Dear Diary,
“It’s a miracle!” screeched Misther Old Wanger Nose, squealing the words through his whiny adenoids. “It’s a puppies!” hiccoughed Fergal Da Fecker with glee, all excited and jumpin’ up and down like a kid standin’ in front of a pet shop window. “It’s my babbies!” cooed Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle, blushin’ crimson ‘n’ all smiley ‘n’ givin’ the mewling bundles great sloppy kisses all over their faces and lickin’ their fuzzy bottoms clean as ever babbies’ bottoms was. “It’s a fuckin’ freakshow!” commented Finian Da Fabricator in a quiet and well-modulated voice, once again showin’ us he’s able to cut to the truth of the matter at a moment’s notice and not get excited in the meantime. In some ways he must be the most underrated person in the world, at least compared to everybody else.
Wot happened was, the minute we’d seen that Howard Donald Da Fardle’d ate up all the victuals ‘n’ libations we’d fixed for all of our nutritional needs over the next week to ten days (the exact length of time depends upon how much luck we have in scavenging more of wot’s edible and ain’t been lying around dead for more’n a year), Misther Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator stomped on over to Howard Donald Da Fardle and slung him into a deserted donkey shed wot was over on the other side of the beach. I would’a joined ‘em but I still don’t have no motivatin’ imperative in the form of petrol. Anyways, we then went to sleep hungry and with stomachs madder’n a dozen stoats wot’d got their gonadiddle droopies trod upon by a hippopotamus. Now, to be fair, stomachs (and, in my case, fuel tanks) cut us a shitload of slack in the patience department and never do much more’n grumble or fill themselves up with fartin’ gas when we drinks too many gallons of beer or eats too many greasy chips ‘n’ mushy peas or goes on diets wot’ve been seen on TV but which’d kill a dead person in real life. In other words, stomachs (and fuel tanks) is among the goodest of good guys, and that’s a understatement. But after a while even the goodest of good guys can rebel ‘n’ blow a gusset and knock out your lights, or at least embarrass you in public. But where was I? Oh, yes, I was just sayin’ as how our stomachs’d erupted in vile vitriolitude when they learnt that Howard Donald Da Fardle’d ate up every last bite of food and left behind no more’n a beach full o’sand and chiggers. Or, as they says, Sweet Fanny Adams. And so our stomachs (‘n’ petrol tanks) went on major industrial action and told us they wouldn’t never cooperate with us again, not never ever, unless we punished Howard Donald and taught him a lesson he’d never forget. And that’s when we locked him into a shed with nothin’ but a rabid dog and a can full o’worms for company. And to show him we meant business we made sure the worms was ones made outta lettuce and not real ones, on account of there ain’t nothing Ol’ Howard Donald hates more in the whole world than lettuce.
Anyways and anyhows, now we gets to where we opened up the door to the shed first thing this morning and came face to face with about ten tonnes or so of puppies cavorting around and over Ol’ Howard Donald and he was just lyin’ there on his back with a great big cheesy grin plastered all over his face and as happy as a great big bear after he’s had his tummy rubbed all night by a lady bear. “Jeez Fuckin’ Louise, will you look at that?” wailed Misther Old Wanger Nose, whistling through his nose and coverin’ the rest of us with bogey spray ‘n’ slime. “Did you ever see so many puppies in your natural born days?” cooed Fergal Da Fecker, dribblin’ maternal yearnings as well as Old Wanger Nose’s snot down his chin. “Good mornin’ gentlemen,” sighed Howard Donald Da Fardle, beamin’ proudly with a secret smile. “Let me introduce you to my babbies.” And that’s when Finian Da Fabricator said, “They’s fuckin’ freaks and this here donkey shed’s nothin’ but a fuckin’ freakshow and you’re the fuckinest head freak of all freaks, Howard Donald Da Fardle!”
You’ll notice I hadn’t been one o’them wot was doin’ the talkin’, but that’s only on account of even after another night’d passed, I still hadn’t been gaved any petrol and nobody’d thought to push me over to the shed so’s I could comment on wot all the excitement was about. Nevertheless, petroleum or no, I’m still a inventive sorta bus, as befits my heritage, and so I tooked out the spyglass wot I keeps in wot I calls my junk drawer, and I looked at everythin’ wot was goin’ on in the shed. And while I was at it, I had me one great stonking close-up inspection of the puppies, and because that old spyglass magnified ‘em about a million percent I could see wot the others couldn’t, namely that they wasn’t puppies at all and Ol’ Finian was righter’n he could’a even imagined. “Will you look at that,” I says in wonderment, “you’re both right. We got ourselves a million billion Howiedogs.” I spent another minute conductin’ a scientific examination of the babbies while Howard Donald obliged me by turnin’ them over one by one. And then I amended my statement. “Or to be more precise,” I amended, “good Ol’ Howard Donald’s gave birth to exactly a half a million billion Howiedogs and exactly the same number Howiebitchies!” “And ain’t they the most beeeeyoutiful babbykins in the whole world!” exclaimed the happy mother or father or whatever the fuck Howard Donald Da Fardle was. “As sure as goats shit little round bumpies, them Howiepupples is the prettiest things I’ve ever did saw!” simpered Fergal De Fecker in complete agreement as he picked up about a dozen of each kind and gave ‘em a great big ol’ hug. And we all went “awe.” In spite of ourselves.
