’ finally into a single ultra-concentrate stock cube. Cuz if’n that’s wot you’re suggestin’, may I suggest right back that you’ve got even fewer brains’n me, and since those I have’re on strike my head’s nothin’ but a empty carburettor.

Huzza huzza. It really is a conundrum. Just talkin’ about it’s got me into a complete muddle. I’m sittin’ here lookin’ at the empty bodies of The Reverend Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician, and I’m also thinkin’ about the body of Missus Milly Da Fardle wot was whizzin’ round in circles ‘n’ then blowed up and is no more. And while I’m at it, I’m also examinin’ the pink cardboard gift boxes wot suddenly appeared and into which the bodies was packed. And on top o’that, I’ve just heard a squeak I’ve never heard before comin’ from the outside o’me. It’s accompanied by a tickling sensation wot feels most agreeable, and I wish to fuck strange thing’d stop happenin’ so fast one on top of the other!

Fuck, Dear Diary, this ticklin’ is getting’ more aggressive ‘n’ I do believe it’s tryin’ to turn me on. How the fuck am I gonna solve the mystery of the dead bodies if’n my fuckin’ pheromones is gonna play up? Fuck fuck fuck! I gotta deal with this. Right here ‘n’ now. You’d better look the other way unless you want to be embarrassed by the sight of a bus squealin’ for a good time. Bye bye, so endeth any desire I has to talk to you for the moment. I gotta do somethin’ nasty.

Day 161

Dear Diary,

Well, like I said I would, I rested my eyes over night ‘n’ let my little grey cells do the thinkin’ for me, and wouldn’t you know it, but the minute I woked up this morning the first thing wot came into my mind was to go back to the four dead bodies ‘n’ examine ‘em on the inside. So that’s wot I done. And do you want to know wot I discovered? You’re gonna laugh when I tell you, but first of all you gotta hear wot my little grey cells told me to do in the way of forensical procedure. They said before anything else I should unzip ‘em all to air ‘em out a bit. And after they was aired out ‘n’ smellin’ fresh as a daisy I should pick ‘em up one by one ‘n’ give ‘em a vigorous shake. Naturally I axed “Wot the fuck for?” and I was told because that’s wot I’d been told to do. Well, right then ‘n’ there I got on my uppers ‘n’ said this ain’t no autocratic dictatorship ‘n’ I don’t gotta snap to attention or else have my balls chopped off, to which my little grey cells chuckled ‘n’ said “Don’t press your luck,” or somethin’ like that. Anyways, I was tempted not to pick a fight – at least not for the time bein’ - and get on with my investigatin’, but then somethin’ occurred to me which made me change my mind. And do you want to know wot it was? It fuckin’ occurred to me that them fuckin’ little grey cells is inside o’my carburettor. In other words, they fuckin’ works for me ‘n’ not the other way around. And furthermore, I was getting’ sick ‘n’ tired up to the top o’my gullet of sittin’ around doin’ nothin’ ‘n’ lettin’ power-hungry dumbfucks fuck up my life and ruin the countryside with incendiary bombs ‘n’ explodin’ shit ‘n’ flea markets wot sells nothin’ but non-biodegradable plastic crap made by slaves, and it was high time I stood up for myself. And so I took a deep breath just to steady my nerve-endings ‘n’ I addressed them little grey cells wot lives in my head, ‘n’ I said, “Look here you little pustules on the end o’my dick, shut the fuck up or you can eat my shit ‘n’ die.”
Well, Dear Diary, you could’a heard a nuclear test explosion, that’s how quiet it got. And then my little grey cells started in a a’wailin’ ‘n’ a’gnashin’ their teeth ‘n’ a’tearin’ their clothes ‘n’ sittin’ on low stools ‘n’ sayin’ kaddish. I listened for a second ‘n’ then I thunked to myself “Have I missed something? Wot’s happened? Has someone died?” So out of respect I put on my little beanie wot I keeps in my glove compartment for such occasions ‘n’ also a prayer shawl ‘n’ I axed who’d died ‘n’ did I know him ‘n’ did they want me to bring a covered dish dinner for twenty-seven?

Well, my words must’a soothed my little grey cells where it hurt, on account of the wailin’ stopped ‘n’ even some of the womenfolk stopped their ululatin’, which I must admit was a relief ‘n’ a blessin’ because that particular kind o’communicatin’ makes me want to eat my drawers. No sooner’n it’d growed quiet than one of the larger of my little grey cells drew apart from the others ‘n’ with his head bowed in respect he doffed his hat and introduced hisself as the eldest of the elders ‘n’ their official spokesperson. ‘Course, I’d knowed right away he was wot you’d call a senior statesman and the most respectable of all of the little grey cells, on account of he were dressed in a long frockcoat ‘n’ pin-striped trousers ‘n’ spats ‘n’ the hat wot he’d removed from his head was one o’them old-fashioned beaver stovepipes. As I looked at him I thunked to myself he resembled nothin’ so much as a venerable crane, ‘n’ so without thinkin’ (somethin’ wot overcomes me nearly every other minute, much to my chagrin), I bowed my head just as he had did and addressed him as “O! Ancient ‘n’ Wise Misther Crane.”

The aged ‘n’ venerable Little Grey Cell (notice I’m now capitalisin’ Little Grey Cells now I know they’s got union representation) folded up his hat like a concertina and polished his pince nez. “You may call me Lulubelle,” he said. “My rates are a euro a day plus seventy cents VAT and may I take my annual leave in advance startin’ this afternoon?”

I looked down at him for a minute, all the time thinkin’ how very small he was and wouldn’t it be fun to squash him like a bug. But then I rememberated he was one of my own personal little grey cells ‘n’ even if’n he was as crazy as a coot, I did have a investigation to investigate ‘n’ I might want to call on his services one of these days. And so against my better judgment I concluded that perhaps I should play along for a bit to see where our conversation led, ‘n’ whether this particular garden path might be a pleasant ‘n’ agreeable destination.

And so, havin’ thunked all of that ‘n’ comed to conclusion I wouldn’t lose nothin’ by playin’ along, I replied, “Pleased to meetcha Lulubella, ‘n’ you may address me as Misther Daimler Burlington CVD6 Bus. And would you be so kind as to tell me wot are the services I should expect to receive in exchange for your so generous ‘n’ onerous fee?”

“My services are simple enough,” said Lulubelle Litte Grey Cell, “Providin’ you remunerate me promptly as well as on time and in full, I guarantee I shan’t do nothin’ at all.”

“Nothin’ at all?” I responded, a little more confused than I had been two seconds before. “You shan’t do nothin’ at all?”

“Precisely!” said the oldest of my little grey cells, bowin’ lower’n before and with a grave expression on his tiny wrinkled face.

By now I was getting’ tired of this conversation, on account of it weren’t getting’ us nowheres at all, ‘n’ so I figured “What the fuck?” Why not come over all anal-retentive ‘n’ see wot happens. And so I axed Lulubelle in a pernickety tone o’voice, “Are you implying you ain’t gonna do anythin’ at all or that you ain’t gonna do nothing, and how much do I gotta pay you for you to go away ‘n’ leave me alone?”

Well, if’n I was hopin’ the Little Grey Cell was gonna get all huffinstuff ‘n’ storm off to torment someone else, I was mistaken. “You ain’t gonna get rid o’me me that easy,” said Lulubelle. “You seem to forget I’m one o’your brain cells ‘n’ I live together with all the other brain cells inside o’your head. Not only that, but I’m the best you got, so you gotta treat me right if’n you wants to go on thinkin’. But I warn you, my dear Misther Bus, the last time a bus told his brain cells to fuck off, he ended up a Ford Transit.”

“Fuck,” is all I gotta say, Dear Diary. Fuck ‘n’ fuck ‘n’ fuck a duck ‘n’ serve it up for supper. Once again, I’ve wandered into a blind alley ‘n’ lost my way, ‘n’ I don’t know if’n Ill be able to find my way home again. I should’a knowed not to axe by little grey cell a question. I should’a knowed that since he’s livin’ in my mind, he’s the one wot invents all the questions in the first place, as well as all o’the answers. And now I’ve got him mad at me ‘n’ I’m afeared he won ‘t cooperate in solvin’ the mystery of the four dead empty bodies, and I ain’t even got as far as examining their heads yet. I’d say I gotta think, like I usually says, but if’n my brain cells aren’t gonna help me out, I can’t even do that. Plus, it’s just come to me that Lulubelle’s organisin’ a work stoppage or at the very least a work-to-rule or a go-slow. Never mind. I’m gonna pretend to go to sleep. I gotta trust he and the others won’t find another head empty enough to take ‘em in, and he’ll decide I’m not so bad after all. You know, like any old port in a storm. If not, I’ll just hafta say so endeth the last thought I’ll ever have ‘n’ let it go at that. You’ll know wot’s wot by wot I have to say tomorrow, ‘n’ if’n I talk like a Ford Transit you’ll know the worst has happened.

Day 160

Dear Diary,

Okey dokey, let me try to explain wot is happenin’ ‘n’ why I think I’m goin’ crazier’n a hootie owl. When last I was walkin’ to you, I was about to go ‘n’ search in my underbelly for some o’that fancy TV forensical equipment I’d ordered over the Internet last week. Unfortunately, when I opened up my special CSI-brand carryin’ case, all there was in it was two rubber bands ‘n’ a paper clip, an old-fashion cotter pin ‘n’ a paperback book full of suduku puzzlements. I put all the stuff with the exception of the puzzle book into my pocket for easy reach durin’ my further investigation of the strange goings on back there on my back seat, and the book itself I’ve put on my bedside table for tonight. I ain’t had nothin’ new to read since the atom smart bomb the Texans sent over blowed all o’my books away as well as all of the intelligent people with somethin’ to say ‘n’ also the pretty sports cars, so at last I’ll have somethin’ to do in bed other’n twiddle my thumbs ‘n’ play with Ol’ Misther Prefers-To-Play- With-Someone-Else.

