Day 133

Dear Diary,

Well, it looks like the new Coalition of the Willing we stuck together yesterday wasted no time not only in getting’ unstuck but in shootin’ itself in the foot. I’m speakin’ figuratively about the shootin’ in the foot part, of course, and not literally, or else we’d all be limpin’ around and whinin’ just like Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle is doin’. To be honest, however, it might’ve been better if we’d just let Old Wanger Nose get on with makin’ it literal. And do you want to know why? Well, if’n you remember, we embarked on delicate peace treaty negotiations with Misther Old Wanger Nose sittin’ at the big end of the table, and he were representin’ wot they calls the unilateral approach, on account of he owns all of the ammunition and knows how to use it and it don’t bother him how many of anything he kills to get his way. In other words, he’s not only got the best hand but he’s got all the cards. Sorta like the guy playing Monopoly with you wot always ends up with all the hotels ‘n’ posh properties and all you ends up with is the “Go to Jail Do Not Pass ‘Go’ Do Not Collect Two Hundert Dollars” card. At the other end of the table, or as I calls it, “the small end of the stick,” was Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker, or, as Misther Old Wagner Nose calls em, “The Losers.” I was sorta like Switzerland. Neutral but happy to take the money, which is a good place to be if’n you don’t want to be rubbed out ‘n’ end up wearin’ cement shoes at the bottom of the ocean.

Anyways, the major bone of contention negotiation-wise had to do with the best way to dispose of Howard Donald Da Fardle. He’d been makin’ such a pain in the butthole of hisself that, as I’ve told you before, Misther Old Wanger Nose went ‘n’ shot him in the big toe. ‘Course, from there it only got worse ‘n’ worse as time went by and Ol’ Howard Donald got more ‘n’ more hystericaller and outta control. Now under ordinary circumstances all of us probably would’a caved in under all the pressure Old Wanger Nose was exertin’ to kill him off completely. After all, not only were Misther Old Wanger Nose a mobster ‘n’ a gangster to boot and none of us was after getting rubbed out ourselves for disagreeing with him, but, let’s face it, even a vintage classic hand-crafted Daimler Burlington CVD6 33-seater bus can only take so much in the eardrum abuse department from Ol’ Howard Donald. Goodness only knows how the human beings coped as well as they did. In other words, it were boilin’ down to “Either Howard Donald Da Fardle’s turned into a blue plate special or we is.” As I said, under ordinary circumstances when the livin’ is easy, difficult choices ain’t even all that difficult. However, in this case, there was one God Almighty Dumbfuck King-Sized Spanner in the Works. We all felt it’d been put in our hands to repopulate the earth and make her full o’stupid dumbfucks again, just like it was back in the old days, and if we put Ol’ Howard Donald outta his misery, then that would make one less of us to go around. In other words, we’d be goin’ in the wrong direction!

In the end, after to-in’ and fro-in’ a whole lot longer’n it should’a took, Misther Old Wanger Nose threw up his hands ‘n’ said, “Fuck you, I’ll give da bum one more chance, after that it’s into the pickling jar.” But bein’ that the old fart gangster and ex-government minister is wot he is, he also laid the onus on “The Losers”. “Ya gotta week and a half to come up with the first level of repopulation goods,” he said, lightin’ a big old cigar and chewin’ on the end. Finian Da Fabricator and Fergal Da Fecker right away pulled their fedoras down over their eyes ‘n’ kissed him on his pinky ring ‘n’ said, “Sure thing boss.” ‘Course, bein’ that I was not so much a loser as a neutral money-laundering organisation, I kept quiet and didn’t say nothin’ wot could prejudice my position. Plus the fact that there ain’t no fedora big enough to go over my head, being that I’m a bus, and so I can’t rightly pull one down over my left eye and pretend I’m a movie hoodlum, can I? Misther Old Wanger Nose noticed I was standin’ there all neutral and he gived me a quick stare wot told me to remember who he was. In fact, just to make sure I got the message correct, he said, “Well?” in one of them “disrespect me and you’ll be wearin’ a ice pick in your head” tones of voice he’s so good at, but for once in my life I didn’t budge. I merely replied real polite, “With all due respect, Misther Old Wanger Nose, I’m officially neutral and can’t go ‘round kissin’ one person’s arse over another’s.” And then I added just for the hell of it, “At least not when I’m not behind closed doors.”

Actually I’m not sure that was the right thing to say, on account of he gived me a wink of the sort wot makes me think I ought’a lock the bedroom door tonight. But then unfortunately, he undone his capo da cappuccino tough guy routine by opening his mouth, at which point his cigar fell out on to his espadrille and I could see it weren’t nothin’ but a big old slug he’d picked up on the beach. I guess Misther Old Wanger Nose didn’t have no luck findin’ a quality tobacconist since the flood, but I sure wish he hadn’t gone and lit up the wrong end of a slug. And I bet the slug agrees with me.

In the end we got ourselves all sorted out and decided the best way of handlin’ Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle. Actually it were Fergal Da Fecker’s idea and we all gived him all credit where credit’s due, on account of he’d thunked it up all by hisself based on all his past experiences with ducks ‘n’ sheep ‘n’ a coupl’a cows. Experience, by the way, wot none of the rest of us can boast about. Mind you, at the time Ol’ Fergal wasn’t so much proposin’ a solution as crackin’ wot he thought of as a funny. And if’n the truth be told, even after both me and Finian Da Fabricator finally recognised the genius behind the idea, poor Ol’ Fergal’d done somethin’ horrible in his pants and was still too busy laughin’ at his own joke to realise wot a rootin’ tootin’ shitshootin’ domehead he was.

I know I haven’t told you yet wot Fergal De Fecker’s once-in-a-lifetime idea for repopulatin’ the planet was, but the thing is, before we could make a official announcement in the papers and break it on the TV news like we was supposed to do, somethin’ cropped up. Which is a coward’s way of sayin’ Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle took a dump on the idea wot made us change our minds. And all because we took so fuckin’ long with them peace summit treaty negotiations that the world went on without us, and now we’re gonna hafta start all over again. Oh well, I’m gonna hafta put away the tiny stub of pencil I’ve still got left and listen in, and when we got the situation under control I’ll let you know. And by now you know wot I’m gonna say, don’t you? Somethin’ along the lines of so endeth another fine fuckin’ mess the dumbfucks got us into.