Well, bein’ human beings and not buses – and you know by now I’m not talking about Ford Transits on account of they’re half polecats, only not so cute – not a second had passed but wot Misther Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker’d got into a right old blabberwar about wot should be done with Howard Donald Da Fardle’s precious babbykins, as well as wot shouldn’t be done. Misther Old Wanger Nose, who’s the most narrow-mined and pig-ignorant and superstitious of the three, screamed out that them babbykins was an abomination in the eyes of the Lord ‘n’ ought’a be burnt to a crisp at the stake before the devil swoops up and claims every one of us for his own. ‘Course, no sooner’d the words escaped from his motley purple ‘n’ withered lips than the babbykins’ mother or father (or whatever he was) started in a’wailin’ and a’gnashin’ his teeth, and he flunged hisself on top of the babbykins so’s Misther Old Wanger Nose couldn’t get out his big old acetylene cigar lighter and put on his Autonomous De Fe bonnet and cook us up some babbykin fritters.
Jeeze Louise, wot a horrible few minutes we had, wot with Howard Da Fardle screamin’ and yellin’ and rollin’ round the floor of the donkey shed and tryin’ to protect his Howiepups from the lashes of Misther Old Wanger Nose’s cat o’nine tails, and there were the old fart dressed up like the witch finder in general and foamin’ at the mouth, and there was the poor little innocent Howiepupples getting squashed into all sorts of shapes and squeakin’ and a’squallin’ to beat the band, and some of them even survivin’.
And then there was the rabid dog sittin’ in the shadows over in one of the corners completely forgotten, and he was watchin’ everything wot was going on, and I swear he was takin’ notes. And beside him was the can of worms. And it was open.
Well, Dear Diary, this is when the situation got even more complicated ‘n’ messy than it already were, which is why I’m gonna give you a breather so’s you can get your strength back before I continues. Altogether now, breathe in ‘n’ out ‘n’ shake it all about and stare into a candle for a hour or two until you falls asleep. And when you wakes up, I’ll be here waitin’ for you, awake as always, on account of us buses never sleep. Anyways (once again), as I never gets tired of sayin’ to you, so endeth this free introductory offer for nitro-glycerine suppositories and get ‘em while they lasts on account of they’re a lot more fun than all o’that discount software everyone keeps tryin’ to shove down my throat care of my email address.
“It’s a miracle!” screeched Misther Old Wanger Nose, squealing the words through his whiny adenoids. “It’s a puppies!” hiccoughed Fergal Da Fecker with glee, all excited and jumpin’ up and down like a kid standin’ in front of a pet shop window. “It’s my babbies!” cooed Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle, blushin’ crimson ‘n’ all smiley ‘n’ givin’ the mewling bundles great sloppy kisses all over their faces and lickin’ their fuzzy bottoms clean as ever babbies’ bottoms was. “It’s a fuckin’ freakshow!” commented Finian Da Fabricator in a quiet and well-modulated voice, once again showin’ us he’s able to cut to the truth of the matter at a moment’s notice and not get excited in the meantime. In some ways he must be the most underrated person in the world, at least compared to everybody else.
Wot happened was, the minute we’d seen that Howard Donald Da Fardle’d ate up all the victuals ‘n’ libations we’d fixed for all of our nutritional needs over the next week to ten days (the exact length of time depends upon how much luck we have in scavenging more of wot’s edible and ain’t been lying around dead for more’n a year), Misther Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator stomped on over to Howard Donald Da Fardle and slung him into a deserted donkey shed wot was over on the other side of the beach. I would’a joined ‘em but I still don’t have no motivatin’ imperative in the form of petrol. Anyways, we then went to sleep hungry and with stomachs madder’n a dozen stoats wot’d got their gonadiddle droopies trod upon by a hippopotamus. Now, to be fair, stomachs (and, in my case, fuel tanks) cut us a shitload of slack in the patience department and never do much more’n grumble or fill themselves up with fartin’ gas when we drinks too many gallons of beer or eats too many greasy chips ‘n’ mushy peas or goes on diets wot’ve been seen on TV but which’d kill a dead person in real life. In other words, stomachs (and fuel tanks) is among the goodest of good guys, and that’s a understatement. But after a while even the goodest of good guys can rebel ‘n’ blow a gusset and knock out your lights, or at least embarrass you in public. But where was I? Oh, yes, I was just sayin’ as how our stomachs’d erupted in vile vitriolitude when they learnt that Howard Donald Da Fardle’d ate up every last bite of food and left behind no more’n a beach full o’sand and chiggers. Or, as they says, Sweet Fanny Adams. And so our stomachs (‘n’ petrol tanks) went on major industrial action and told us they wouldn’t never cooperate with us again, not never ever, unless we punished Howard Donald and taught him a lesson he’d never forget. And that’s when we locked him into a shed with nothin’ but a rabid dog and a can full o’worms for company. And to show him we meant business we made sure the worms was ones made outta lettuce and not real ones, on account of there ain’t nothing Ol’ Howard Donald hates more in the whole world than lettuce.
