Day 143

Dear Diary,

Well, I’ve retreated for a bit from all the excitement of rebuilding a new world order, and am concentrating instead on recuperating from my various life-threatening injuries, namely the one inflicted accidentally by Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ the one inflicted on purpose by Misther Old Wanger Nose. ‘Course you know poor Ol’ Fergal wasn’t to blame, on account of he’d been told to go up the rapeseed field on top of the hill and grind up a coupl’a pounds of rapeseed ‘n’ make ‘em into fuel for me so’s I could be of some use instead of sittin’ around like a clod o’dirt in the kitchen sink. And that’s wot he done. It weren’t his fault he can’t tell one plant from another, on account of he’s more interested in sheep ‘n’ drinking potheen for a living at his little petrol station wot’s sadly been washed away in the flood. And nobody can say they thought to show him a picture of wot rapeseed looks like, on account of they didn’t. Poor Ol’ fucker dumbfuck Da Fecker. Is it any wonder he decided they was talkin’ about the adjoinin’ field, wot had plants climbin’ all the way up to the moon ‘n’ glowin’ phosphorescent by day as well as by night? Plus the fact they was sprayin’ out o’their stamens unearthly toxificated fumes like nothin’ no one’s never snorted before outside of the men’s changin’ room at a bottom-basement footie team wot’s at the bottom of the bottom-basement division wot doesn’t believe in wot they calls ‘personal hygienicals’. Sorta like the Jersey Turnpike if’n any of you’s ever been there and experienced the twenty-four hour a day acid rain ‘n’ chemical glow and the taste of incipient death by metal filings ‘n’ hydrochloric acid and their friends wot’re supposed to be human beings but look like glow-in-the-dark Jabba Da Huts. Ol’ Fergal must’a thought with plants gianter’n The Empire State Building wot’re coloured pink ‘n’ fluorescent yellow ‘n’ all the hues of vomit from every kind’a sickness, they couldn’a be nothin’ but the magical petroleum plants he was lookin’ for. “And to think,” he thunked to hisself, “I’d always thunk petrol come up from the ground ‘n’ was all black ‘n’ icky! Will wonders never cease?” ‘Course there was no one to tell him wot he was fuckin’ with was monster plants bred outta Missus Milly Da Fardle’s “nightsoil” (wot is my new most favouritest word in the whole world, ‘n’ if’n I ever have me a babby boy busette I’m gonna give him that for a name). Wot’s a miracle is Fergal Da Fecker wasn’t gassed to death with chemical poison hisself, wot with him handlin’ Ol’ Milly’s effluvium without wearin’ gloves or one o’them funny white suits with visors you pull down over the eyes. I tell you, that shit o’ Missus Milly Da Fardle’s worse’n anything armies use as chemical weapons when they’re wipin’ out “the enemy.” Mind you, I suspect sellin’ the stuff off to countries wot won’t admit to buyin’ it is wot lines Missus Milly Da Fardle’s secret numbered bank accounts ‘n’ underwear drawers. But back to Fergal Da Fecker’n his mistakin’ monster killer plants for rapeseed.