As those of you who’ve spent your nights watchin’ TV instead of engagin’ in a private life or literary pursuits can imagine, my initial reaction to my patented forensic CSI equipment attaché case was one of acute disappointment to say the least. When you see them actors on TV solvin’ crimes in forty-seven minutes, they’s got a dazzlin’ array of technological toys to help ‘em get the job done, complete with all the bells ‘n’ whistles ‘n’ snappy dialogue ‘n’ good hair wot you can never do for yourself at home. And naturally, seeing as how I’m wot you’d call a hi-tech machine myself, bein’ a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 bus with handcrafted ‘n’ custom-designed bodywork, just seein’ all the technological wonders them actors can perform without even breakin’ into a sweat thrills me to the bone. Especially on account of I know the actors themselves is only puny dumbfuck human beings readin’ lines wot someone else’s wrote, and they’re only goin’ through their paces in a paintin’-by-numbers sort’a way. All they’re doin’ is like dogs wot’re trained to heal ‘n’ fetch your granny’s slippers ‘n’ bedpan. And them shiny blingy gadgets wot’re snap, cracklin’ ‘n’ poppin’ all round ‘em is nothin’ but fakes operated by a bunch o’whiz kids off screen. Mind you, even fake machines can make your eye-teeth drool, and I’ll tell you somethin’, just thinkin’ about wot they gets up to makes me proud as fuck to be a machine! Too bad the machines don’t get no money for makin’ dumbfuck actors look good, but hell, I guess that’s Hollywood.

Anyways, as I was sayin’, my first reaction to my new patented forensic CSI attaché case was that I’d been ripped off, and this made me mad as fuck and I yelled at myself for bein’ took in by them TV shoppin’ channels yet again. But then somethin’ occurred to me, ‘n’ the penny dropped ‘n’ I had another “gotcha” moment. And I thought, “Yessiree Bob, you’re not thinkin’ straight.” Just because we see them CSI investigators wearin’ designer goggles ‘n’ surrounded by flashin’ lights ‘n’ squirtin’ funny powder on bits o’garbage, it don’t mean they’s actually accomplishin’ anything, and it also don’t mean them good-looking shiny fake machines does anything either. Wot we forgets about is that the cops in charge, the ones with the actually cojones wot’re doin’ the actual detectin’, ain’t anywhere in sight. In other words, while the audience is busy bein’ entertained by all the flashy strobe lights ‘n’ dark lights ‘n’ auteur shadows ‘n’ alternative rock music ‘n’ the actors’ designer stubble, the old flabby gumshoes’re out o’camera range sloggin’ away ‘n’ solvin’ who’s killed whom ‘n’ why they’d killed ‘em. And this realisation made me think of that patented CSI equipment attaché case I’d bought ‘n’ paid for with a credit card I’d found on the beach, ‘n’ I got a idea in my head I should look at it again, and this time more carefully. And low ‘n’ behold, the minute I’d opened it back up I spied a little zipper lurkin’ in the shadow of the linin’, right in a place you’d overlook if’n you wasn’t thorough. Well, naturally I was thrilled to bits ‘n’ so I unzipped it, ‘n’ wot do you know but there was two items I’d not sawed before: a plastic pretend silver box with a waxed moustache inside, and a old lady’s knittin’ bag with a set of knittin’ needles ‘n’ a ball o’fluffy pink wool. I looked at the contents of the compartment I’d just found, and then it dawned on me. Real detectives don’t need no hi-tech razzle-dazzle. Real detectives use their little grey cells. And “hot damn ‘n’ hallelujah,” if’n I doesn’t have an abundance of grey matter to work with, nobody does!

From that moment, I was filled with confidence instead of frustration ‘n’ despair, ‘n’ I saw my investigation from a different angle and in a different light. And you’d better believe I went straight back to them four dead bodies and looked at them again. And then I looked another time, after which I closed my eyes ‘n’ left my little grey cells alone to get their work done without any outside interference from me. And presto! I was suddenly inspired to look at the bodies a third time. And the first thing I saw the third time I looked at them was that none of them was wearin’ a stitch of clothing ‘n’ was naked as a jaybird from top to toe, a indisputable fact wot made me feel as dumb as shit on account of I hadn’t noticed it before. And after I got over the shock of seein’ wot Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician looked like in the altogether – a sight wot proved once again that Ol’ God should’a followed his original instincts ‘n’ covered human beings (especially old ‘n’ wore out ones) with a shitload of fur, just like a bear – I realised I’d missed another pertinent detail. Each ‘n’ every one of the bodies had zippers goin’ all the way up their fronts, from their ugly hairy bits to the top of their bodies where their heads should’a been. One again I said “hot damn ‘n’ fuck me with a roto rooter,” on account of I knowed immediately I was on to somethin’ big in the solvin’ the case department.

Well, just so I wouldn’t jump the gun ‘n’ come to the wrong conclusion, I told my little grey cells to tell me wot I should do next. And after thinkin’ things over and turnin’ their heads this way ‘n’ that ‘n’ examinin’ themselves in a lookin’ glass, they said I should put on a pair o’gloves ‘n try to unzip the zippers. Which is wot I did, minus putting on the gloves, of course, on account of I’m a bus ‘n’ I can’t buy no glove wot’ll fit over my wheels. Anyway, I unzipped the zippers like I was told to do and right away I got another shock. None of the four bodies had anything inside themselves at all! They was, in fact, emptier’n a buffalo’s scrotum after it’s been turned into a ashtray.

So, Dear Diary, this is the evidence so far: I got four dead bodies without no dead body stink but smellin’ strangely of rubber. None of the bodies’ve got any clothes on, but they’ve all got zippers goin’ up ‘n’ down their fronts. And lastly, they’s not inside o’their bodies and so far I can’t see no evidence they’re anywhere else either. ‘Course, I’ve reach one or two conclusions on my own and without the help of my little grey cells, but I’m gonna wait a bit before publishin’ ‘em, on account of I doesn’t want to make a fool o’myself again this afternoon. And while I wait for corroboration from my little grey cells ‘n’ also from the knittin’ needles wot I ain’t yet consulted, Dear Diary, I’m gonna rest my eyes ‘n’ I expect you’ll be wantin’ to take a break yourself. My little grey cells told me they’re getting’ fed up with me always endin’ each day by sayin’ “so endeth”, ‘n’ so for once I’m not gonna say it. In other words, it’s so endeth to my habit of sayin’ so endeth, ‘n’ to hell with it.

Day 159

Dear Diary,

Well, I’d sure like to say “It’s a Glory Halleluly Big Day,” and I’d also like to be enjoyin’ a hand-wax ‘n’ tailpipe blow out, too, but there’s just so many miracles goin’ round at any given time. And, as usual, all of them wot’re helpin’ folks at this moment in time’re somewheres way over on the other side of the world. Not that anything wot you could exactly call “bad” or “oh shit, we’re well ‘n’ truly in the fuckin’ soup without a crouton” has come our way since we had our last conversation, but as sure as grass in the kennel’s brown, Ol’ God’s sure’s shootin’s not doin’ a good job of supervisin’ things over this way. Either that or he’s tryin’ to teach us lessons wot’re above our heads. Poor old bean, I bet when he created us as bein’ two cards short of a deck, He thought He was makin’ life easier for hisself, provin’ yet again even Gods can underestimate the power of dumbfucks. I dunno. Perhaps this is all a bad dream ‘n’ I’m gonna wake up in the shower ‘n’ with a blond bimbo named Pimples Magee, and none of the rest of this shit will have happened.

But anyways, let’s get back to last night. After I’d put my pencil away, Dear Diary, ‘n’ stashed you into your waterproof oilskin pouch so’s you wouldn’t get wet or deranged no matter wot the weather got up to, I took leave of my senses ‘n’ inspected them there four pink satin cardboard boxes containin’ the folded ‘n’ pressed bodies of Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl The Hair Beautician ‘n’ The Reverend Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Luella Da Bunkle. I examined ‘em real close like wot a custom’s inspector does when he’s lookin’ for somethin’ illegal ‘n’ contraband wot’s bein’ smuggled into the country. And after I’d gaved the boxes the once over a coupl’a hundert times, I turned my attention to them bodies up close ‘n’ personal for the longest time - even makin’ use of a magnifyin’ glass as well as a microscope I found lyin’ in a corner of my boot - but to tell you the truth I couldn’t figure out wot the fuck I was actually lookin’ at. I mean, a body’s a body and it still looks like a body, even after it’s dead ‘n’ the heads’ve fell off KER PLOP ‘n’ landed in its lap ‘n’ then rolled off on to the floor ‘n’ been stepped on. But somethin’ was wrong here ‘n’ nothin’ I knowed about life ‘n’ death ‘n’ wot happens when decomposition sets in agreed with the evidence. And then somethin’ occurred to me. After all wot’s gone on in my life, wot with the flood’n folks drownin’ dead in the ocean ‘n’ getting’ blowed up by the West Texas smart atom bomb attack, if there’s one thing I know about, it’s wot they calls “the stench of death.” And even though I’m only a dumbfuck bus (albeit one with a immaculate pedigree) without a nose to snort through, I can still pick up the delicate essence o’corruption by absorbin’ it through my sensitive custom-applied paintwork. Death is death. Rot is rot. And stink is stink ‘n’ it makes my hair stand on end.

But the funny thing was, no matter how hard I rubbed these four aforementioned dead bodies over my paintwork, I could’na smell nothin’. That’s N-O-T-H-I-N’. Fuck all. Period. ‘Course, at this point, I had a perfect opportunity to say “fuck, it’s none o’my business what’s went on, and if I do nothin’ ‘n’ ignore everything, nobody’ll think of questionin’ me down the line. After all, I’m only a dumbfuck bus ‘n’ as ignorant as a second hand car.” However, on account of I’m a fuckin’ nosy parker, I couldn’t live with that, could I? And that bein’ the case, I went ‘n’ did wot I shouldn’t a ought to’ve did, and I took them aforementioned dead bodies out of their boxes ‘n’ I unrolled them and lined ‘em up in a row, nice ‘n’ neat, ‘n’ then I fetched the four heads from the wheel well under the seat where they’ll rolled and from where they was lookin’ up at me like four o’the dumbest boiled hogs I’ve ever did saw.

