Day 135

Dear Diary,

Before I gets down to wot I wants to talk about today, I’ve gotta add one more titbit concernin’ Misther Old Wanger Nose’s special bespoke corsage wot was made up for him by his wife, Missus Old Wanger Nose (and if there’s ever a person I’d not want to run into in a dark alley, it’d be her by a mile). Anyways, as you might either know or not know, depending on if’n you’ve met him in the flesh, Misther Old Wanger Nose’s blinder’n a mole wot’s wearin’ a snood over his eyes. Sorta has to do with his age, which is understandable and with his mobster self-absorption, which is not – unless, of course, you’re a mobster yourself or wanna be one when you grows up. Like I said, the old fart can’t see further’n a porcupine can throw a bear, and because of this he’s got it in his head that his new buttonhole is actually a high-fashion decorous arrangement of two puffballs and a morel surrounded by a bed of lichen. That could be one reason why he’s so proud of it that, not only does he show it off to anybody who’ll have a look see, but also he’s sent off pictures to all them hobby ‘n’ nature magazines, as well as to The Women’s Institute, as an example of wot can be achieved with the bits and bobs o’forest litter a person can scavenge during a cross-country hike. That is, if’n you has the imagination and a artistic inclination. Poor Old Wanger Nose. How he ever come to be a capo da cappuccino I’ll never know.

Anyways, we’ll get back to him and the letter The Women’s Institute wrote to him later, and we might even mention that Ol’ Court Injunction took out by the little girl wot lives down the lane. In the mean time, however, we’d better get down to “The Re-Population of the World Problem” as well as “The Dealin’ with the Shuttin’ Up of Howard Donald Da Fardle Problem.” And preferably before I forgets wot the individual Plans was according to our stuck-together agreement we agreed to in my back seat. As I told you, by some miracle it was Fergal Da Fecker - one o’them freaks of nature wot’s managed to go through life happy as a clam in broth and without a single idea rufflin’ up the waves of his brain cell - wot comed up with the master plan. How it happened was, Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Misther Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ me ‘n’ Ol’ Fergal’d been discussin’ wot’d be the best way to proceed with the solving of our problems, when outta the blue Fergal said clear as day and without his usual speech impediment – wot isn’t so much a impediment as a thick accent he’d inherited from his mam wot was from South Kerry – that wot Howard Donald needed was a coupl’a babbies to take his mind off’n wot was ailing him. Immediately you could’a heard a pin drop on a carpet and then we all said simultaneous-like, “By George he’s got it!” Actually it were more like “Fuck us with a rolling pin and bake us in a pie,” only that don’t come across like we’d so much collided head on with a “Eureka” moment, as run into a barrel of beer.

Anyways, Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker looked at all of us with the sorta blank expression only he an muster up, and he says, “Wot did I say?” Well, to be honest, I sure as fuck didn’t know either and Finian Da Fabricator only half knowed. Misther Old Wanger Nose was occupied a’sniffin’ his corsage and relivin’ his teenage years with all them other goat-herders and couldn’a knowed nothin’ if’n it’d hit him on the side of the head. And we was all sittin’ around thinkin’ to ourselves how nice it would be if’n we could come up with a idea wot made sense, unlike that wot Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker’d presented to us, when Presto Bingo! there was this Voice from God, and it spake unto us and said the following: “Get Thee Unto Howard Donald Da Fardle and Make of Him the Mother of the World!”

Well, we all thought for a few minutes about wot God had commanded us to do, and we’d almost made up our minds that if’n God’d really said somethin’ so dumbfuck he must have lost all His brains in the flood. “Perhaps He’s hungry,” said Finian Da Fabricator, who’s always ready to give a fool the benefit of the doubt. “Perhaps it’s not God after all,” I said, tryin’ to play the devil’s avocado, “perhaps it’s only our hunger pangs lettin’ us know our lunch is on the fire and after burning into cinders.” Well, let me tell you right here ‘n’ now that the mention of lunch set the cat among the pigeons and all of us immediately went to open the door and go outside to get us somethin’ to eat.

And so that’s wot we done, and that’s when we found out that Howard Donald Da Fardle’d pooped all over us. And do you want to know exactly wot he’d did? Well, Dear Diary, while all of us was inside trying to save the world and improve the situation population-wise, Ol’ Howard Donald was outside eatin’ up all the lunches wot we’d been preparin’ for the next week and a half!

I tell you sure as shit hits the fan when the wind’s in the right direction there was one horrible scene. Poor Ol’ Howard Donald’s in a mountain of trouble and has been put into a little shed for safekeeping with a can of worms and a dog wot was wanderin’ back and forth on the beach lookin’ for a smell or maybe a cat to chase. We ain’t exactly decided wot we’re gonna do to him, or to the dog for that matter, but I’ll tell you somethin’. Whatever we does’ll be somethin’ pretty ratfuckin’ special or I’m not a Daimler Burlington CVD6 bus with a custom-designed interior.

After we’d locked Howard Donald Da Fardle into the little shack, Fergal Da Fecker come on over to me and said all the thinkin’ he’d done’d made him as plum tuckered out as a weasel wot’s been drowned in a bucket, and he was gonna lie down on the beach and sleep for about a million years. For once, everybody else agreed and curled up nice and comfortable on a sand dune wot’s high enough above the waves sos’ we might not get washed away even if’n there’s a somnambulani. I took the precaution of settin’ a alarm clock, even if’n it’s only a pretend one I drawed in the sand. I don’t want to sleep forever. I got plans for the future, even if’n I don’t know wot they is at the moment. Boy oh boy, I sure wish I could curl up like the rest of them, but that’s one of the few things a bus can’t do, even if’n it’s a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 with custom-designed coachwork like me. And so I’ll have to stand. That’s okay, I’m used to it.

By the way, I’ve just thought of another problem with Misther Old Wanger Nose’s calculations, besides the fact that there ain’t no ladies amongst us to help it along. It’s back to none of us bein’ Italians – exceptin’ the old coot and he don’t count – and the question of how havin’ no Italians ramificates in a negative sorta way with wot we’ve got here in the babby-making department. However, I’m too sleepy to think about it today. Perhaps I can dream something up tonight, and perhaps not. Whatever happens, all I’ve got the strength to say to you now, Dear Diary, is so endeth a day when Howard Donald Da Fardle ate up all the food we had left in the whole world. Except the dog, of course, and knowin’ him he’ll probably eat that up tonight when we’re not watching him like a hawk. Shit fuck. Never mind.