Anyways and anyhows, now we gets to where we opened up the door to the shed first thing this morning and came face to face with about ten tonnes or so of puppies cavorting around and over Ol’ Howard Donald and he was just lyin’ there on his back with a great big cheesy grin plastered all over his face and as happy as a great big bear after he’s had his tummy rubbed all night by a lady bear. “Jeez Fuckin’ Louise, will you look at that?” wailed Misther Old Wanger Nose, whistling through his nose and coverin’ the rest of us with bogey spray ‘n’ slime. “Did you ever see so many puppies in your natural born days?” cooed Fergal Da Fecker, dribblin’ maternal yearnings as well as Old Wanger Nose’s snot down his chin. “Good mornin’ gentlemen,” sighed Howard Donald Da Fardle, beamin’ proudly with a secret smile. “Let me introduce you to my babbies.” And that’s when Finian Da Fabricator said, “They’s fuckin’ freaks and this here donkey shed’s nothin’ but a fuckin’ freakshow and you’re the fuckinest head freak of all freaks, Howard Donald Da Fardle!”
You’ll notice I hadn’t been one o’them wot was doin’ the talkin’, but that’s only on account of even after another night’d passed, I still hadn’t been gaved any petrol and nobody’d thought to push me over to the shed so’s I could comment on wot all the excitement was about. Nevertheless, petroleum or no, I’m still a inventive sorta bus, as befits my heritage, and so I tooked out the spyglass wot I keeps in wot I calls my junk drawer, and I looked at everythin’ wot was goin’ on in the shed. And while I was at it, I had me one great stonking close-up inspection of the puppies, and because that old spyglass magnified ‘em about a million percent I could see wot the others couldn’t, namely that they wasn’t puppies at all and Ol’ Finian was righter’n he could’a even imagined. “Will you look at that,” I says in wonderment, “you’re both right. We got ourselves a million billion Howiedogs.” I spent another minute conductin’ a scientific examination of the babbies while Howard Donald obliged me by turnin’ them over one by one. And then I amended my statement. “Or to be more precise,” I amended, “good Ol’ Howard Donald’s gave birth to exactly a half a million billion Howiedogs and exactly the same number Howiebitchies!” “And ain’t they the most beeeeyoutiful babbykins in the whole world!” exclaimed the happy mother or father or whatever the fuck Howard Donald Da Fardle was. “As sure as goats shit little round bumpies, them Howiepupples is the prettiest things I’ve ever did saw!” simpered Fergal De Fecker in complete agreement as he picked up about a dozen of each kind and gave ‘em a great big ol’ hug. And we all went “awe.” In spite of ourselves.
Well, bein’ human beings and not buses – and you know by now I’m not talking about Ford Transits on account of they’re half polecats, only not so cute – not a second had passed but wot Misther Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker’d got into a right old blabberwar about wot should be done with Howard Donald Da Fardle’s precious babbykins, as well as wot shouldn’t be done. Misther Old Wanger Nose, who’s the most narrow-mined and pig-ignorant and superstitious of the three, screamed out that them babbykins was an abomination in the eyes of the Lord ‘n’ ought’a be burnt to a crisp at the stake before the devil swoops up and claims every one of us for his own. ‘Course, no sooner’d the words escaped from his motley purple ‘n’ withered lips than the babbykins’ mother or father (or whatever he was) started in a’wailin’ and a’gnashin’ his teeth, and he flunged hisself on top of the babbykins so’s Misther Old Wanger Nose couldn’t get out his big old acetylene cigar lighter and put on his Autonomous De Fe bonnet and cook us up some babbykin fritters.
Jeeze Louise, wot a horrible few minutes we had, wot with Howard Da Fardle screamin’ and yellin’ and rollin’ round the floor of the donkey shed and tryin’ to protect his Howiepups from the lashes of Misther Old Wanger Nose’s cat o’nine tails, and there were the old fart dressed up like the witch finder in general and foamin’ at the mouth, and there was the poor little innocent Howiepupples getting squashed into all sorts of shapes and squeakin’ and a’squallin’ to beat the band, and some of them even survivin’.
And then there was the rabid dog sittin’ in the shadows over in one of the corners completely forgotten, and he was watchin’ everything wot was going on, and I swear he was takin’ notes. And beside him was the can of worms. And it was open.
Well, Dear Diary, this is when the situation got even more complicated ‘n’ messy than it already were, which is why I’m gonna give you a breather so’s you can get your strength back before I continues. Altogether now, breathe in ‘n’ out ‘n’ shake it all about and stare into a candle for a hour or two until you falls asleep. And when you wakes up, I’ll be here waitin’ for you, awake as always, on account of us buses never sleep. Anyways (once again), as I never gets tired of sayin’ to you, so endeth this free introductory offer for nitro-glycerine suppositories and get ‘em while they lasts on account of they’re a lot more fun than all o’that discount software everyone keeps tryin’ to shove down my throat care of my email address.
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