In a old-fashioned murder mystery TV show, this’d be where the murderer would’a snucked up behind me ‘n’ dispatched me with a hatchet, after which there’d a’been one o’them commercial interruptions where they’d try to sell you feminine hygiene products or show you how to have a good time by getting’ drunk ‘n’ laughin’ a lot with all your friends you’ve never met before. But fortunately, wot was goin’ on here wasn’t ‘n’ isn’t a murder mystery TV show, old-fashioned or in the here ‘n’ now. And bein’ that this was and is happenin’ in real life ‘n’ not make believe, nobody comed after me with a hatchet, or showed up to axe me wot the fuck I was doin’ or even pulled a gun on me ‘n’ screamed “Freeze Fucker” ‘n’ marched me on over to the electric chair. In fact, I wasn’t interrupted by anything at all, which was a nuisance on account of interruptions sometimes makes your brain go round ‘n’ you comes up with The Big Idea wot solves the crime. BINGO BANGO BOOM!

Anyways, havin’ got this far in my examination ‘n’ feelin’ sort’a like Jessica Fletcher on a episode when the script wasn’t quite right, it finally occurred to me to shut off my brain ‘n’ my motor mouth and try to be wot they calls systematical. So wot I done was I went back to the bodies ‘n’ I sniffed ‘em once again in case I’d missed out on somethin’ in all the excitement. And you know something? I had. While there sure as fuck wasn’t no dead body smell, there also weren’t no smell of folks havin’ lived in them bodies either. And this made me go “Hmmmm”. And so I snorted again, and this time I come up with a distinct smell of rubber.

Well I tell you, Dear Diary, this caught my attention and I had one o’them Ah-Hah moments, ‘n’ I said “What the fuck?” so’s everybody’d know I was on to somethin’.

I’m sorry to say this is as far as I’ve got in my investigation. Fortunately I’ve got all sort’s of forensical CSI equipment in a special compartment below in my undercarriage, but I gotta put my pencil away before I can get it. I’ll be back in a coupl’a minutes or hours or when I gives up on the whole business ‘n’ says “Fuck It All.” If I decided to take the latter route you’ll hear me say so endeth this fuckin’ episode ‘n’ let’s turn over to Gardener’s World.

Day 158

Dear Diary,

Well, the insanely headless Missus Milly Da Fardle Monster whizzed berzerky round and round the inside o’the bus (being me in case you’ve forgot) for no less than thirty-seven hours and twenty-two minute ‘n’ at least a coupl’a seconds. And then all of a sudden the old bat let out a earsplittin’ squeak followed by a whine to make your blood curdle ‘n’ whey at the same time, and then she blowed up into sub-nuclear partisniples. ‘Course, bein’ used to so many explosions in such a short time, I knowed exactly wot to do, ‘n’ so I shielded my eyes durin’ the explosion so’s not to burn out my headlamp elements, ‘n’ consequently I missed out on the more spectacular fireworks. However, I gotta say the whole thing were over faster’n a boy’d first sexual experience, and as soon as it fizzled out ‘n’ the final squeal went fizzle-splat, all there was left was a sickening BOING followed by silence. A second later, ‘n’ just as suddenly, the sky inside my coach was like a blizzard, ‘n’ from every direction includin’ the floor it was rainin’ a regular onslaught o’miniscule flakes o’burnt out rubber. And boy did it stink up a storm inside o’here! Just like at the tyre dump in back of Misther Florian Da Blossom’s Discount Used Tyre Emporium, where every Thursday night they burns last years tyres to get ‘em off’n their inventory, a fraudulent insurance swindle Ol’ Florian can only get away with on account of the island’s two numbnuts police constables, Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Helen Da Barren - who’s what they use to call a ‘woman policeman’ back in the good old days when all they done was guard the tea tent for the Women’s Institute – goes ‘n’ eats one of Missus Da Elephant’s pressure-cooked roast lamb dinners with three kinds o’potatoes ‘n’ special gourmet turnip surprise. Anyways, as I was about to say, the burnin’ rubber rainstorm lasted pretty much until every last molecule of poor Ol’ Milly’s shredded corpuscles’d settled on to the floor ‘n’ seats, where they pretty much ruint my shiny new linoleum ‘n’ hand-sewn upholstery by burnin’ holes at unattractive intervals. As you can imagine, my attention was on all the damage wot the deceased ‘n’ particled Missus Milly Da Fardle’d wrought on my delicate interior. But then I got to thinkin’, perhaps I should take a leaf outta the locals’ book of etiquette ‘n’ treat the fuckin’ bitch dyke with some forgiveness ‘n’ respect ‘n’ reverence now that she were finally good ‘n’ dead ‘n’ not even all the King’s horses could put her back together again. And so I tried rememberin’ wot the biddies always said when they mentioned the name of someone wot’d gone to meet her Maker, and I decided it went somethin’ on the order of “God Bless Da Fuckin’ Skanky Bitch, Missus Milly Da Fardle, ‘n’ may her hiney find productive work ‘n’ great favour in the eyes of The Lord in spite of itself, aaaaamen.” ‘Course I may not’ve got the words right, but I’m pretty sure the sentiment is more or less correct.

Anyways, havin’ settled wot I was gonna say about the Ol’ dead ‘n’ shredded old fart if’n I happened to mention her again, I turned my attention to the others wot’d been sittin’ on the back seat with her – namely Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl the Beautician ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ the leftover skinsuit o’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle. As you might rememberate, last thing yesterday, just about the time Missus Milly Da Fardle’s head went berzerk ‘n’ the old bitch was sent whizzin’ ‘round the inside o’me like a balloon wot’s sufferin’ from a leaky fart, these other folks had themselves a party of their own. For no reason I could think of, other’n they was tryin’ to outdo Ol’ Milly in the fuckin’ stupid tricks department, their eyes popped out on springs ‘n’ their heads plopped off on to their laps all at the same time ‘n’ at the count o’three. And that’s how I’d left ‘em when I last had a minute to spare to examine them. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise when I turned to the three of ‘em (four if’n you counts Miss Louella Da Bunkle’s skin as a complete biddy) to ask wot the fuck they was up to ‘n’ I hoped they hadn’t ruint my hand-loomed upholstery any more’n Ol’ Milly had, when instead of ‘em sittin as before ‘n’ cradlin’ their heads, they was all folded up neat as a whistle ‘n’ wrapped in pink tissue paper ‘n’ placed in custom-designed ‘n’ satin-covered cardboard skinsuit boxes. And before you ask, the reason I knowed each boxes’d been made special for its designated occupant was everything fit just perfect. The bodies was folded ‘n’ packed neater’n a pin ‘n’ each box was labelled accordin’ to its occupant. In other words, the box on the left (my left bein’ the right hand side o’the back bench seat) had a engraved pink card with “Miss Cabbage, Model No. 5” wrote on it in a fine Italian hand. The next box over – the one to Miss cabbage’s left – said “Miss Louella Da Bunkle, Jumbo Bustier Model Skinsuit with One Spare Pair o’Britches.” And so it went, with the next box reserved for “The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, One Fake Black Preacher Suit Model Number 57A with Aluminium Gusset ‘n’ Elephant Vibrator Attachment”, and finally, last but certainly not least, “One Beryl Hair Colourin’ Stained Pinny Model No. 3 with Yellow Teeth No. 62 ‘n’ Two Pairs Ugly Grey Crimpoline Trousers with Size 17 Custom-Inserted Tobacco Crotch Pouch.”

Well, fuck me with a soda siphon ‘n’ blast me up to Mercury, but I hardly knowed wot to think. In mean, wot the fuck was goin’ on? One minute I was sittin’ quietly under a million billion tonnes of Howiepupple shit ‘n’ getting’ settled in for a eternity of waitin’ on some archaeologist to come ‘n’ rescue me in a coupl’a thousand years, and the next minute there were a bunch o’dangerous ‘n’ demented survivors of my past wot I’d thunked was long-dead ‘n’ buried, praise God ‘n’ hallelujah. And there they was a’sittin’ in my backseat ‘n’ actin’ like they’d never been anywhere else. And just when I was about to go right on back ‘n’ question them as to how they’d survived ‘n’ why they’d come to torment me once again, when each and every one of them goes crazy berserk in ways nobody’s ever gone crazy berserk before since the world was burped into bein’ in the great cosmic splat. And a minute after that Missus Milly Da Fardle’d blowed to smithereens ‘n’ her burnt rubber bits is hidin’ out in every single one of my secret nooks ‘n’ crannies. And on top o’that, the others wot was with her are no longer sittin’ in their seats massagin’ their heads, but are all neatly folded ‘n’ packed away in custom-made boxes with cute little pink labels tied on with gold ribbons. Hmmm. A shitload o’pink ‘n’ gold. Sounds too familiar in a way I doesn’t like. Fuckin’ shit. Oh well, there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it now so I’ll just hafta wait ‘n’ see.

Anyway, Dear Diary, I hope you understands the complexity of my situation at present. I’m gonna hafta put my pencil away ‘n’ consult my inner bein’ before confrontin’ them aforementioned boxes ‘n’ givin’ them the once over ‘n’ the third degree. I dunno how long it’ll take, but I simply gotta find out for myself wot’s goin’ on! And I promise cross my heart I’ll let you know wot I uncovers. In the meantime, I’ll close with my usual “so endeth” on account of it’s how I always end, ‘n’ I can’t wait to bring you some good news tomorrow, or at least a ray of hope.

Day 157

Dear Diary,

Well, I spent all last night searchin’ for where Missus Milly Da Fardle’d shot me full o’holes with her knock-off replica Uzi, and since I didn’t find nothin’ wrong nowhere, I’m happy to report that her aim’s so bad all the bullets went into my windscreen wot ain’t there no more. Ain’t life wonderful? I might’a never sawed another day if’n Misther Old Wanger Nose hadn’t blasted a hole in the glass some days ago, ‘n’ thanks to him, all Missus Milly Da Fardle did was shoot a bunch o’holes through empty space. Not that her assassination attempt on me didn’t do some good, on account of them bullets must’a been mighty powerful. When they ploughed into the tonnes of Howiepupple shit wot was buryin’ the front of me, whatever was in ‘em reacted chemically – or somethin’ like that – with the excrementables, ‘n’ everythin’ all sort’a transmogrified into the nastiest syrupy pasty gloopy glop I’ve ever did saw. PEEEYYUUUUU, and that’s puttin’ it mildly, and if’n I’m sayin’ PEEEYYUUUUU it must be bad, because if’n you remember buses like me ain’t got no noses wot can smell stinky vomit-makin’ pooper drippies.