If there’s one thing I can’t neither forgive nor forget, it’s them rapeseed plants standin’ quietly together watchin’ Ol’ Fergal make a fool of hisself and sniggerin’ and laughin’ behind his back and sayin’ wot a fuckin’ idiot dumbfuck he is and not havin’ the decency to tell it to him straight in front of his face. I really think that’s inexcusable, especially on account of Ol’ Fergal’s mistake nearly kilt me deader’n it’s possible to kill a bus outside o’blowin’ him up with a bomb or havin’ a giant bus-eatin’ rabbit gobble him up. And personally, I can’t wait until I’m finally up and runnin’ again, on account of the first thing I’s a’gonna do is drive on up to that there field and roll back and forth over every single rapeseed plant until there’s nothin’ left but a green stain like wot one use to find in Miss Cabbage’s fat lady knickers after she’d got carried away eatin’ too much asperiorgrass. As far as I’m concerned rapeseed may make crackerjack petrol, but I wouldn’t have nothin’ wot was made out of it if’n it meant I could never start up my engine again. Fortunately, however, the next field over’s full to overflowin’ with maize, which as you know is nothin’ but livin’ breathin’ corn oil, so wot I says is rapeseed schmapeseed fucka ya mudda. And talkin’ about corn oil, Thelma O’Leary’s little falling down café just up the road’s got a whole storeroom full of about a million gallons of fryin’ oil, so I’m set up just fine for about a year and a half. And even though most of the oil’s been used so many times, just passin’ by the café’s enough to make you wanna throw up, it all burns up the same once it’s put inside my engine, thank you very much. And wot with only one of me left in the world’s internal combustion polutin’ engine vehicle department, who gives a fuck about fuckin’ climate change ‘n’ greenhouse gases. Where was I? Oh, yeh, I was talkin’ about how my innards was practically fucked up to death by Fergal Da Fecker accidentally mistakin’ chemically toxic psycho monster plants growed in Missus Milly Da Fardle’s nightsoil for rapeseed in the petrol makin’ department. But Ol’ Fergal feels bad enough and says his soul’s scourged forever by wot he accidentally done, and I’ve gaved him about a million hugs and said everythin’ all right on account of Finian Da Fabricator intervened on time and saved both me and the situation. Anyway, Fergal Da Fecker’s all depressed worse’n he’s ever been in his life ‘n’ has dranked about a hundert gallons of freshly made up potheen to prove it. I expect soon as he’s recovered his senses, he’ll be right as rain. Wot a blessing it must be to have the short-term memory of a TV presenter. Bless him.

But now we get to Misther Old Wanger Nose, wot tried to kill me on purpose by shootin’ out my windscreen ‘n’ other delicate parts with the Tommy Gun he carries tucked into his belt loops. Now as I said, I can forgive Ol’ Fergal for hurtin’ me on accident, on account of I know for a fact he don’t got no brains, and wot he does got’s been pickled by more gallons of potheen wot can fill up the ocean. But when it comes to Misther Old Wanger Nose, it’s quite a different story, and between you ‘n’ me I’m not sure wot I feels about him, other than he’s a twisted old preevert mobster gangster of the old school and’d kill his own mother if’n she wasn’t already a born saint and a mother besides. His brother Misther Young Luigi “Elephantitus Uranus” Wanger Nose weren’t so lucky, however, him not bein’ a mother ‘n’ a saint and all, and I know for a fact that outta ten of his other brothers wot Misther Old Wanger Nose calls his own and wot was brunged into the world by his sainted mother, he’s blowed away thirteen just for target practice as well as lookin’ at him cross-eyed. And that were even after they’d been sent to a eye-doctor and got fixed up with thick lenses. And here I gotta include among the disappeared to death his papa, Misther Old Wanger Nose Senior, wot was the Capo da Cappuccino before he sleepwalked one night and fell into a cement mixer before he woked up. From wot I heard over at Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women back when I use to dump off all the Ol’ biddies there to be re-purpled ‘n’ frizzed ‘n’ pressed, Old Misther Old Wanger Nose Senior’s either livin’ under a skyscraper in Newark, New Jersey or under the Burj Dubai or under the Taj Mahal or under the new runway they’re gonna put up at Dublin airport when they finally builds it after the end of the world’s come and gone. Or maybe he’s under all of those places at the same time. Misther Old Wanger Nose hasn’t got where he is by bein’ carefree with the evidence, and I’m pretty sure we’ve sawed the last of his papa, even in the next world.

Anyways, to cut to the chase about wot Misther Old Wanger Nose done unto me, wot he claims happened was he was under orders by the CIA to execute me on account of they all’d proved I was a Pinko Commie Threat and Ella Kaddish and a terrorist oyster shell all at the same time. And since I didn’t die like he’d intended me to, he’s all for shippin’ me off to Guano Bay in Cuba where I can wear a orange suit and sit on a prayer rug’r somethin’ until I ups and dies from inconvenience. Personally, I thinks Misther Old Wanger Nose is one scary dude, and I’m glad he’d stuck in a pit somewhere until he can be wot they calls neutralised.

I’m not sure how much more I want to talk about the old necromantic bastard, but I’m gonna take a nap for now and see how I feels when I wakes up. As I said before, I thanks my lucky stars for Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ his magic hands. I’d share him with you, Dear Diary, but you’d steal him away and then I’d hafta say so endeth my lucky stars, on account of they’ve been took away along with Ol’ Finian’s sneaky fingers.