Day 141

Dear Diary,

Well folks, I’m back. All the Howiepupples’ve had their bottoms wiped and they’ve been sprinkled with baking powder just in case we decides to bake ‘em up into a cake. Let me tell you it took all of us about a year and a day to dig a hole big enough to hold all them billions o’nappies and all that stinky Howiepupple special free gifts wot’d gone into ‘em after they’d ate their blancmange ‘n’ rusks soaked in HowieMilk to make ‘em soft and digestible. I’m tellin’ you, I’m exhausted and I didn’t even do the majority of the diggin’ of the hole or the buryin’ of the nappies or the shovellin’ of the sand over the top to finish up the job so’s we wouldn’t all expire from fatal toxic fumes. That mainly fell to Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker, both of wot is strong as Oxonians ‘n’ has plenty of muscles in their ears to get the job done. As for Misther Old Wanger Nose, he spent the whole time complainin’ about all wot babbies gets up to when they’s left by themselves and lightin’ fat cigars so’s the island wouldn’t be polluted by the smell, but I guess that’s okay when you realises that’s about all he’s good for, wot with him bein’ such a ancient crackpot who can barely walk, let alone stand up and play the banjo at the same time. And I must say I was sorta proud of him for not saying over and over that babby shit is women’s work and where is the bitches when you needs ‘em? And by the way, before you points out that I haven’t mentioned myself, let me say I’ve put it off ‘til last on account of the best is always saved for last, and whatever you thinks privately, I am – quite simply – the best there is!

I hear you waiting for me to tell you wot I’d did to earn my keep last night! And you’re sayin’ that after changin’ the nappies and fumigatin’ the babbies and sprinklin’ powder all over them from top to bottom and also buryin’ the tonnes o’stinky yellow in the sand, wot was there left for me to get up to? Well, first of all, I put myself in charge of makin’ sure the ancient burial hole was located far enough from the part o’ the beach on which we lives so’s the toxic waste from the nappies wouldn’a ooze up from the Jurassic layer and kill us all off overnight. And believe me, that were a job only a engineer could get up to, and I is the only one with the right qualifications. I is a machine, after all, and only a machine knows about such things as velocity ‘n’ measurements ‘n’ the travellin’ rate of stinky yellow through the sand ‘n’ where it should be buried in relation to the incoming tides ‘n’ shit like that. And then there’s the calculations relatin’ to the actual dimensions of the burial chamber, takin’ into account the metric weight and mass and enthusiasm of the resultant methane emissions, all of which’ve probably eluded your thinkin’ mechanism - but without which we’ll most likely have a heavy metal gas build-up in proportion to an average sized volcano wot’s thinkin’ about blowin’ its lid off. All this and a hundert other matters was weighin’ my head down all the way through the night, but after I’d focussed all o’my brainpower at the task, it plus the muscles of Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker got the job done and then some. On time and before the whole pile of nappies could explode with the force of a two-hundert thousand megaton bomb. And believe you me, that wouldn’a been much fun for any of us. I mean we’ve all been through the atom bombing of the pink ‘n’ gold holiday home boathouse conversions by the Texas Friends o’Jeezus Squad, and I don’t think any of us wants to go through anything like it again. At least not if’n we happen to be on the earth at the same time. Sorta makes me understand why Texas is on the side of movin’ to the moon. That way they can destroy the shit outta everybody else on earth ‘n’ they’d still be able to play golf the same afternoon. But enough about that and I doesn’t need to talk about it any more.

Wot I really wanted to tell you about today (and I’m sorry I didn’t get around to it in the first sentence) is how Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle came to be the mammy of a billion Howiepupples and how he got his inspiration from a can o’worms and how the fuck did that old mangy rabid dog have so much spunk in his teeny tiny ballsacks to get the job done.