Anyways, as things stand now the cosmic Howiepupple shit-slop’s sort’a dissolved itself into puke, and this is good for me on account of I can now see daylight ‘n’ the sun and I’m no longer buried up past my eyeballs. However, I can’t say as though the beach is exactly jumpin’ up ‘n’ down with joy. As far as the eye can see it’s coated with brown slime you wouldn’t want your children to be paradin’ back ‘n’ forth on, not even if’n they was someone else’s ‘n’ was wearin’ ASBOs on their hoodies. Mind you, in the distance I sees a group o’folks I doesn’t recognise lyin’ out ‘n’ sunbathin’. I know they’s not from the island as it was before and I know none of them’s survivors from Misther Patchouli Da Fanny ‘n’ Floozie Da Smelley’s two hundert pink ‘n’ gold portable toilet holiday home houseboat conversions, on account of any of them would be from Texas and’d have big old hair ‘n’ they’d smoke cigarettes by the hunderts ‘n’ wear polyester and I’d recognise them straight off even in a black hole with no lights on. I’d like to be a smarty mouth ‘n’ say this new lot wot’s sunbathin’ on this beach wot’s swathed in shite, must’a hailed from a coupl’a places I doesn’t like all that much, but that wouldn’t be fair on them other beaches – because beaches, after all, can’t really choose who does wot on them, meanin’ they’re nothin’ but innocent bystanders. For this reason, and because beaches’re so dumb ‘n’ their brains’re so full o’sand they can’t rightly defend themselves, I ain’t gonna say no more on the subject.

Anyways, I’m getting’ off’n the fuckin’ track again, just like always. As I was startin’ to say, Missus Milly Da Fardle’d discharged her fake plastic Uzi wot she got from the Internet, but instead of the bullets hittin’ me ‘n’ causin’ wot could’a been irreparable damage, they went straight through the hole in my windscreen. On account of that aforementioned chemical reaction I doesn’t rightly understand, they melted down every last ounce of the million billion tonnes of shite wot’d entombed me ‘n’ wot was threatenin’ to harden into permanent everlastin’ never-degradable concrete. After the meltdown, wot I was left with was my custom-designed ‘n’ painted bodywork covered in drippin’ slimy stinky brown, but at least I was standin’ in the light of day ‘n’ under the blazin’ sun. I won’t say too much about the shredded nappy confetti wot’s stuck all over to my paintwork, but let’s just say I’m hopin’ about a foot o’that refreshin’ cleansin’ rain’ll be dumped on me before my special detailin’s been ate away by poop-acid. Whether the rain gets to me in time is anybody’s guess, but I’ll bet you anything it will. Rescues always come in the nick of time, right when you’re about to jump off’n the cliff.

You would’a thunked I would’a been so elated at bein’ wot they calls disinterred that I would’a been jumpin’ up ‘n’ down with joy. However, when the good news was shouted in my ear ‘n’ the poop was meltin’ off’n my sensitive bits, I was too busy bein’ otherwise occupied elsewhere. Such is fuckin’ life. But never mind, wot was happenin’ was I was witnessin’ goings on wot was stranger than anything I’ve ever sawed before, and if’n you’ve been keepin’ up with events on a daily basis, you’d be all excitepated too, and you might even be standin’ up ‘n’ yellin’, “Jeezus fuckin’ Louise, tell me you want some more or kick me in the keester!”

I don’t quite know how to describe wot I was lookin’ at, but I’ll try, and if’n I don’t get it right I’ll try again tomorrow (I’m only tellin’ you this now so’s you won’t forget to tune in). As I was sayin’ before, I was starin’ back at the back seat when Missus Milly Da Fardle got out her Uzi ‘n’ started blastin’ away at my windscreen. Well, when she pulled the trigger, somethin’ must’a gone wrong with her nervous system – at least that’s wot I thunked at the time – because her finger froze around it ‘n’ then there was a loud CRACK like if’n lightnin’ had struck her head. Her eyes started flashin’ red ‘n’ yellow emergency haywire lights, her voice went into squealin’ overdrive like wot a old-fashioned tape recorder does when it’s rewindin’ outta control, flames shot outta her ears ‘n’ her head started muscle-spasmin’ ‘n’ spinnin’ round ‘n’ round until it spun off’n her scrawny neck ‘n’ whizzed round the inside o’my coach like a flamin’ frizzbee trailin’ strings o’spaghetti ‘n’ meatballs. I was froze there solider’n a hunk o’quartz ‘n’ my mind went blank ‘n’ all my mouth could think of to say was “Well, will you look at that, Auntie Ethel.” The funny thing was her head continued to do the funky chicken long after it’d been yanked off’n her neck, ‘n’ I can’t hardly describe the smell wot followed it round the room, nor have I ever sawed smoke that black, just like it’d came straight outta hell itself ‘n’ was made of brimstone. Meanwhile, her body went on sittin’ in its place on the back seat and her finger kept on shoot that Uzi until all fifty thousand rounds was used up and the floor was piled high with their spent cartridges.

And there was one other funny thing wot was goin’ on. You remember me tellin’ you that Miss Cabbage ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ his Miss Louella Da Bunkle outer garment ‘n’ Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women was sittin’ beside her? Well, no sooner’d Ol’ Milly’s head started spinnin’ round inside o’the bus (which is me), than their heads sort’a plopped off’n their bodies ‘n’ on to their laps. As they says, “Fuckit to ya, should I go ‘n’ sue ya!”

At the moment, Dear Diary, the head o’Missus Milly Da Fardle’s still spinnin’ round ‘n’ round, with eyes flashin’ ‘n’ strange voices coming outta its mouth ‘n’ smoke blacker’n a witch’s patootie spewin’ outta where it was yanked off’n her neck, and it’s not showin’ any signs of getting’ tired. And because it’s sort’a impossible to investigate things when they doesn’t stand still and because I doesn’t want to get hurt, I’m gonna sit here ‘n’ watch ‘n’ try not to laugh too loud. It may be haunted or possessed ‘n’ I don’t want it to turn on me and rip me into shreddies. Anyways, I’ve gotta say it’s the best show in town ‘n’ bless Ol’ Milly for never lettin’ me down when it comes to givin’ the goodest bang for the buck! When things finally slows down I’ll whisper so endeth the best X-Factor performance of the year, and just maybe we can find out how she done it.

And then we can chat some more.

Day 156

Dear Diary,

Well, not only was the moulderin’ remnant of the lost world, namely Missus Milly Da Fardle, sittin’ in my backseat as I’d feared, but she’d brunged her mouth along with her, as well. And when I finally recognised she was the genuine article ‘n’ not just a scarecrow left in my backseat in error by a passin’ garbage collector, I put on my best manners ‘n’ said “Howdy Doody Missus Milly Da Fardle, ‘n’ how come you ain’t dead like the rest ‘n’ how the fuck is you anyway?” Well, the Ol’ bitch snorted up her nose like a steam engine wot’s got coal stuck up it’s smokestack ‘n’ she hawked ‘n’ spat green stuff all over my polished vintage linoleum floor. “I tell you wot, Bus,” she said with snot ‘n’ buggers drippin off’n her tobacco-brown ‘n’ radio-active teeth and cloggin’ up her chin hairs, “Why doesn’t you do us a favour ‘n’ shut the fuck up ‘n’ drive me back to my concrete bunker bungalow like a good Community Bus or I’ll melt you down ‘n’ remake you back up as a new refrigerator.” I wish I could say my motor oil didn’t run cold at the tone of her voice, but seein’ as how I’m a coward at heart, it did. I know I should’a ordered her off’n the bus for bein’ ruder’n a skunk in heat ‘n’ for speakin’ like a drunken lout to the bus (which is me), but I didn’t have the heart to do that to a helpless little old lady. Mind you, if’n you’d bribed me with a penny ‘n’ polished me up real nice with bees’ wax, I would’a said fuck it all ‘n’ done it anyway, if only so’s the world could see her bein’ ate up alive up by a million billion tonnes o’fermentin’ babby shite ‘n’ nappies. Holy Shit ‘n’ Hallelujah, wot a sight that would’a been for sore eyes! But fuck, I guess I ain’t nothin’ but a chickenshit bus, ‘n’ so I went ‘n’ swallowed my pride ‘n’ suppressed all the pain she’d caused me when she ripped my Ol’ heart in twain, and I bowed my head like a person wot’s in politics does when he’s dealin’ with a voter he personally wishes had been kilt in a random drive-by purse snatchin’ ‘n’ shootin’. I told her I was sorry for the inconvenience ‘n’ I knowed she had to get home in time to cook dinner for her twenty-seven kids and twelve abusive drunk husbands, but bein’ that we was temporarily trapped under the world’s God Almightiest avalanche of babby shit, I couldn’t go nowhere, no matter how much I wanted to. ‘Course she didn’t believe me, ‘n’ she then accused me of tryin’ to prevent her from getting on over to her bank, wot was The Bank of Old Wanger Nose, in time to panic ‘n’ withdraw all of her money before it could be took by the American property market wot couldn’t pay off its mortgages without eatin’ up her bank account. After she’d said this, I made the mistake of not keeping my mouth shut for the second or fourth time today, wot is a mistake I seem to be makin’ over ‘n’ over again, and wot’s turnin’ into wot you might call a fatal flaw. But whatever you might call it, I forgot to think before I opened my mouth, and I told her I knowed she didn’t have no bank accounts at The Bank of Old Wanger Nose or any other bank, and that all o’her ill-gotten gains wot she stoled from Wednesday night bingo was kept in a hole in the floor in a dozen cheap plastic rip-off designer label suitcases. And further more, I said, everybody knowed where she’d stashed all them millions she’d earned illegal from the sale of dead bodies from the funeral parlour to The Gnu-Fanny Premium Deluxe Luxury All-Meat Cat Food Company. And then I pointed a finger right at her scabby, rheumy ‘n’ protrudin’ eyeballs ‘n’ I raised my voice to heaven ‘n’ even set it to “Tremblin’ Preacher Shake ‘n’ Bake” on the decibel dial, ‘n’ I declaimed for all to hear that she’d invested all her illegal dead biddy cat food profits in industrial strength money launderin’ washin’ machines and’d opened a whole chain of illegal money-launderin’ washerettes over in them Scilly Isles. And once she’d wash ‘n’ dried the money, I said, she’d took every single shiny perma-pressed squeaky clean banknote ‘n’ bought fake designer perforated condoms to sell to countries wot was desperate to curb their babby-makin’ proclivities. And then, when all them unwanted babbies was born unexpected ‘n’ their mammies ‘n’ pappies was left more destitute than ever, Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle cornered the market in babby nappies ‘n’ formula and made herself another billion bucks or two by sellin’ them to the starvin’ masses at one for the price of three hundert. Foreign aid she called it. And by the way, Dear Diary, I want to make it perfectly clear when I was talkin’ about nefarious funeral homes, I was speakin’ about Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ ‘n’ not the other one wot’s owned by Misther Pradesh Da Raddesh’s Fine Discount Men’s Suit and Shoe Company. Misther Pradesh Da Raddesh is perfectly honest ‘n’ upright, only the dumbfucks on the island wouldn’t send their dead folks to him if’n their lives depended upon it, on account of you never knows wot them foreign heathens’ll get up to with dead bodies when the spirit hits ‘em.

