Day 140

Dear Diary,

Well, Misther Old Wanger Nose finally got fed up with me spyin’ on everything wot was goin’ on through my monocular ‘n’ he told Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker to get the fuck off’n their arses and push me across the beach so’s I could interact with them in wot he called a civilised manner. Not that he’d know wot a civilised manner was if’n if bit him on the tushy, but you know wot I mean. Anyways, Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker stared at him like he was some sort o’stinkbug wot they was considering stepping on, until finally the old fart’s single brain cell got the message ‘n’ told him he’d be better off bribin’ the two o’them if’n he didn’t want to get stuffed into a hole in the ground and have a tree planted on top of his bottom. And so that’s wot he done. “I’ll give you a hundert euros each if’n you hauls that arsehole bus on over here,” he whined through his nose. “Make it fifty’n we’ll do it before you can say ‘hot shit ‘n’ buffalo bollocks’,” replied Ol’ Fergal, who’d always came at the bottom of his class mathematically-speakin’. Misther Old Wanger Nose, wot knows a number wot he likes when he sees it and knows how to swing the lotto in his direction, immediately answered back, “Two hundert and that’s my final offer,” but he was trumped by Fergal Da Fecker before another second’d passed. “Twenty-two fifty ‘n’ we can shake hands ‘n’ pretend we’re friends forever, plus we’ll throw in a macaroni salad ‘n’ a box of wine,” he crowed triumphantly. Needless to say, Misther Old Wanger Nose understood it was time to quit and agreed without bargaining another cent up or down. He handed over the twenty-two fifty in laundered banknotes wot was from one of the batches Misther Patchouli Da Fanny ‘n’ Floozie Da Smelley’d printed up in the back room of their lopsided pink flatpack building. I noticed that Finian Da Fabricator didn’t bother to say nothin’ at the time, but as he told me later on, since there wasn’t no porno shops remaining on the island after the flood, all the money in the world wouldn’t make no difference. “Yeh, sure as shootin’ Fergal Da Fecker’s a idiot wot shouldn’t be let loose on the world, but fuck, I loves him and who cares if’n he’s spoiled the chance of a lifetime for free money.” And I guess he’s got a point, but still it were sad to see Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator so down and dejected ‘n’ fatalistic. Poor old fritter’s not been hisself recently. He’s feelin’ lonelier’n a ant without his anthill, his bein’ on his own all the time ‘n’ having to spend nights without Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien and Myrtleen Da Patootie comin’ over ‘n’ keepin’ him company. I know for a fact they does all sorts o’things to him wot when he was a kid used to make him go blind and grow hair on the palms of his hands every other Thursday. As I sees it, now that he’s all growed up, Ol’ Finian’s not exactly self-sufficient in the getting’ on with life department, and he don’t seem to have much luck in developin’ hobbies wot don’t involved others doin’ stuff to him. I only hopes he don’t take to his bed ‘n’ stare off into space like a lot of men does when they retires and is throwed out with the trash. Poor fuckers, I’m sure glad I’m a bus and not one o’them, and I’m beginnin’ to think even bein’ born a Ford Transit’d wouldn’t have been as bad as bein’ born a man. At least as a Ford Transit you wouldn’t o’been lumbered with a lot of expectations, and no one’d ever call you a dumbfuck unless you runned off’n the road when the driver weren’t drunk.

Anyways, to cut to the chase, Misther Old Wanger Nose gave’d each of Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator eleven euros twenty-five cents, or twenty-two fifty for the two of them. And after burying the money is a secret hole wot nobody knew about exceptin’ for the rest of us, they walked on over to my rear end and pushed me out of the trench I’d fell into when I wasn’t looking. They then broke for a mug o’seaweed ‘n’ sand tea and a siesta, and finally – after wot seemed like a week or two – they poked and prodded me over to the shed where Ol’ Howard Donald was livin’. And I’ll tell you one thing, them Howiepupples sure was a hellava lot cuter in the flesh then through a spyglass. In fact, to be honest, they was a distinct improvement over both purebred human beings and purebred puppies in the lookin’ department, and although I can’t speak about their brains I’m thinkin’ there just might be hope for the future after all.

But before we gets to a discussion about evolution versus the immaculate way of doin’ things and the pros and cons in both directions at the same time, let me tell you I discovered somethin’ about Misther Howard Donald Da Fardle that nobody else’s noticed before - and that includes the substitute midwife, Sheelah the Goatherd and his mammy, Missus Milly Da Fardle. Now in Ol’ Sheelah case, it don’t mean a wad o’shite on account of she only knows about goats and to her all human beings’ look alike, even if’n they was as different apart as a chocolate cake and a elephant’s scrotum. But when it comes to Missus Milly Da Fardle, the only thing I can think of is it must’a been a seriously bad case of denial run amok into the next county. It’s not as if the old crow don’t know wot is wot in life and don’t know about the birds and the bees, on account of she sure does or shit don’t shoot out of a goose’s bottom. The fact that she’s had forty-eleven childrens in twelve attempts sorta rules out her claim that her real name’s Virginia, followed by Santa Abstentia Nevadonia, especially given her history in the back row of the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matitions between 1946 and 1991. But that has nothin’ to do with her attitude towards Howard Donald Da Fardle and why he’ such a bitter disappointment to her and why she says he’s ruint her life.

Now we’re finally gonna get down to the nitty gritty and the truth I discovered when I finally poked my nose into Howard Donald Da Fardle’s birthin’ shed. You’ll never guess, not in a million billion years, but when you hear wot it is you’ll laugh until you fall down dead.

Oops, I’m afeard all the Howiepupples just had their after dinner poop and I’m gonna hafta put away my pencil and help clean ‘em up. Seein’ that there are so many of ‘em, it might take a little time. Please be patient. The minute I’m done I’ll interrupt whatever it is you’re doin’ with the announcement, so endeth my nappy washin and bottom wipin’ duties this time around, and let’s get on with givin’ you The Good News you’s been waitin’ for.