Day 132

Dear Diary,

I’m very sad to hafta say that the secret plans Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ I had concerning the fate of Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle sorta wot we calls “backfired and fuckin’ then some.” Not only that, but it were such a fuckin’ squirtin’ fuckup you could almost laugh yourself to death and back again. In fact, that’s wot we all did, that is after we’d got through screaming’ and hollerin’ and exactin’ revenge and kickin’ Ol’ Howard Donald in the nuts.

But first, let me tell you wot exactly happened and how it escalated from a act o’spite on the part of Howard Donald Da Fardle to a conflict to an all-out war endin’ in those of us with brains and ability – Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ I – electin’ ourselves Presidents of a Grand Coalition of the Willing. On the opposite end, namely the stupid dumbfuck shitfuck enemy – or Howard Donald Da Fardle as he calls hisself – is now officially branded a Tourist Conspiracy Evil Empire Wot’s Out To Kill And Eat Our Women And Children And Rape Our Sainted Grammas Wot Was Made In The Image Of The Lord, or TCEEWOTKAEOWACAROSGWWMITIOTL, praise Jeezus and Glory Halley Hotdogs. Speakin’ as a bus, and a vintage classic hand-crafted Daimler Burlington CVD6 wot’s got about as far from bein’ a dumbfuck Ford Transit as you can get without being born a double cheeseburger with Freedom Fries, I can only say this must be a world record for wagin’ war and dividin’ the world into sworn mortal enemy camps. Wasn’t it only yesterday or the day before that I was all washed up on the beach as the last survivor of the last war wot resulted in a whole shitload of atom bombs sent over from Texas endin’ not only the war but the whole fuckin’ shebang? And wasn’t the only other last people on earth draggin’ their sorry arses around naked as the day they was born and twice as ugly, on this selfsame beach? But, never mind all that, on account of it only proves wot I’ve said before a thousand million times. When God created man, it were like a little boy fartin’ in the bathtub. Nothin’ good’s ever come out of it, in spite of how many folks try to say how God-fearin fuckin’ wonderful we is. As I said yesterday, it’s all eerily familiar this business of history repeatin’ itself over ‘n’ over, sort’a like marriage and everything else man invented and blamed on God. But, anyfuckin’ways, as I started to say, here’s wot happened from beginnin’ to the present time.

When I say ‘beginning’ please don’t run away screamin’ and saying’ “Oh fuckin’ shit ‘n’ absinthe, he’s gonna do it again and tell us everything all over like we was born with no brains and wants to know wot the fuck we missed even though we didn’t care all that much the first of second or fiftieth time he heard it.” No, I promise on your gramma’s incontinence I’m not gonna go all the way back to where we started. In fact, I’m not even go all the way back to the atom bombin’ of the pink ‘n’ gold portable toilet holiday home boathouse conversions ‘n’ Las Vegas-style resort. I’m not even gonna repeat wot happened yesterday when I landed me on the beach and Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator washed the mud ‘n’ whale-shit outta my headlamps and I saw him ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle for the first time since I was washed out to sea by the flood. Not a bit of it, on account of I know by now you’re sick to death of me actin’ like I was history itself and repeatin’ everything until the second coming. D’you get the message? Are you gonna take a chance I might have something interestin’ to say? ‘Cuz believe me or not, I fuckin’ does and it might even be worth tellin’ twice over.

Anyways, after Howard Donald Da Fardle got bit on the eardrum by the senility dimension bug he made of hisself one giant pain-in-the-butt arsehole while everybody else, namely Finian Da Fabricator and Fergal Da Fecker, was busy building us shelters and furniture and central heating boilers and workin’ refrigerators, and on top of it was fixin’ up a grand Ol’ dinner of roasted dead animals wot they’d found lyin’ around on the beach and a great big green salad from sea grass and sea cucumber and three kinds of sea potatoes. As for Mister Old Wanger Nose, he was too busy guarding Missus Milly Da Fardle’s luggage full o’stoled ill-got bingo winnings wot’d been, as they say, ‘purloined’ from The Bank of Old Wanger Nose, to be of much help. And that was all right by me, I guess, on account of he’s really really really really old and enfibblemented and’d only get in the way if’n he’d tried to pitch in. And, of course, you know why I couldn’t do nothing. Not petrol no workie. The never mind about me. As I said, Misther Old Wanger Nose finally’d had it up to his eyeballs with Ol’ Howard Donald’s rantin’ and ravin’ and a’carryin’ on, and so he took out one of them automatic weapons wot makes his clothes fit better and he shot the dumbfucker in the big toe. ‘Course, that only made Howard Donald scream louder’n anybody’d ever screamed before, and so in the end Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Mister Old Wanger Nose took refuse in my back seat and shut the sound-proof door so’s they could hear themselves think.

So far so good. They spent most o’the day thinking up a plan to get Howard Donald to shut up. Mister Old Wanger Nose’d tried to convince the others it’d be a whole lot simpler just to kill him and salt cure him for ready-meals on down the line. However, that idea – attractive as it was, on account of nobody really wanted Howard Donald Da Fardle around at the best of times, and this sure as fuck wasn’t one of them – was vetoed unanimously by the rest of us. ‘Course, the old man tried to say my vote didn’t really count on account of me being a bus and all that, but as it turns out even without my vote he still wouldn’a won, not even if he’d got the other two votes throwed out for bein’ illegal. Never mind, it was all settled in the end. Mister Old Wanger Nose can be bribed with anything, plus we promised him we’d never turn him over to Missus Old Wanger Nose if’n we ever finds her and she ain’t dead. The old fucker’s as hard as nails and even that didn’t satisfy him ‘til we said we wouldn’a turn him in to her even if’n she was so dead she couldn’t rise up and sic her enforcer brother on him. Not only that, but we had to swear if’n we did find Missus Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ she were dead ‘n’ rotten and even if’n we was starvin’ to death and back, we wouldn’t put her in our pot and piss in her for stew. “The taste of her, the taste of her!” Old Wanger Nose kept repeating, over and over ‘til we thought we might have to give him The Howard Donald Da Fardle Treatment. “Once you’ve had the taste of her in your mouth you’ll know the taste of fire ‘n’ brimstone and you’ll tear your tongue out and bury it in the sand.” I sure wish I knowed wot he meant by that, but wot the fuck, it sounds good and wot it means don’t really matter a Fig Newton.

I’m just about to get to the coalition’s mighty plan for the saving of wot’s left of humanity, even if it has to include Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle. But first I’ve gotta put away wot’s left of my pencil and do some more eavesdropping. I’ll be as quick as I can coming back to you after the coalition’s stopped yelling among themselves and come up with a ratified agreement. As I always ends up saying, so endeth another afternoon sharin’ my space with stupid dumbfuck human beings, and I sure as shit wish I had me someone intelligent to talk to, even if it’s only a Ford Transit.