Day 134

Dear Diary,

Well, I can’t put it off any longer. I’ve been tryin’ to think of a way I can avoid tellin’ you about Fergal Da Fecker’s brilliant idea for solving wot I calls “The Howard Donald Da Fardle Shitfuck Problem” and how Ol’ Howard Donald hisself fucked up our solution for fuckin’ him up. Not that it was really his fault, on account of it’s ours. In other words, Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Misther Old Wanger Nose and, unfortunately, I was the ones wot paved the way for Howard Donald Da Fardle to once again squirt diarrhoea all over the world. I guess the moral of the story is when there’s somethin’ urgent to be done, it’s gotta be done right away before the doers has time to disagree on how it should be done, and also before the doees does somethin’ wot makes wot the doers are tryin’ to do impossible to do. If’n you catch my drift.

Rather than wastin’ a lot of time layin’ the groundwork as I usually does, on account of if’n you’s interested you can search back a coupl’a days and do the ploughin’ yourself, I’ll start straight in with the idea Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker comed up with to make Howard Da Farle shut the fuck up from his yowling and join in our project for enlarging the human race from three people back up to several billion in the time allotted by Misther Old Wanger Nose. The Ol’ fart’s in the way of being the most equal among equals on account of he’s got all the guns and ammunition plus breath wot’d wipe away the earth if’n there was still enough of it left to be wiped away. According to wot he calls his “calculations,” a month should be enough time for the entire repopulation project, with the schedule for the four stages being as follows: Week One should see us birthin’ the first billion. In Week Two we multiplies the one billion from the first week by two which makes it twice as much, i.e. leaving us with two billions. Repeat the same for Week Three and same again for the Fourth and Final Week. If’n you don’t fuck up with your multiplication tables that should equal Four Billions o’new human beings, or even twice that many if’n everyone eats their green vegetables and has twins. ‘Course, the thing I can see wot might throw a kibosh on his “calculations” is that Misther Old Wanger Nose’s Italian and he’s basin’ everything all on wot Italians can get up to when they put a mind to it. Mind you, I’ve a feeling he might be thinking of bringing back Misolinguini to get ‘em organised, on account of no one before or since, unless you count the Borgias – and they was originally Spanish or something like that – has been able to do a fucking think when it comes to getting’ their trains workin’ on time. Not that trains has anything to do with churning out babies bunny-style, but you know wot I mean. But wot Misther Old Wanger Nose’d got on his mind is that Italian stud stallions’ve got a lot goin’ for themselves in the magic baby-making equipment department. And if’n he puts ‘em on a diet of oysters ‘n’ spinach and garlic and tomatoes ‘n’ calamari ‘n’ more oysters ‘n’ grappa douches, they’d all be able to go solid for a solid twenty-four hours every day, if’n you get my meanin’ without me usin’ words wot’ll get me into trouble. And providin’ the ladies lines themselves up so’s the weapon wielders can go one to the other and on down the line without havin’ to take a breath in between, a billion new human bein’ babies in the first weeks should be a doddle. Or I suppose you could call it a fuckoddle, or even a fuckoddle duckadiddle if’n you want to be funny and you include Fergal Da Fecker in the equation, on account of there’s nothin’ he can’t do with a duck.

Now, about that big fat caveat I mentioned about. In Misther Old Wanger Nose’s dream world, the earth is populated by Italians, or to be more precise, Sicilians. And when you gotta bunch o’them Sicilian Stallion Testosteronitalianos in the same room with a bunch o’burnin’ love chicklets, you gotta good thing going. However, on this here beach wot I’m livin’ on at this particular moment in time, the only one Italian Sicilian in existence is Misther Old Wanger Nose hisself. And the thing is, last thing I heard, Missus Old Wanger Nose got tired of the old fart parading his ancient winkle and furballs for inspection whenever a skirt come walkin’ past him, a situation wot got mighty embarrassing when they was after taking their holidays in Scotland and he was too old and enfeeblemented to know the difference. Anyways after about a hundert years of him dsisplayin’ his wares, in Scotland as well as in countries where skirts come with no surprises ready ‘n’ willing to pop out, Missus Old Wanger Nose got fed up and fetched herself a rusty pair of scissors outta the barn and fixed it so’s all Misther Old Wanger Nose could wear his wrinkly weeny in his button hole instead of a carnation. She figured if’n he liked sharin’ hisself with all o’the putanas of the world, as well as a selected few putanos for variety, on account of that were the spice of life, she’d make his life a whole lot easier for him. Let him wear his prize petunias where everybody could see ‘em. And hell, if’n they couldn’a figure out wot they was on account of wot she called the ravages of time, that’d just go to show he didn’t have much to show in the first place. In spite of him being Sicilian even though he was more of a common or garden Italian and from up north to boot. One funny thing about this is that, from Misther Old Wanger Nose’s point of view, he never caught on to wot’d happened or why certain strangers passin’ in the night’d suddenly break down in hysterical sniggers. And as for him knowin’ the difference physical-wise, well, he didn’t notice nothin’ at all. Poor old coot’d had at least forty prostate operations over the last twelve years and nothing really worked as good as it should’a, or even worked at all. So I guess Missus Old Wanger Nose’d really done him a favour, on account of everytime he had to pee at night, all he had to do was take his winkie dinky outta the breast pocket of his pyjamas and let it dribble into a glass by the bed, and for the first time in sixty or ninety years his pants didn’t get yellow stains in ‘em.

Well, Dear Diary, I lied to you and got away with it again, promisin’ to tell you about somethin’ and then not gettin’ round to it. However, to be honest it weren’t my fault. There’s just so much going on and I don’t want you to feel left out. Anyway, I think I’ve got enough of the background material sorted out for you that next time we talk I can finally tell you about Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker’s master plan and how Howard Donald Da Fardle fucked it up. For now, however, I’m sorta sleepy and am gonna grab me some shuteye while I has the chance. I’m lovin’ you and leavin’ you, and as I always say, so endeth another day wot you’ve spent in my company without no ill-effects, Praise Be To Me And All Wot Rides In Me!