Day 138

Dear Diary,

I’ve looked at my calendar and it’s The Official Howard Donald Da Fardle Day, and if’n it isn’t where you live then it ought’a be. I know I keeps from talkin’ about him, exceptin’ to tell you when he’s run off with his mother’s ill-gotten bingo winnings or when he’s been shot in the foot on account of his bad behaviour or when he’s been locked up in a pig shed over night with a rabid dog and a can o’worms and ends up birthin’ about a billion Howiepupples. You’d a’thunk I would have devoted a whole shitload of chapters to him by now, wouldn’t you, but to tell you the truth there’s a whole lot less to Howard Donald Da Fardle than wot meets the eye, and even a bit less. Consequently, if’n I told you all wot I knows about him, the few of you wot actually reads my diary every day would switch off’n started poppin’ little white pills.

Unfortunately for all of us, and especially me on account of I’m the one doin’ the writin’, Howard Donald Da Fardle’s an essential – if not central – element in our saga at this particular moment in time. I’ve already mentioned how all the others in the Begettin’ A Billion New Babbies Per Annum Department fit in, so by process of elimination, I’ve sunk all the way down to Ol’ Howard Donald with no one else I can turn to. Sorta bargain basement time, but here goes.

When Misther Old Wanger Nose’d proposed that those o’them wot was left on the world was responsible for goin’ forth ‘n’ multiplyin’, I’m thinkin’ he’d gone and pontificated without takin’ into account the facts as they was. Perhaps that’s why important folks got advisers ‘n’ spin doctors, so’s they can nip the damagin’ ‘n’ stupid ideas at both ends of the bud. Unfortunately for all concerned, Misther Old Wanger Nose ain’t important enough in the scheme o’things to warrant a personalised roll o’toilet paper, much less an adviser or a spin doctor. And on top of that he’s wot you’d call a law unto hisself. I suppose if’n he’d been smart enough to stay in Chicago, he might’ve amounted to somethin’ in the mad slashin’ mobster department. But smart is as smart does, and wot I’m thinkin’ is the smart molecule in his DN ‘n’ A must’a got spun off one of the times it went loop dee loop. How else does you explain why he chose to come to the island on purpose all them years ago, and why when it was time for him to go back to Chicago again he’s could’a find his way outt’a the deluxe luxury pink ‘n’ gold portable toilet holiday home conversion he’d rented for a month from Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, much less get back to the mainland and his private dirigible. I’m not sayin’ he ain’t done extra special good for hisself in the way of makin’ money and enemies and buyin’ black cars with tinted windows and puttin’ horses heads into people’s beds for Christmas presents, but when all you’ve got as business competition is Owld Fingus Da Flatulator of blessed memory, as was the case way back then, only a fool could’a managed not to get rich and infamous and evil down to his hairy broken toes.

But why am I talkin’ about Misther Old Wanger Nose again when this is supposed to be Howard Donald Da Fardle’s Day of Gloria Hallelujah?

Well, to be honest, wot I’m tryin’ to say in a roundabout way is that how the fuck had Ol’ Howard Donald survived the flood and why was he among the survivin’ few especially chose by God and Misther Old Wanger Nose to re-populate the earth and all that’s on it? To me, as a bus with a brain, it don’t make no sense and only illustrates that God must’a got the supreme court or somethin’ to declare He’d won the election and not the other guy. But however it happened, Howard Donald Da Fardle must’a been His huntin’ companion or perhaps he’d contributed to His election campaign or something, on account of when the time camed for God to chose his Chosen People, Ol’ Howard Donald was chose more front and centre than anybody else.

Now, I know you’ve been tryin’ for days to point out that all the other survivors, pathetic as they is, still counts as men when you takes their drawers off. But Howard Donald? Where does he come into it? The last time I looked, if’n you follows the laws of nature as pertains to the human bein’ species, you gotta have a female to help out in the reproducin’ department, and she’s gotta come compete with a vagina and a whole shitload of eggs and a aperture and everything else wot goes in it. That bein’ the case, wouldn’t you’ve thunked that God would’a survived just one women to help out? Now I know most’a wot was left to choose from was old and cracked and dried out as one o’Thelma O’Leary’s rock cakes, and the last thing we’d a wanted around here was Miss Cabbage or Mrs. Emily Da Onion or Missus Milly Da Fardle with their legs akimbo ‘n’ spread wide open to the world and a’waiting a fill up from the eligible men’s fillin’ station. It simply wouldn’t a worked. First of all, they was as ugly and mean as monkfish left out in the sun for a month of Sundays and stank twice as bad. Wot man with man juice in him and a tube to squirt it out wouldn’t demanded in a very loud and offended voice, “You’re fuckin’ joking? You’re askin’ me to do WHAT?”

‘Course, God could’a chose Floozie Da Smelley to help out. She may not a’been much in the human bein’ department, and she may have liked livin’ in lopsided pink flatpack buildings and runnin’ junk markets, but she did pump out into the world little miss pink and perfect Candee Da Smelley-Fanny. And in spite of all the odds, Miss Candee ended up runnin’ off and changin’ her name a bunch of times, and last thing I heard she was a professor of quantum mechanics at Cambridge, which to you wot’s never studied anything other than TV presentin’ and How To Win On A Reality Show, is a branch of physics wot actually requires a bit of studying and thinking’ and actually readin’ books instead of looking up Britney Spears on Aquipwedia. But for some reason or other God decided against Floozie Da Smelley, so we might as well not worry about it. As religious folks always says whenever there’s somethin’ they can’t explain, “Lordy, Lordy moves in Bidawee Bays, His fishies to consume.”

But if not Floozie Da Smelley, why not The Widow Fartie Da Whistle? To my mind she would’a been not only perfect but all the men would’a been at their best, standin’ tall and eager to please, the moment she’d tooked off her clothes? But maybe Ol’ God wanted her for hisself and didn’t want to share her. And I guess from her point of view, if’n she had to choose between God ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle, she would’a chose God every time. His gain is the world’s loss, and I’m thinkin’ the next time He goes and has Hisself another Son of God, things might end up a whole lot different than they did last time when The Widow Fartie weren’t the Holy Mary Mother’a God. But this sort a speculation is not wot I’m supposed to be talkin’ about, is it? I’m supposed to be leadin’ a constructive dialogue between me and you, Dear Diary, on why Howard Donald Da Fardle was apparently chose as the mother of a billion Howiepupples and why was the father of all the peoples a mangy rabid dog and not one of us? And while I’m at it, wot in the fuck was the can o’worms doin’ while this particular begattin’ was takin’ place? And why wasn’t any of us real men – Misther Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ me – in on the joke?

Here, I’ve left you with a whole lot o’questions to ponder while I takes a comfort break with the other men. I know most’a you only does this in the company of others if you’s a woman, but being that there’s none of them available, we’re gonna have be the next best thing. I’ll let you know how it works out by saying so endeth our comfort break and we still don’t know why the fuck women likes to go to the johnnie together when they could go by theirselves?