Day 145

Dear Diary,

Does I feel like a fuckin’ dipshit or wot? There I was, wonderin’ and speculatin’ about that Ol’ rabid drooly dog ‘n’ his faithful can o’worms, and then I went ‘n’ chased him away by sayin’ I was too busy writin’ my own personal recollections in my Dear Diary to make time for the likes of him. Fuck me but I does dumbfuck things sometimes wot’re even worse ‘n’ stupider’n wot the dumbfucks I’m surrounded by gets up to on their bad days. And by the way, Dear Diary, I gotta apologise to you for getting’ all melancholy yesterday. Not that there is anything wrong about feelin’ any which way you feels, but I think I pushed my luck a bit when I tried to express my feelings via some crackerjack poetical and introspective writin’. I ain’t no Emily Bronte, if you know wot I means, and I’m sorry if’n I made you throw up on your granny’s new orthopaedic shoes. At heart, I’m more of a Great MacGonagle type poet, bless his holey woolly tartan hose, than I is a Emily, which means I’m about as poetical as a concert o’piggy serenadings. But back to the rabid dog ‘n’ his can o’worms.

When last I’d seen him, his backside were disappearin’ over the hill and through the weeds into the tall grass on the sand dunes over by my left flank. And as soon as I didn’t see his bottom no more on account of the weeds’d closed in around it, I said to myself “fuck shit you piece o’shitrag, you’ve blowed your last chance of cultivatin’ his friendship and grillin’ him for personal details so’s you can gossip about him later on next time you’re talkin’ on the phone.” Which is a funny thing to say, on account of there ain’t no such things as phones no more, not since the floods washed everything away. I wonder if’n you can make new phones outta mud. I wonder why I wonderin’ that, on account of there’s nobody out there to phone, and even if there is, they’s probably not worth phonin.’

Anyways, I’d yelled at myself for a bit and then yelled some more just for the hell of it, when I looked up and what do you know, but Ol’ rabid dog ‘n’ his can o’worms was magically reappeared again and was sittin’ right in front of me in one o’them tall, fancy rattan fan chairs wot you sees in old movies set in Macao, back when it were swamped full o’sweat ‘n’ gamblin’ dens’ ‘n’ iniquity gutters ‘n’ painted ladies ‘n’ perfumed gents ‘n’ endless rain, and all the women looked like Marlene Dietrich ‘n’ Rita Hayworth ‘n’ Gloria Graham, and the bad guys sweated like Orson Welles on a sultry day ‘n’ spoked like George Sanders, or maybe it was Tom Conway or Tallulah Bankhead or Peter Lorre or Humphrey Bogart, and you knowed they all had guilty secrets like wot nobody has no more. ‘Course this all comed to me in a flash and didn’t take a hour or so to unravel in my mind like it’s takin’ me to commit it in writing to you, Dear Diary. But Ol’ rabid dog must’a been psychical, on account of no sooner’n the image flickered to life in my mind than the dog cleared his throat. The can o’worms, as I wrote down at the time, said nothin’ at all and appeared to be asleep.

“Ahem ahem ahem,” ahemed the drooly rabidical dog. All this ahemmin’ must’a caught my attention and rooted me to the spot, on account of I made no reply, not even to introduce myself. Instead I looked at him square in the face and tilted my head to one side. I dunno why I done this, but I’d seen one of them old president’s wives from about a million years ago in a land wot is now pretty much forgot, tilt her head in such a pretty fashion when she used to gaze up at her husband. TV presenters all said it were a well-rehearsed display of all-consumin’ adoration and desire. I always thought she were constipated or her old man’d goosed her or he never washed under his armpits, which was at about the same level as her nose. Anyways, it seemed to me that that rememorable pose were the cheapest available option for sale at the time and I thunked it might fool the dog into thinkin’ I was gonna be hanged on to every word of his forthcomin’ utterance. If’n this was wot he thunked he didn’t let on, and merely rolled his mouth into a little round circle of a moue ‘n’ wented “ahem ahem ahem” a coupl’a dozen more times and said in a voice redolent o’plums ‘n’ elongated vowels ‘n’ stuffed shirts, “I’m frightfully sorry, Mister Daimler Burlington Bus, if I caught you at an inconvenient moment. Were you, perchance, evacuating a bowel? Did I cause you alarm? Did you re-inhale said aforementioned bowel into those regions which I am not at liberty to divulge but whence it had been spawned?” I blinked my eyes a coupl’a times and stared at his nose hair. And then a thought occurred to me and I thunked to myself perhaps one o’thim hairs was ingrowed and that’s why he were talkin’ like that. “Out with it, man,” the dog continued. “Lady Spasm has invited the children ‘round for tea and they have not as yet bathed their corrugated bottoms.” “Lady Spasm?” I repeated, suspectin’ I’d somehow lost the plot, on account of she was new to me and I hadn’t event invented her up. And then I remembered, I was gonna mention her on the fourth day of next month. Since nobody outside of my head is allowed to talk about someone wot I’ve not yet thunked up, I narrowed my eyes real suspicious like and looked at the rabidicle droople dog upside down through my spectacocklies. But before accusin’ him of stealin’ from my literary treasury or plunderin’ my undeveloped intellectual property, I decided to play it cool ‘n’ low-down. “Lady Spasm?” I repeated again, this time nonchalant ‘n’ off-hand. However, if’n I hoped I was gonna trip up the dratted dog or make him show his hand, or even all four of his paws, I was wrong. All he done was smile all innocent, sort’a like a babby after his first poop, and examine his fingernails, or maybe his claws, and articulated in tones succulent ‘n’ world-weary ‘n’ sublime, “Precisely.”

About this time I heard a whisperin’ from the can o’worms, and it jumped up and down, tryin’ to catch his attention. He looked down at it with a bored sorta expression and curled his gums into a smile stinkin’ of the malice usually exhibitated towards a unpleasant nephew wot’s broke great-aunt Moribunda’s thirteenth century chapel window with a cricket ball. “What is it now, Everard?” was all he said, and you could’a cut the atmosphere with a knife.

Well, Dear Diary, I can tell you right here ‘n’ now I don’t know wot the fuck’s goin’ on, and to tell you the truth I’m not sure I wanna know. However, bein’ that you’re as nosy as a cat and won’t give me a minute’s peace until I get to the bottom of everything, I’ll say so endeth this discussion for now. I’ll put away my pencil and don my great detective disguise and we can hold a press conference in the mornin’.