Day 142

Dear Diary,

Well, I just had me the most God fuckin’ awful miserable night since the world began and that’s no exaggeration. Suddenly about seven o’clock in the evenin’, or nineteen hundert hours to all o’you wot speaks euro and military takeovers, I felt like there was a hot poker cuttin’ through my pipe system and I thought to myself, I thought, “Holy Jeezus there’s a hot poker shoved up my pipes and fuckin’ Louisabeth don’t be a’callin’ me home just yet!” I could’a swore somebody’d cut through my water hose ‘n’ my fuel delivery system ‘n’ my oil pan with a rusty two-handed saw like wot they uses to cut trees down in the forest so that nobody hears. And if’n I could’a doubled up I would’a in a snap, on account I’m sure it would’a made me feel a whole lot more relieved. But as I’ve told you a thousand million times I’m a bus and buses can’t fold over in half, so don’t even think about comin’ over to give me a hand or cut me down the middle. Believe me, you’re the last thing I need right now. I’m fully capable of wot they calls feelin’ sorry for myself, thank you very much, and I had a whole lot of fun moanin’ and groanin’ and carryin’ on and – for once in my lifetime – getting’ some attention for myself. And that felt gooder’n anything I’ve experience in a month o’Sundays, even though I was still in excruciatin’ pain and my innards was in total disharmony with the ozone. Ah, fuck it was awful!

Anyways, after a time – maybe ten seconds or less, which seemed like a lifetime when your fuel lines’ve been sawed in two by a rusty implement – Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator snapped to attention and remembered he’d been my beloved chief mechanic ‘n’ paintwork polisher in our former life together, and he runned on over to me as fast as he could and said, “Oh my purdy Jeezuz fucks my mother, wot the fuck’s the matter with you, bus o’my heartstrings? Oh Lordy Lordy pants on fire, get me a gun so’s I can put you outta your misery.” ‘Course I burst out laughin’ like he knew I would and immediately I felt a whole lot better, but unfortunately Misther Old Wanger Nose’d been close enough to hear the bit about a gun and puttin’ me outta my misery and he’s such a dumbfuck he takes everything literally. Besides, he’s always lookin’ for some excuse to kill somebody or other for want of anything better to do. The dementiatated Ol’ Fucker tugged out his gun wot he’d used for shootin’ Howard Donald Da Fardle in the big toe and he fires straight at my windscreen. And Jeeze Louise, if I’d thought my fuel line’d hurt like shit’d been poked through my eyeball with a barbeque fork, that weren’t nothin’ compared to havin’ my front window shot out by a thousand rounds from a submachine gun. Jeeze Fuckin’ Louise ‘n’ Tommy tosses salad ‘n’ shoot the cream! I could’a rolled right over him and rocked back ‘n’ forth ‘n’ back ‘n’ forth ‘til he were nothing but a veal escalope, but – alas – I couldn’t even do that on account of I was too busy havin’ a tantrum the size of Chicago, and I went on bringin’ down the house ‘til everybody else – includin’ the Howiepupples – covered their ears and ran screamin’ to the other side of the beach and beyond, leavin’ me all alone and feelin’ like the end of the world should’a happened the day before I was born. I don’t know wot I would’a done if my beloved Finian Da Fabricator hadn’t stayed with me through it all and bathed my forehead with a cool damp cloth. As I said a long time ago when he was the one takin’ care of me, I’d have his babbies if’n he wanted, and perhaps I still will.

I’m sorry I got distracted from talkin’ more about Howard Donald Da Fardle and his bein’ a fat woman instead of a fat tosser of a man, but at this moment in time I’m comin’ first in my estimation, on account of I’ve just been put through hell and the ringer at one and the same time. Fuckin’ shit ‘n’ mashed potatoes, wot a fuckin’ awful day I’ve had. As I said, if’n Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator hadn’t stayed with me I would’a rolled back into the sea and drowned. I swear I would’a on your life, Dear Diary. But he did stand by me, and he nursed me and rubbed in special salve wot he’d made up from wot I can’t mention in public, and eventually all the pain went away, even in the hole where my windscreen use to be. And after he’d got my temperature back to normal and I was ready to laugh again and was even feelin’ a little sexy at the feel of his fingers, he set to work findin’ out wot’d happened to my fuel line and other pipe systems. The first thing wot he did was drain out all the fluids wot’d been put into me in the hopes I could be started up again. And guess wot he found? It turns out that when Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker’d been sent up to wot he thought was the rapeseed field, he went in the wrong direction and harvested the thistles from wot used to be Missus Milly Da Fardle’s compost field back before the flood wot ‘d washed away the island.

Poor Ol’ Fergal’s the wellest meanin’ idiot fuck in the whole wide world, but he really does make a bucket of cabbages look like Albert Einstein. And the very idea he called that patch o’scorched earth behind Missus Milly Da Fardle’s house a compost field proved it once and for all time. Wot it were was the acre she’d set aside to dump wot she called her night soil, so’s it could bubble ‘n’; squeak ‘n’ she could eventually harvest the plants wot growed there for babby Howard Donald in the hopes of makin him a monster of a man. I sure as fuck don’t know wot them plants amounted to and they sure as fuck didn’t help babby Howard Donald change his ways, but I can attest that the earth wot growed there as a result was enough to strip my pipes and near corrode ‘em unto death. So much for makin’ petrol outta plants, at least if’n you don’t know wot your talkin’ about.

Oh, sweet ‘n’ nobble Finian Da Fabricator, wot can I say about thee, how may I sings your praises? It tooked him a second – or even less’n a second – to see wot’d been done unto me, and right away he shot another wad of special salve and rubbed it in just so, and glory hallelujah I’m saved, I’m saved and I’ll never say anything bad about him ever again, not even if’n he deserts me again in favour of Howard Donald Da Fardle like he did before. The fuckin’ ungrateful ingrate, may shit shine on his shinola.

Well, Finian Da Fabricator’s still rubbin’ me down all sweet ‘n’ low and whisperin’ sweet nothings’ in my left ear, or in my left wing mirror if’n you’ve forgot I’m a bus and don’t have proper ears wot looks like jugs. He says he’ll keep on massagin’ me ‘til I goes to sleep, after which he’ll hunt everybody else down where they’re hid on the other side of the beach and tell ‘em they can come back now. Exceptin’ Misther Old Wanger Nose, and he’ll be left over there and maybe even put into a deep pit without any air holes – unless he agrees to hand over his guns and ammunition dump. Personally I wouldn’t trust him a inch, not even if’n he was stripped naked as a jaybird and bound up in a straight jacket. And it’s not as if he’s any use to us in the buildin’ up the population department. Never mind, for now I’ll just enjoy Ol’ Finian’s ministrations and leave the problems to everybody else. I hope to fuck tomorrow’s a better day so’s we can all get on with life, but for the time bein’ all I can say is so endeth wot ever should’a beginneth. Fuck I’m tired.