Anyways, no sooner’d I finished my lecture to Missus Milly Da Fardle on how she was a liar and’d got rich outta feedin’ dead people to their own cats ‘n’ makin’ poor folks in poor countries miserabler’n sin, than she took a Uzi outta her cheap plastic on-sale non-biodegradable shoppin’ bag ‘n’ pointed it straight at my nose. Well, right then ‘n’ there I saw stars in front o’my eyes, on account of this’d be about the hundredth time I’ve been shot in the windscreen or tyres or gas tank since the flood washed away the island ‘n’ kilt off all the decent folks. And to be honest, I’d just about had it up the top o’my roof rack. And so I said to that Ol’ bitch of a cadaver-face biddy, I said, “Now see here, Missus Milly Da Fardle, you put that there Uzi away before you blows off’n your thumb ‘n’ let me make you a cup o’tea with three kinds of potatoes.” And do you wanna know wot the bitch said, Dear Diary? She actually said, “Make My Day ‘n’ Lick My Skanky Pussy!” And then she shot me. Fuck.

This is the worst of all possibly ways to so endeth my day, but as they says “shit fucks ‘n’ then you craps on the floor.” I gotto go inspect myself for damage ‘n’ to see if’n I’m dead yet. And if’n I’m not I swear I’m gonna put that old bag of a bitch hag away somewhere where she can’t do no more damage, either to mankind or to innocent children or fluffy kittens. I’ve survived a flood ‘n’ atom smart bombs sent from Texas ‘n’ old womens peein’ on my seats, but now we’re getting’ serious. This means war.

Day 155

Dear Diary,

Well, all I can say is it sure were a dark ‘n’ stormystinky night last night, ‘n’ either there’s no one left wot can rescue me outside of my dungeon o‘fecal depositories or those wot are there’re glad to get rid of me ‘n’ are breathin’ a sigh of relief, ‘n’ sayin’ to themselves, “Whoooeee, he’s in the shit ‘n’ it’s welcome to him!” I ain’t heard so much as a spade or shovel or a diggin’ stick between the time of the great nappy explosion and now, and to me that don’t spell nothin’ but bad news. ‘Course I try to tell myself that if’n the Howiepupples is all wot’s left, seein’ as how they’s about a centimetre huge in all dimensions, it might take ‘em at least a coupl’a centuries to reach me. This makes me think I should’a bought me a better radio to keep me company, on account of the one I got here on my dashboard can’t seem to pick up nothin’ but a coupl’a dyin’ cats. And fuck me if’n the thought of spendin’ eternity with furballs ‘n’ their yowlin’ isn’t makin’ me want to hump a turnip just see how flat I can squash it.

Remind me in the future, Dear Diary, if’n I’m ever in the market for insulation or sound-proofin’, I should run on over to my nearest slurry dump ‘n’ start makin’ bricks o’shite to stack up round me. Between us, my friend, I’ve never felt so cut off from the sound ‘n’ fury of the elements as I is now, and as for warmth, it’s so fuckin’ hot in here I’ve been sweatin’ off a gallon of liquid every half hour. And because I’m a bus and I’m not supposed to lose fluids like wot I is, I’m sort’a worried. I’m also thinkin’ that if’n all this liquid don’t drain away outta my tomb o’Howiepupple poople, the acid in it’ll dissolve my tyres ‘n’ after that my bodywork’ll be corroded away to a hulk o’rusticles. Somethin’ like wot’s happenin’ to Ol’ RMS Titanic down at the bottom of the ocean, only Titanic’s bein’ ate up by seawater ‘n’ cute photogenic little enzymes, and all o’them things is a fuckin’ sight more romantic that wot I’ve gotta contend with. Not to mention they tastes a whole lot better. I’m also sceptical about ‘em filmin’ one o’them Oscar-winnin’ blockbuster movies about a bus livin’ out its last days dissolvin’ in five hundert tonnes o’doggy turds, but if’n they does film my endgame, it sure as shit won’t be as expensive as the one they did about Ol’ Titanic in her underwater ocean wonderland, not even if’n the bus in question is a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 33-seater custom built masterpiece with hand-sewn upholstery. Anyfuckinways, forget all this shit about Hollywood callin’ to immortalise my fuckin’ last moments. Suffocatin’ to death in the poop o’Howard Donald Da Fardle’s half mangy rabid dog pupples is not my idea of a good ‘n’ auspicious way to go.

I keep listenin’ for signs from outside, such as someone diggin’ down to rescue me, or callin’ out to me “are you down there? Should we send down somethin’ for you to eat?” In fact, everythin’ outside my doors is quieter’n the inside of a black hole when there’s no one there to hear the screams of the dead wot’s bein’ sucked inside its inner tube. That bein’ said, somethin’ inside o’me, back there in my back seat, is makin’ so much noise I can’t hear nothin’ from outside even if’n it was louder’n a fire alarm ringin’ off’n the wall just beside my head. In fact, the racket’s so fuckin’ loud ‘n’ irritatin’ I can’t hardly hear myself tinkle outta my tailpipe. It’s sort’a like a caterwauling with fingernails bein’ scratched down a blackboard just for the hell of it. And in all by born days (and you hafta rememberate I’ve been around since the fifties ‘n’ before that), I ain’t never heard such a screechin’ and a’yellin’ and a’carryin’ on and it’s makin’ my skin scrape itself off’n my bones in a way wot’s all too familiar. And I really really wants to hurl up my Chinese takeaway, ‘n’ I would if’n only I were a human bein’ ‘n’ not a bus ‘n’ could do it any time I ended up with poisonous bile ‘n’ green vegetables in my throat. Which, believe me, is wot I’ve got now ‘n’ that’s not a exaggeration. And the thing is, the reason the screechin’ ‘n’ squeelin’s so familiar, is that I used to have to grin ‘n’ bear it every day back when the island was like it was before the flood. Plus, the thing is, one o’the reason’s I’s been feelin’ strangely contented recently is that I’d thought the cause of all these current aural shenanigans was good ‘n’ dead ‘n’ drowned ‘n’ had been for a month of Sundays. Along with all o’her friends ‘n’ enemies ‘n’ everybody else who ever messed around with the inside o’my head.

Oh fuck shit ‘n’ begorra! Remember my sayin’ a coupl’a minutes ago that all I could hear from my radio was a bag full o’cats in heat? Well, I takes that back, on account of no cats I know of have ever throwed sticks ‘n’ stones ‘n’ bits of rubbish at my stearin’ wheel to get my attention. In fact (drum roll drum roll), only one person on the face on the planet’s ever fuckin’ throwed fuckin’ razorblades ‘n’ rocks at my fuckin’ gourd - outside of a coupl’a kids wot’d been borned ‘n’ bred natural born dumbfucks, ‘n’ I dealt with ‘em right away by rollin’ over on top of their balls ‘til they stopped yellin’. Anyways, if’n the person wot I’m thinkin’ about’s down here with me and there’s no way I can escape, I’m gonna hold my breath until I’m dead, even if’n it takes me from now ‘til the secondary cumin. And after I’m dead I’m gonna fart in her face.

I hear you screamin’ at me to say her name out loud ‘n’ proud, but I feels sick to my fueltank ‘n’ I wants to barf up a giraffe just thinkin’ about if’n I says who it is ‘n’ it turns out to be true.

OK, all right, here goes nothin’, on account I’d recognise that smell wot’s comin’ from the back seat anywhere ‘n’ also the bad vibrations I can feel down to the roots o’my brake soles. Oh, Dear Diary, no one else on the planet can make me feel so blue.

Here we goes. Finally ‘n’ against my better judgment I eventually have to give in to my curiosity impulse ‘n’ look back at the inside o’my rear end. And, fuck, I was right to be worried half to death! I simply can’t fuckin’ understand it! I axe you, please tell me how in the fuck did Missus Milly Da Fardle - wot was supposedly somewheres on a private yacht owned by Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu in tandem with the Las Vegas-Style West Texas Glitzy Touron Entertainment And Holiday Resort Syndicate, ‘n’ wot was (‘n’ perhaps still is if’n it’s my lucky day gone into the toilet) headed by (in case you’ve forgot) the evil-eyed pre-pubescent groin o’grinder, Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack ‘n’ runned by his brother Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack - find her way into my fuckin’ back seat? And not only her, but old leaky nappy herself, Miss Cabbage, wot’s gotta be the most scrawniest ‘n’ miserablest bag o’chicken bones since creation was first taught in school as a science, is sittin’ next to her ‘n’ wagglin’ her finger at me and sayin’ “tut tut, Misther Bus, you is five minutes late ‘n’ I is gonna tell on you when we gets back home.” And if that’s not enough to make your left arm go numb, our old friend the fake preacher, Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, wot used to disguise hisself for thrills as the late Miss Louella Da Bunkle by puttin’ her old dead skin over the top of his shiny suit, is here and is playin’ on his ukulele. And then as the final straw wot’s poked the camel through the eye of the needle, Dear Diary, next to him is Ol’ Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Womens. As I said, I feel sick, ‘n’ to see Miss Beryl - wot we all thought was another alter-ego of The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser - sittin’ beside him instead of inside o’him, made my world go white. I’m about to faint. Please let this be a dream ‘n’ please don’t ever let me wake up to find out its wot’s actually goin’ on in my real life. As they says in the movies, fuck me with a broom handle ‘n’ sing hallelujah up my nose. I think I’m gonna say so endeth this fuckin’ dark night o’my soul right here ‘n’ now. Life was so simple when all I had to worry about was bein’ buried forever ‘n’ ever in a mountain o’Howiepupple shite, ‘n’ never getting’ rescued. Why the fuck couldn’t we quit life, Dear Diary, while we was ahead?