But before we get around to all that, I got’s to explain here and now about wot Missus Milly Da Fardle had against her second son and why she kept puttin’ him to bed in her neighbour’s house and hopin’ he’d never find his way home. Well, Dear Diary, the answer is as simple as a glass of rum with rum in it and nothin’ else: Howard Donald Da Fardle was born without a winkie dingle dangle. Now in any other home where folks knowed how things worked in the biologically-speaking department, the mammy or pappy or whoever it was wot was in charge of lookin’ down to see wot was wot, would’a said, “Will you look at that Margery Door, we got ourselves a baby girl child, praise Jeezus and hallelujah and stick her in a burkha.” However, wot you gotta realise about Missus Milly Da Fardle is that she only ever attended schools for a day and a half, and even those wot’d took her in banned wot they called “biology” and the “reproductive sciences” on account of them subjects was an offence in the eyes of the Lord wot’d never knowed about such things and wasn’t about to learn nothin’ new at His time o’life. As a consequence, all Missus Milly Da Fardle knowed was that the year Ol’ Howard Donald was born was the one for her to churn out a whole clutch full o’boys, ‘n’ boys is wot she was gonna have. ‘Course, it were a shame that the one she called Howard Donald after her favourite pig ‘n’ Donald Duck was so big ‘n’ fat ‘n’ rounder’n a beachball and had ginger hair to boot. But wot the fuck, she figured there was always girls desperate ‘n’ ugly enough to march down the aisle with a tub o’lardbutt and so she thought nothin’ more about it. But then one day she happened to see under his flap o’fat and sawed there was nothin’ there to see. And she said, “Jeeze Louise and fuck your gran’s canary, but this here boy ain’t got a winky dinky dangle!” But she still didn’t get too upset or pay it any mind to speak of, on account of there was some girls wot didn’t care on way or t’other about dingle dangles and was more interested in ridin’ around on motorcycles and cuttin’ their hair short and runnin’ the hog-callin’ competition booth for the Women’s Institute. But then, do you want to know wot happened to bring the house down ‘round her ears? Ol’ Marcela Da Splodge, wot runned the Wednesday night Bingo games, always fed the winnin’ numbers to Missus Milly Da Fardle on Tuesday, on account of she were in love with the old bat and love means never having to say you’re sorry and it has no bounds. Well, you can be sure that Ol’ Milly liked her more’n most people, though not so much as herself. But the point is she believed everything Marcela Da Splodge told her, on account of it was the least she could do given the amount of money wot was coming her way. So anyways, one night when Missus Milly Da Fardle was givin’ little fat round babby Howard Donald his annual bath, Marcela Da Splodge, wot was into anatomical niceties and wot they calls voyeuristic compulsive behaviour patterns, happened to gaze down at wot the little boy didn’t have and said, “Jeeze fuckin’ Louise, Missus Milly Da Fardle, your ugly fat little round boy is about the ugliest fat little round girl I’ve ever did saw.” Well, you’d better believe Missus Milly Da Fardle kicked her outta the house with big kicks to the behind and she kicked out Marcela Da Splodge with her. “And don’t you ever darken my door again, Howard Donald Da Fardle! How dare you change your sex on me in a good Christian home wot Jeezus wept into!”

Anyhows, to this very day Missus Milly Da Fardle don’t accept that Howard Donald Da Fardle is anything but a filthy ingrate boy child wot has whacked off his dingle dangle to embarrass her in the eyes of her neighbours and especially Miss Cabbage, wot always knows everything wot goes on and makes sure to repeat the worst bits to the wrong people.

Well, Dear Diary, now you know a bit more about Howard Donald Da Fardle than you did before, and I’ll get to the rabid dog and the can o’worms next time. In the meantime, it’s past your bedtime and I don’t want you to be cranky in the morning. Don’t forget to wash behind your ears and brush your teeth and pray so endeth the day and I’ll lay me down to sleep and let me get everything I wish for without having to be good. Praise be to the tooth fairy ‘n’ Santa Clause forever ‘n’ ever without end. Amen.