Day 137

Dear Diary,

Now, before you gets too lost and can’t find your way home again, you gotta remember that Misther Old Wanger Nose’d gone and set us a re-population target of four billion new human beings over four years, plus forty percent, which is wot his Bank of Old Wanger Nose always charged for loanin’ money to deadbeats on the island way back before the flood when there still was deadbeats to loan money to and a island for them to live on. Another great incident wot has a bearing on wot’s goin’ on now was Fergal Da Fecker’s miraculous statement about wot Howard Da Fardle needed in his life was a coupl’a kids to keep him busy and happy as a fruitcake in a bucket of rum. And then came the Voice of God, or maybe it wasn’t The Voice of God, but whatever it was, it was proclaiming, “Get Thee Unto Howard Donald Da Fardle and Make of Him the Mother of the World!”

Shit fuck. I’ve just read wot I wrote and it’s no wonder if’n you can’t keep track of wot the fuck’s happening at this end of the world. Personally, I knows exactly, on account of I’m here and personally involved at the highest level of our new local government, but after readin’ my official record even I’m thinkin’ confusion is the best policy. Never mind, I’m sure it’ll all get unravelled in the end. Or re-ravelled.

So where was I? I was basically talkin’ about the fact that we (“we” bein’ Misther Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ me ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle) was handed the awesome responsibility of re-populatin’ the globe on account of we’re all there’s left. Now, in and of itself there’s nothing wrong with the first part of our challenge, which was producin’ a billion babbies per year every year for four years. Easy peasy, you might say, if’n this was a ideal place and if’n all of us was ideal candidates for the job. Now I’m not given to be a spoilsport or a killjoy, but I feel it’s my duty to point out there is certain qualities wot’re lacking in us as individuals, at least when it comes down to our qualifications as candidates for the job of providin’ these here one billion babbies per year. In fact, I might even go so far as to state we’re further down on the list of “not up to snuff” candidates than practically any other group of candidates wot’ve ever been born since the beginning of time. First of all, or Number One if’n you prefers, when Misther Old Wanger Nose was talkin’ about the four of us re-populatin’ the world at a compound interest rate of four billion over four years, he had it in mind that we was Italian and therefore endowed with more major testosterone ‘n’ machismo in our ball sacks than a whole barn full of prime fightin’ cockerels. ‘Course, I could’a understood where he was comin’ from, on account of him being Italian or even Sicilian, depending on who you listen to, and it was only natural he’d assumed we was Italian too. After all, he’d seen all of us eat Spaghetti Bolognese down at Thelma O’Leary’s falling down café at one time or other, and that seemed good enough for Misther Old Wanger Nose in the proof department. Anyways, the thing is, as I said, we’s all sorta sadly lacking in the Italian or Sicilian testicular spectacular department. In fact, we’re not only sorta sadly lacking, we’re downright Italian and Sicilian deprived to the million billionth degree. Let me illustrate this for you so’s you’ll understand wot we’re up against, and to make it extra clear so’s you don’t ask a lot of dumb questions later on, I shall go down the list of us one at a time, startin’ with me, on account of I don’t want you to think I’m leavin’ myself out because of misplaced pride or a feelin’ of inadequacy. On the contrary. I ain’t inadequate. No how. No way. It’s just that I’m a bus and a very well bred bus at that, and every part of my equipment is explodin’ with health and is magnificent to look at in the shower. However, bein’ a bus my juices ain’t exactly compatible with the more thinner ‘n’ inferior ‘n’ downright low-grade artificial weak ‘n’ pathetic spurt dribble water wot human bein’ are aways braggin’ about when they’re drunk. So, now that you know I’m well up to scratch in the stud arena, it’s a fuckin’ shame they’s wantin’ to repopulate the human population and not the bus population, but such is life when people are involved. It’s always “Me Me Me” and the world was made for human beings and Praise be Jeezus, Hallelujah Pantyhose ‘n’ Gloryhole ‘n’ bluebells. I only wish they’d remember one thing: no bus ever invented a atom bomb. Not even a Ford Transit.

But enough about me. The next one of us I gotta talk about is Misther Old Wanger Nose. He may be Italian or Sicilian or a little bit of both, but he’s also about ten hundert years old and while he’s got the heart of a smelly randy old goat, he’s got a winky named Signore Droopolio. Furthermore - and this you may remember on account of I only wrote about it a coupl’a days ago – Missus Old Wanger Nose got fed up with him feelin’ up every flopsy in town and detached his wrinkly attachments from where they used to swing and stuck ‘em in his buttonhole. And to top it off, she accidentally on purpose forgot to wash his swingies with a brillo pad and lye soap, and so wherever he goes he’s not called Ol’ Smellerama for nothin’. So much for his prowess as one of the fathers of our nation. As that Shakespeare fella use to say, “exeunt Old Wanger Nose, chased by a bear.” Not that we got any bears ‘round here, but I thought we needed some high-octane drama in my narrative.

Next on my list is sweet ‘n’ dumb Fergal Da Fecker. He’s not only not Italian or even Sicilian, the poor gimpy fool was born and bred on the feckin’ island, which is a subtle way of hintin’ he’s got inbred blood in doses so concentrated they could gag a snake. Only I can’t talk about the inbred part in case I offends someone and they comes over and kills me next time they’re drunk. Which could be any time of the day or night so I’m only puttin’ this in on condition it’s wrote in invisible ink. Anyway, poor Ol’ Fergal ain’t got enough in his cute little Ol’ fuzzy wuzzy balls to fertilize a ant every other month. But as I said before it’s in the blood, and in his case it’s not so much it’s red but it’s green.

After Fergal Da Fecker we gotta look at wot makes Finian Da Fabricator adequate or un-adequate in the begettin’ of a billion children department. Now, to his credit – and I’ve always said as much – he’s got the hands of a massagin’ fool wot could bring out the screams of the coldest Ford Transit or even Miss Cabbage on a good day. Unfortunately – according to Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien ‘n’ Arnie Pizzlepod, wot use to work late night shifts at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic bumpin’ ‘n’ grindin’ in the last row of the Lap-o-Matic Acrobatic Dancers, and also according Myrtleen Da Patootie who tried as hard as she could – it use to take ‘em a good three days pumpin’ solid without a tea break before his whizzle stick’d stand up and whizzle. Only for the poor thing to fizzle before it’d sizzle, which is the story of his life, sorry to say. I’m not holdin’ this against him, but if’n sex were one of them reality TV shows, he’d a fired off in the first round.

This is where I gets around to Howard Donald Da Fardle, wot is central to our babby-makin’ scheme. Unfortunately, something has just to occurred to me wot’s upset my stomach and made me throw up all over my nice clean tyres. You see, the idiot’s got Howard Donald Da Fardle DNA in him, which means there’s a whole shitload of Missus Milly Da Fardle DNA in the background just waitin’ to pop out from behind the bushes and change our regime. Shit fuck and potato pucks. I gotta call a meeting with the others ‘n’ discuss this, which means I’m gonna put away my pencil for a while. In the mean time you can send your texts and emails to me and tell me wot you’d do in my place. Send ‘em care of so endeth your problems and here’s wot I thinks. And don’t forget to include your thoughts about the rabid dog and the can o’worms.