Day 154

Dear Diary,

Well, as they says, the minute you takes your eye off’n the ball it rains pennies from heaven. No sooner’d I put my pencil away yesterday, Dear Diary, and you’d went to sleep, than there were a God Almighty explosion, ‘n’ the shack with Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ the Mangy Rabidical Dog ‘n’ all one billion minus two Howiepupples blowed sky high ‘n’ even further. Not that it sent the shack up vertical into the sky ‘n’ gave its occupants a bird’s eye view of the ozone layer, on account of it didn’t exactly work that way. It were more like a gigantic Christmas Puddin’ explodin’ up ‘n’ splattin’ all over the neighbourhood. Let me tell you wot happened, that is if’n I can stop shakin’ from all the laughin’ I’ve been doin’ since eight o’clock last night.

I know I told you about the pressure buildin’ up durin’ the last part of my conversation with you yesterday. Wot I didn’t say was that the Ol’ can o’worms ‘n’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One chose to ignore it and put it outta their minds. Well, I guess that weren’t really their fault, on account of they didn’t rightly know where it were comin’ from, not havin’ any scientific trainin’ to speak of – which is the sort’a thing wot happens when kids stop studying science in school in favour of a coupl’a classes on TV presentin’ ‘n’ reality pop singer singin’. Anyways, me - bein’ a machine ‘n’ havin’ a technologically advanced mind – instantly thought of all of that methane gas from all of them billion Howiepupples, ‘n’ how it was bein’ stored up in that there puny beach shack ‘n’ without a open window to relieve the pressure. And in view of the fact I’m parked closer to it than I’d like to be (wot means I can see a shitload o’excess Howiepupple poo oozin’ through the cracks in the walls when I’d prefer to be lookin’ at somethin’ more invitin’, like maybe a Ferrari or a Bugatti), I geared up the engineerin’ side of my brain and runned a coupl’a calculations through my inbuilt computerizor to estimate wot the worst case scenario could be if’n the worst happens ‘n’ I’m in the firin’ line. Not that knowin’ wot’d happen’ would do me any good in the long run, on account of I still don’t have a fuckin’ drop o’petrol in my tank, which means I couldn’t run away to save myself even if’n I wanted to. ‘Course, on the other side o’the fence, however big the explosion grows to I’m still a bus ‘n’ can always be hammered back into shape. Providin’, of course, someone else survives wot can wield a hammer.

It’s probably occurred to you by now, Dear Diary, that these days we seems to be in greater ‘n’ greater danger of bein’ wiped out totally, ‘n’ I seem to be the only one left wot’s not wot they calls killable. I guess it’s inevitable the way things is goin’ in the world, but at least until this most recent incidental, I held a coupl’a high hope aces in my deck o’cards for how things was gonna change under the new regime of the Howiepupples. Fat chance of that now, methinks. It sort’a feels inevitable they might not survive until they gets a chance to fuck things up for themselves, which is a shame and fuckin’ sad to boot.

Anyways, I can hear you screamin’ for me to stop all this gibberin’ and tell you wot the fuck happened. And so I will. But first back to my scientifically proven calculations, the components of which include the number of Howiepupples (one billion minus two) plus one mama (Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ occasionally Howard Donald Da Fardle when he/she wants to escape a certain time o’the month) plus one papa (the mangy rabidical dog) plus one can o’worms (a unknown quantity of worms thought to be more’n a hundert ‘n’ fifty ‘n’ fewer’n a thousand ‘n’ twenty-two). Add to that the high-protein diet fed to the Howiepupples, on account of their mama eats nothin’ but fake Guiness beer ‘n’ boiled cabbage ‘n’ beans) plus the methane capabilities of the dog as well as a can o’worms wot’d apparently come outta a cow’s intestines ‘n’ knows how to get things done gas-wise. Put this all-together ‘n’ you come up with wot they calls a potential cocktail of the deadly persuasion. Now I already mentioned how Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One worked round the clock changin’ nappies ‘n’ re-cyclin’ the stinko manky ones into fine Dresden china. And even without the help of their papa, wot was nothin’ but a misogynistic macho good-for-nothin’ wot thinks mens can’t do no work inside the house or they’ll grow tits ‘n’ turn into homogroinergropers or somethin’ along them lines, the two eldest Howiepupples was getting’ the job done like champions. In fact, they’d even found the time to build a fine-lookin’ china shoppe in back of the shack, and havin’ a eye for marketin’ potential, they stuck it on the south-facin’ slope o’the beach wot had a perfect prospect of the ocean ‘n’ plenty o’space for parkin’. And they was even linin’ up prospective customers over the Internet. Unfortunately, wot they couldn’t take into account was that their mangy rabid dog of a papa was nothin’ but a rampant goat in the makin’ new babbies department. In fact, the longer he lived the more he resembled a fuckin’ hedgehog, only the spines wasn’t exactly spines, if’n you get my innuendo. I ain’t never seen so many millions o’workin’ wangers in the same room since I accidentally downloaded that Porker Engines of the World website ‘n’ nearly went to jail for it. But, as we all knows, wangers is only the half the story ‘n’ they can’t do nothin’ by themselves as far as makin’ babbies is concerned. In fact, in the humble opinion of this here bus, a wanger all by itself can’t do nothin’ without a little help from its friends. In other words, if’n you wants to tango with your wanger ‘n’ get more ounce to the bounce, you gotta have yourself a real live wanger welcome wagon buckin’ bronco all fired up ‘n’ rearin’ to go. Or in words of one syllable, a wanger needs a female parkin’ place to get the job done proper like it was meant to do, at least if’n you’re wantin’ to go home with a batch of kids ‘n’ not just with a happy smile on your face. And in the case of the mangy rabidical dog ‘n’ Crispy Crinkles, Ol’ Crispy Crinkles was not only a ready ‘n’ willin’ receptacle ‘n’ rearin’ to go, but she could match the horny fucker two for one in the conception ‘n’ incubatin’ ‘n’ spewin’ out of Howiepupples department. In fact, it’d be safe to say the world’s never seen more babbies bein’ born every hour on the hour since the first time God was experimentin’ in wholesale production ‘n’ distribution ‘n’ invented the mosquito.

To cut to the chase, not only was another billion Howiepupples born on the second day, but a further billion as well. Now, way back when the plans was laid down for the re-population of the planet, Misther Old Wanger Nose figured out that a billion a day for four days’d just about do it. No more ‘n’ no less. Unfortunately, while on the first day Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ the dog managed a billion just fine ‘n’ dandy, on the second day (in other words, last night), they got so carried away they made twice as many as they was supposed to’ve made. And with only Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One workin’ round the clock on the shit shovellin’ brigade, there wasn’t no way in the world they was gonna keep up. Hence, we had a methane buildup wot’s never happened since Ol’ MacDonald’s Dairy Farm malfunctioned way back in nineteen hundert ‘n’ twenty-nine ‘n’ spread it’s gas from here to Timbuktu ‘n’ caused a worldwide depression ‘n’ made a shitload of old gents in top hats jump outta their windows to get away from the smell.

So, anyways, since there weren’t no windows to open ‘n’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One couldn’t work any faster, the fuckin’ shack blowed up, and let me tell you there was explodin’ nappies ‘n’ strangely brown acid rain comin’ down on all of us like magna from a volcano.

All I can say right now is it’s darker’n the inside of a cow ‘n’ I’ve just learned wot it felt like to be livin’ in Pompeii after the main event. And all I hope is somebody comes along with a shovel real soon, or else I’ll be preserved in shit for the next two thousand years before some archaeologist or other comes along ‘n’ discovers me.

I sure the fuck’d like to know wot happened to all the others. Even havin’ only a can o’worms named Everard to talk to’s a whole lot better’n nothin’ but a pile o’stinky brown with a coupl’a nappy fragments mixed in to make it look more attractive. Wot I’m thinkin’ is, I’m gonna put away my pencil for a coupl’a hours ‘n’ beep my hooter non-stop, ‘n’ also set off my burglar alarm. If’n anyone’s still alive ‘n’ breathin’ and’s got ears to hear, the noise I can make is bound to annoy ‘em enough to dig down ‘n’ tell me to shut the fuck up. I sure as fuck hopes my plan works, on account of if’n it don’t I’ll hafta say so endeth my life as a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 33-seater bus, and so beginneth my new life as the classiest dung beetle you ever did saw. Wish me luck.

Day 153

Dear Diary,

Well, as I said I was gonna do last thing yesterday, I went over to talk to the Howiepupples first thing this mornin’ to see wot they was plannin’ to do with the world once they inherits it from the last of the normal folks. ‘Course, when I say I went over, wot I really mean is I hooked up a sorta speakin’ tube from a length of garden hose wot I’d found in my boot, and I throwed one end over to the shack Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ her babbies’re livin’ in. The other end I stuck into my front grille, which is, as we all know, where us buses keeps our mouthpieces. I hafta say here and now I don’t rightly know who the fuck left this garden hose back in my boot, and knowin’ the dumbfucks wot’ve lived on the island it’d be safe to wager it were some drunk as a turnip pillock wot only parked his hose so’s to save a place for his head later on down the line. However, I gotta say for once he done me ‘n’ the world in general a great service and I want to thank him from the bottom of my heart. Without any petrol or a driver to get me movin’ from one place to another, I’d be stuck up the creek without a paddle in the communicatin’ department if’n I didn’t have my speakin’ tube. Anyways, like I said, I hooked up the tube to the Howiepupples’ shed ‘n’ after politely clearin’ my throat “Ahem,” wot was somethin’ I’d learned by way of good manners from their pappy, the rabidical mangy dog, I axed if’n there was anybody awake wot could answer me a nosy question or two? Well, to my surprise, the first thing wot echoed back through my speakin’ tube, which becomes a hearin’ tube when someone on the other end of the line is speakin’ into it, was “Ahem, yourself,” spoke in a plumy sorta voice I thought I’d never hear again. Needless to day, I got all excited and said, “Is that you, Mr. Rabidical Mangy Dog?” To which the voice sort’a hissed back ‘n’ replied that it weren’t none of my business, but since I was on the line, I should know it were Everard speakin’ ‘n’ he weren’t no fuckin’ mangy rabid dog ‘n’ he didn’t rightly appreciate my innuendo.

