Day 144

Dear Diary,

I woke up a few minutes ago, and then after lettin’ my mind wonder over this ‘n’ that ‘n’ the other ‘n’ and askin’ myself whether or not the other folks was back from the other side of the beach, I said good morning to the day. I even thought about Misther Old Wanger Nose, but not for very long. I sorta hoped he’d survived his night in wot the others’d been callin’ “The Pit Of Death, Desecration ‘n’ Pasteurisation,” but to be honest I really didn’t care all the much either way. The last thing I heard was they was gonna dump a coupl’a gallons of flaming treacle syrup over him as punishment for shootin’ out my windscreen and practically mortally killin’ me off, but I sorta hoped they wasn’t gonna resort to extreme measures wot were actually gonna hurt him and maybe’d even cause him to have a old man’s heart attack. Human beings can’t seem to get enough of violence and retribution, no matter wot they claims to the contrary about lovin’ peace and harmony. But hell, I’m only a bus, and all I wants outta life is tranquil drives along country lanes ‘n’ talkin’ to the other vehicles ‘n’ hearin’ all their stories about the dumbfucks wot’re at their controls ‘n’ the dumbfucks wot’re wizzin’ on their back seats, and occasionally even about the nice folks wot’re takin’ care of them. I miss the companionship of other buses, and could even appreciate a banter with a Ford Transit if one came along just now. Funny, I feel melancholy today. Not in a bad sense. More like a poet on a lovely mist-enshrouded pre-Raphaelite mornin’. Put it down to my narrow escape from death yesterday and my isolation. I’m a stranger in a strange land, but that’s all right. I’ve spent most’a my life surrounded by human beings and I’m used to their ways and can adapt to just about anything. But that don’t mean I doesn’t get lonely when the hour of the wolf comes knockin’ at my door - as it does practically every night. As I’ve said before and’ll say again, “Fuck!”

Last night I dreamt about the years I lived in the field behind Owld Fingus Da Flatulator’s Petrol Pump and had only the sheep and the cows and the birds to keep me company. And then one day Owld Fingus blowed hisself up lightin’ his cigarette while drinkin’ a bucket of potheen, and Fergal Da Fecker turned up outta the blue and everybody said, “Who the fuck’re you, you rat-faced turd?” He showed ‘em a piece of paper on which was wrote he’d sort’a inherited the land fair ‘n’ square. And along with the land, he now owned the sheep and the cows and the potheen and me. Everything settled down in the space of time it takes a shrew’s fart to disappear into thin air, and life continued along the same muddy road at a pace all of us found highly agreeable (as they says). But then one day Misther Patchouli Da Fanny showed up in his big fat American convertible car and paid over a fat wad o’fake homemade banknotes for me and off I went on his trailer to a new home ‘n’ a new set o’crazies, and of course, Finian Da Fabricator and later on The Widow Fartie Da Whistle.

As I was sayin’, I dreamt a lot last night. But they was just dreams and that was all they was. But then it was time to get on with things ‘n’ kick the memories and melancholia into the pit with Misther Old Wanger Nose. And maybe just to help things along, I thought I’d give Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle a hand with that big old bucket of flaming treacle.

Anyways, anyways, anyways, all the dumbfuck injuries I’d sustained yesterday ‘n’ the day before’d plunged my disposition down into the cellar, and I’d probably be down there still if’n it hadn’t occurred to me to open my eyes and take a look outward at the great big old wide world instead of inward at my snivelling whiny misery guts. So I ordered myself to open wide instead of just thinkin’ about it, and I gived myself a great big mondo kick in the middle of my behind. And just as soon as I’d done that, I sawed that certain things was not as they’d been the night before. First of all, Misther Old Wanger Nose’d been took out of the pit on the other side of the beach and was now locked into a handy dandy homemade set of stocks somewhere about halfway between here and where the pit’d been. ‘Course the first thing that came to my mind was how nice it was they hadn’t cooked his remaining brains in boilin’ treacle. But then I thought of me and wot he’d did and I said to myself, “Jeezus Fuckin’ Louise, they’s set him loose and he’ll be comin’ after me when nobody’s lookin’, and this time he’ll blow me to smithereens and little pieces.” But after this initial reaction, reason set in (after all, I am a bus and not some hysterical reactionary dumbfuck human being) and I sawed that he was locked in tighter’n a babby’s balls and I was as safe as houses.

After I’d put my mind to rest I stopped gawkin’ over at Misther Old Wanger Nose, who after all is said ‘n’ done, ain’t worth lookin’ at not now not ever. And I turned my attention to wot was sittin’ smack dab in front of me and starin’ straight up my nose.

And if it weren’t the rabid dog with the foamin’ saliva drool and his good ol’ boy can o’worms, my name ain’t Daimler Burlington CVD6 Custom-Built 33-Seater Bus. And I said, “Jesus Fuckin’ Louisa Pudenda, how long’a you been sittin’ here and wot the fuck do you want?” And do you know wot the rabid dog drawled to me, spittin’ foamin’ saliva right in my face and not botherin’ to say he was sorry? He drawled (in the most peculiar voice ‘n’ accent I’ve ever heard in all my born days), “Hullo my good man, I’ve brought you an anchovy and cress sandwich and a pot of best paint-thinner. Would you care for a chew whilst we jaw jaw?”

Well, all I could think of to say was, “later perhaps, on account of I’m recordin’ events for posterity in my Dear Diary ‘n’ don’t want to dribble paint thinner in my lap.” And do you wanna know wot he said to that? He said, “Good God, Sir, if I had only known you were a bus of letters and were penning your memoirs, never would I have sullied the aroma of your pulchritude.”

No sooner’d the rabid dog finished drawlin’ the last sentence in this peculiar voice than he picked up his can o’worms and wandered away into a sand dune ‘n’ disappeared. And now I’m wonderin’ who the fuck they was and wot the fuck they wanted from me. And to think I’d been wonderin’ about how they fit in with all that’s goin’ on ever since the first time I’d sawed him. And here he was. And here I just chased him away. Talk about a missed opportunity. Talk about me bein’ a fuckin’ dumbfuck pot callin’ the other dumbfuck kettles black!

I’m gonna put away my pencil and look into space with a vacant expression, Dear Diary. Maybe if’n they sees I’m not doin’ nothin’ in particular, they’ll come back. That is if’n they don’t think I’m ponderin’ the mysteries of the universe and communing with Galileo, in which case I’m outta luck. I hope that’s not wot happens, but if it is I’ll hafta own up to my mistake and say so endeth probably my last opportunity to speak with someone wot’s got more’n half a brain and knows how to speak good.