Well, needless to say, I apologised faster’n you can say “Fuck me with a farm implement ‘n’ call me Sheila,” ‘n’ he chuckled ‘n’ said it were a common mistake as well as bein’ the bane of his existence. I waited a minute or so for him to extend the conversation ‘n’ maybe elucidate, on account of I’d never heard him talk before ‘n’ wanted to know wot he had to say for hisself, when somethin’ really dumb ‘n’ obvious occurred to me. “Mister Everard,” I said, “If’n I may be so bold as to address you by name, can I axe you a personal question?” Whereupon, the can o’worms ahemmed his throat again, “Ahem,” ‘n’ said I could, but not if’n I expected a straight or intelligent answer. But I continued anyway ‘n’ axed as blunt as blunt could be, “Mister Everard, does the dog ever speak for hisself or does you always do the speakin’ for him. In other words, is you his mouthpiece ‘n’ is he muter’n a slab o’mutton?” Well, you could’a heard a bomb drop it fell so quiet, ‘n’ then the can o’worms whispered real low that he couldn’t say no more at the moment on account of he was bein’ overheard, but if’n I’d give him a coupl’a minutes, he’d come outside the shack ‘n’ speak to me in person mano a mano. Well, naturally, I said, “Sure, anything you wants,” and no sooner were those words outta my mouth than the door to the shack opened ‘n’ the can o’worms was wheeled out in front of me on a little bite-sized red-painted wagon, pulled by none other’n Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One, which in case you don’t remember was the eldest of the Howiepupples ‘n’ possibly the only ones with possibilities for a bright future as sycophanticals. After the wagon was parked about a inch from me so’s Everard ‘n’ me could converse in secret, Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One snuffled each other’s butts to make sure they was who they said they was, ‘n’ disappeared back into the shack. “I don’t know wot I’d do without ‘em,” said the can o’worms in a normal voice like the one wot I speaks in and wot isn’t in the least bit plummy. “They built this here wagon for me ‘n’ pushes me here and back ‘n’ to the supermarket ‘n’ anywheres else I wants to go.” Well, at the mention of a supermarket I thought of cans o’petrol and so, quite naturally, I forgot the series of questions I’d wanted to axe him. “Supermarket, you said?” I shrieked. “Did you say supermarket?” Well, one of the worms flew outta the can faster’n you could say “If’n I had a screwdriver I’d stab you in the sphincter ‘n’ serve you up with cabbage.” He clamped my lips together with a pair of them industrial strength medical forceps wot they’d probably stole from the hospital, ‘n’ he ordered me to shut the fuck up or he’d fill me full of ice ‘n’ turn me into a refrigerator so’s they could have someplace to put all them dead people wot’d got drowned off in the flood ‘n’ was stinkin’ up the other end of the beach. Well, right away I tried to say I was sorry ‘n’ I wouldn’t do it again, but, of course, I couldn’t on account of them forceps was hurtin’ my lips somethin’ fierce. But I must say I thought to myself how lucky us buses is not to have no noses so’s we couldn’t hafta go smellin’ all them dead human beings after they’s died ‘n’ stops washin’ in their bad places. Which reminded me even further that us buses don’t have no bad places neither, ‘n’ I felt luckier’n ever. And it were sort’a funny me thinkin’ about manky shit just then, on account of the can o’worms picked up on it and said, “and another thing I’ll say about Ol’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One is between ‘em they changes all the nappies of their brothers ‘n’ sisters. And since their pappy’s a man ‘n’ don’t get his paws dirty on poo ‘n’ I doesn’t have no hands at all, I don’t rightly know wot we’d do in the babby shit factory production department if’n it wasn’t for them.”

I thought about that for a moment ‘n’ was almost tempted to change the subject to one of them other topics I was wantin’ to axe about, but then I thunked, “Shit, in for a penny, in for a pound,” ‘n’ I said straight out, “Misther Everard, sir, wot about the mummy? Don’t she do nappies neither ‘n’ if’n she doesn’t, is it on account of she’s also a man named Howard Donald Da Fardle?” Well, the Ol’ can o’worms, wot has a temper wot’s snippier’n a pair o’scissors made of razor blades, shot me a glance wot could’a froze my blood if’n I’d been a human bein’ ‘n’ not a bus, ‘n’ he said, “for your information, Crispy Crinkles may be a man ‘n’ proud of his appendages ‘n’ too proud to touch a babby’s bottom, which, as you know, is women’s work, but he’ also a woman on the other side of him.” He stared at me for a second, a’waitin’ for me not to understand ‘n’ axe a even dumber question than the one before. And cuz I didn’t want to let him down in the low expectation department, I made his day. “Does that mean Crispy Crinkles only does half the dishes?” Well, the can o’worms’s mouth fell open on account of he’d expected me to axe another question about who does or doesn’t shovel the babby shit in that there shack, but then he surprised me in turn by pullin’ hisself up to his full height ‘n’ sayin’ proudly like a pompous arse wot’s been sat by the toilet door in a poncy restaurant, “we do not do dishes in the Howiepupple household. We are eco-friendly and recycle the nappies into ergonomically correct bone china.”

I’m afeared I didn’t have no answer to that one, and before I says another word to the can o’worms, I’m good hafta think things through. And by the way, during this here entire conversation with you, Dear Diary, I’ve been feelin’ something’s about to blow sky high. Sort’a like I’ve been sittin’ next to a pressure cooker wot nobody’s been payin’ attention to. So you see, I’ve got more’n one thing to think about. Plus all the other questions ‘n’ follow-ups I ain’t got round to yet. I was plannin’ on stayin’ up late with you tonight ‘n’ getting everything ironed out satisfactorily, but I’m afeared it’s not gonna be possible. Anyways, goodnight, Dear Diary ‘n’ don’t let the sand fleas bite. So endeth another afternoon ‘n’ I’ll see you tomorrow. That is unless whatever’s boilin’ up blows up ‘n’ wipes us off’n the map like another one o’them atom bombs, in which case we’ll see each other in kingdom come.

Day 152

Dear Diary,

I’m tryin’ to figure out wot my thoughts was yesterday ‘n’ wot was happenin’ in the world ‘n’ all the rest of it. Fortunately for you, if’n I can’t remember you won’t be any the poorer, on account of hearin’ more about the Howiepupples ‘n’ their mama Crispy Crinkles – better known as Howard Donald Da Fardle – ‘n’ their mangy mutt of a daddy ‘n’ them explodin’ nuclear bustles don’t exactly make number one on the list of intelligent topics of conversation.

One thing I have been thinkin’ about now, although, once again, I don’t know wot good it’ll do to talk about it, is wot kind of world the Howiepupples’ll make when they grows up ‘n’ takes over. And will they grow up like wot a human bein’ does, that is to say never growin’ up outta the Never Never Land of his delusions, or more like a dog, which mean’s they’ll be up ‘n’ rarin’ to go in a coupl’a years at most ‘n’ barkin’ all night long just to annoy the neighbours ‘n’ humpin’ each others legs? Personally, I’m hopin’ for the dog scenario, on account of human beings’ve had plenty of chances over the millenia and’ve done nothin’ but fuck everything up. But I guess we all knows that, so it’s best I doesn’t get my knickers in a twist like I usually does.

One big thing about the Howiepupple scenario which I think I mentioned in passin’ yesterday or the day before is how big they’re not gonna grow. Two or three inches is gonna be mighty midgety for Masters of the Universe. Not only will it be a problem for them reachin’ the instant precooked ready-meals on the top shelf of the supermarket ‘n’ in the back of their freezers, but I doesn’t see how they’s gonna get to the supermarket in the first place, on account of they won’t be able to reach the pedals. And if’n they does reach the pedals, they’ll never in a million billion years be able to see over the steerin’ wheel. Unless, of course, they start buyin’ up all them Dinky ‘n’ Corgi Toys over the Internet plus all the batteries to keep ‘em goin’. Or does them little toy cars use batteries? In my opinion it’d sure help things along health ‘n’ fitness-wise if’n they doesn’t, on account of if’n they ain’t required, the New Masters of the Universe’ll hafta move the cars by shufflin’ their feet – just like children used to do back when pedal cars didn’t have pedals, only holes in the floor. ‘Course, if’n this is how they’re gonna do business, they might get to the supermarket eventually, but it sure as fuck won’t be good for their shoes, plus they’ll probably die of exhaustion ‘n’ starvation before they get half way there. On the other hand, we sure as fuck won’t be seein’ so many lardy ‘n’ fat people, will we? But anyways, those is just a couple of the situations wot might crop up if’n the Howiepupples take over the runnin’ of the world. In fact, I’m not even a quarter of the way done yet with my list, so stay tuned.

You know, it just occurred to me that eventually, those of us wot have wot they calls normal life size vertical dimensions’ll finally kick the bucket (all of us exceptin’ for me, The Bus). ‘Course, there’s nothin’ wrong or frightenin’ in that, and let’s face it, it’s sorta to be expected that just about everybody’s gonna shit the bed at one time or another. And given enough time, even Misther Old Wanger Nose’ll be as they says “moulderin’ in his grave” and that’ll be that as far as human beings in concerned. And when all of us is got rid of, the Howiepupples won’t hafta build any more o’them full-sized supermarkets wot they’ll hafta maintain as long as us normals is around, in order to avoid a shitload o’anti-discrimination lawsuits. Wot I means to say is, when only the Howiepupples is left, they can say “fuck it” to them clumsy big Ol’ buildings with big Ol’ full-sized pieces o’furniture, and they can erect a whole shitload o’tiny little three-inch houses ‘n’ stores ‘n’ bingo parlours. And because they won’t gotta cater to big ‘n’ fat folks no more, they’ll be able to construct as much as they please without raisin’ taxes more’n a coupl’a pennies all around. Buildings for Howiepupples wot’re smaller’n jellybeans can’t cost practically nothin’ at all for materials. Hell, a old shoe box’ll be big enough for a fifty-unit apartment block, and that’s includin’ room for a swimming pool ‘n’ room for a Jacuzzi ‘n’ one o’them sauna baths. And wot’s occurrin’ to me as I write this down, and wot I’m sure’s been thought of by them new Masters of the Universe, is Ol’ Misther Yeshua Da Honiker’s shoe shop on the other side o’the island, where everyone ‘n’ all his relations used to bought ugly cheap shoes at a attractive mark-up, must’a had about ten thousand shoes boxes just ‘waitin’ to be turned into prefabricated slums for the poor tiny people. And in case you’re wonderin’ why my mind is headed in this direction, let’s just say it’s all in the genetical DNA of them Howiepupples. Ol’ Crispy Crinkle might be as dumbfuck as a hunk o’shite in the middle of the road, but when you goes back another generation, you lands straight on to Missus Milly Da Fardle’s front porch. And between you ‘n’ me ‘n’ the gatepost, there ain’t nobody on the face of this here planet or for that matter on any other planet wot is more organised than Ol’ Missus Milly. Anything she wants, she gets done. And even if’n you doesn’t like her on account of she’s a evil, mean, acidy spleen-faced ogre, well, we can’t all like everybody, can we?

And, by the way, Dear Diary, whilst we’re on the subject of Misther Yeshua Da Honiker’s bulk-bought shoeboxes, don’t you even go thinkin’ about tellin’ me they must’a got washed away in the flood along with everything else. And you can also keep your trap shut about how’re the Howiepupples gonna get on over to the other side of the island when they needs two hours ‘n’ ten minutes to walk the three feet seven ‘n’ a half inches between the shack ‘n’ my place in the sand? Stupid questions don’t deserve answers, even if’n I had me some.

Where was I? All this carping about them Howiepupples bein’ helpless as a fleas in treacle’s made me forget I was gonna talk about them nuclear explodin’ bustles. Unfortunately, now that I’ve started in about the fuckin’ Howiepupples I gotta finish. Or at least progress a coupl’a yards into the subject, which means those wot tuned in special for the bustle story’ll hafta be patient. Sorry about that ‘n’ please don’t give up on me. It’s near to impossible to keep my mind on any one subject at a time when there’s no many people shoutin’ in my ears to talk about this or talk about that or talk about the other. It’s enough to make a bus barf a pint of axle grease through his nose.

In case you didn’t notice, my mind is spinnin’ and my mood’s gone sourer’n a crab apple wot’s not even ripe yet. I simply gotta put my pencil away try to talk to the Howiepupples and find out wot they wants to do about the world they’re inheritin’. Could be none o’the garbage I’ve been blabberin’ about applies. I sure as fuck wish there was someone around here to give me a wash ‘n’ polish. Where is Finian Da Fabricator when I needs him? Nevermind. I’m gonna say so endeth this diary entry ‘n’ I promise I’ll be more focussed tomorrow!

Day 151

Dear Diary,

Crispy Crinkles, or Howard Donald Da Fardle as I still think of him, has cleared away the tea things and is back in his little shack nursin’ the Howiepupples. I think motherhood suits him just fine ‘n’ dandy, and he’s sure as fuck kept at it longer’n he’s held down any other job. But before I gets carried away, I gotta remember he’s only been at it for a coupl’a days or so, which means there’s plenty of time for him to fuck it up. And by the way, I did think to axe him how he comes and goes outta the shack so easy, given that the door’d been locked up lighter’n a drum to prevent his escapin’, but at that moment the Howiebpupples started in a squawlin’ and a’squawkin’ for lunch so I didn’t hear his answer. Mind you, he would’a lied in any case, so I guess it don’t really matter. Also, I still haven’t sawed hide nor hair of Claude ‘n’ Ol’ Claude Minus One, and am beginnin’ to feel bad about it. As you know, the last time they was snufflin’ around my tyres ‘n’ peein’ on my custom-designed paintwork, was when they was hangin’ round their daddy, and given that he was nothin’ but a rabidical cur dog with a wore out wanker from sirin’ all them billion Howiepupples wot he had with Howard Da Fardle, I can only guess both the Claudes is out there somewheres earnin’ themselves a bucket full of ASBOs ‘n’ makin’ the world a better place to live in. I’m sure I’ll find out right when I’m doin’ somethin’ pleasurable and they pokes their noses in and ruins my fun. I’ll let you know.

By the way, I have a sneaky feelin’ I know somethin’ about the man in the black suit wot took down the Howiepupples’ vital statistics. He sounds a awful lot like Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, wot not only used to own the funeral parlour in the old days before the flood, but also the cat food company wot bought all the corpi deliciosi from the funeral parlour and then sold the cans back to the folks wot’d just buried their nearest ‘n’ dearest dead relatives. It’d be just like him not to drown like decent folks ‘n’ to be back in business. I’ll hafta axe around. Mind you, the man wot Ol’ Crispy Crinkles was talkin’ about had a beard ‘n’ Doctor Bernie didn’t. And before you tells me Howard Donald didn’t mention nothin’ about a beard, let me just say I could hear it in his voice. I am a vintage classic bus, after all, and I’ve got special trainin’ when it comes to identifyin’ human beings. Anyways, if’n it really is Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, it spells bad news for those of us wot survived the natural way by swimmin’ into shore. And it could also explain why I hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Finian Da Fabricator or Fergal Da Fecker or Misther Old Wanger Nose for a month of Sundays. Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s probably made them up into slaves or workers wot is earnin’ minimum wage ‘n’ can’t afford to take a vacation for the next three hundert years. It also begs the question if Ol’ Doctor Bernie survived, then who else might’ve ended up a whole lot less dead than we’d hoped for?

I just had a really bad thought. It’s about somethin’ I thunkled was a dream ‘n’ so I’d put it outta my mind and didn’t write it down in you, Dear Diary. Early this mornin’, right before Crispy Crinkles brunged over the tea things ‘n’ we had our little chat, I was baskin’ in the sun ‘n’ I turned my head in the direction of the sea ‘n’ for a split second I swear I’d saw the two hundert portable toilet holiday home houseboat conversion a’bobbin’ in the surf. Jeezus Married a Elephant, supposin’ the the vision weren’t a dream after all but the real portable toilet holiday home houseboat conversions with all the tourons on board, comin’ back to haunt us? I was sure they was blowed to smithereens by them atom bombs sent over from Texas! And if not by the bombs, then surely that special made Neutron Explodin’ Bustle finished up the job.

Speakin’ of which, I never did get ‘round to tellin’ you about the bustle, did I? Personally, I was hopin’ I wouldn’t hafta, but considerin’ there’s now a chance it fizzled out ‘n’ fucked up the job like everythin’ else fucks up their jobs around here, I might as well go ahead. But first, I gotta tell you somethin’ wot Crispy Crinkles told me in confidence ‘n’ made me promise I wouldn’t pass it around any further, and it has to do with how them Howiepupples comed to be and how did their mama ‘n’ papa get together. ‘Course, you remember how Ol’ Howard Da Fardle was causin’ all that trouble ‘n’ how Misther Old Wanger Nose went ‘n’ shot him in the big toe a coupl’a times ‘n’ how he was shut up in the shack just to keep him quiet so’s the rest of us could think. This were just after Misther Old Wanger Nose’d figured out on his abacus that for us to re-populate the world – which was the task God’d told us we had to do and to do it fast before anyone else got the contract ‘n’ made Him look bad – we had to meet a target of one billions babbies every year for four years. Or, in His own words, “Go Forth ‘n’ Multiplicate Times Pi!” As I said at the time, I was confused on how we was gonna carry this out, on account of as far as I knowed, none of us men had the carryin’ cases in our anatomy to churn out one a year, much less a billion. Well, from wot I understand – and I’ll try to get his side of the story if’n I ever tracks him down ‘n’ forces him to talk again – the rabidical cur dog’d been shittin’ in the bushes, as dogs does when they wants to spread a little joy in the world, when he saw Ol’ Howard Donald bein’ hustled into the shed. Well, it just so happened that the dog in question was the very same dog wot a bunch of years before’d been throwed over Howard Donald Da Fardle’s garden wall with a rock tied round his neck ‘n’ it’d landed smack dap in the middle of Ol’ Howard Donald’s lap. By another coincidence, on that very day, Howard Donald’s balls dropped ‘n’ he entered into a arrangement with the puberty department. Need to say, one thing led to another, and before you knowed wot was wot, there was a shitload of wot we calls shaggin’ goin’ on around the garden ‘n’ over the wall ‘n’ into the pig barn ‘n’ into Howard Donald’s mammy’s vegetable patch. You can well imagine that the dog were delighted as fuck when he seen Ol’ Howard Donald’d survived the great flood ‘n’ also that he was bein’ gaved a private room with a bed just wide enough for two. ‘Course it also solved the problem of wot he could do with his balls wot was turnin’ blue from want of them bein’ used enough. And so, when nobody was looking, he unlocked the door with a spare key he always kept for emergency opportunities such as this, ‘n’ he entered the shed with a box o’chocolates ‘n’ a dozen roses, ‘n’ the he ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle spent the night makin’ up for lost time.

It were just another coincidence in a world full o’coincidences that Ol’ Howard Donald, in his other life, was (and is) Miss Melba Toast of 12a Fenugreek Close, Lower Marshy Murton Windle Halt, and he already had a couple billion babbies over in China from the time he was over there on one of them white slave package holidays. And while nobody ever talks about it, that’s the reason they have such a population problem and had to end up banning any more babbies from anybody for the next twenty-eight years. So, you see, he/she were more’n a little experienced ‘n’ qualificated in the babby-makin’ department. Mind you, even with Howard Donald’s track record, I don’t think neither of ‘em was prepared for the Howiepupples to be spewed out so quick, on account of it were like watchin’ a gusher. Only with puppies instead of water. I guess the two of ‘em overlooked the fact that the rabid cur dog was a very little dog – no more’n three inches high – and so the Howiepupples was very very small. And as we all knows, you can fits a whole bunch more petit peas in a pie than you can a full-sized rutabega.

I guess it means the world’s gonna be re-populated with folks the size of ants, which’ll make life difficult for high street retailers of slave-made garminks, but hell, life goes on any way it wants and if’n we doesn’t like it, well, fuck us up the Patootie.

I got loads of other shit I want to tell you about, Dear Diary. Some of it I started on, only as usual I got distracted. Never mind. Bein’ stuck here on the beach like I is with no petrol to get me anywhere else, I guess there’s plenty of time. So wot I’m gonna do now is put my pencil away for a while to give the lead a rest, and I’ll see you for seaweed coffee ‘n’ sand sandwiches first thing in the morning. So endeth today’s news instalment ‘n’ be ready for the early morning edition at my earliest convenience.