Day 146

Dear Diary,

I’m getting’ this bad habit of droppin’ off to sleep for no reason right when it’s important for me ‘n’ perhaps the world to be payin’ attention. ‘Course, I try to tell myself it’s some sort of meditation ‘n’ I’m only doin’ it on account of the evolved spiritual realm my brain inhabits, but of course that’s only bunkum ‘n’ bullshit besides. If only I had as much fuel in my engine as I have crapolla in my delusions, things’d really be getting’ somewhere in my life, wouldn’t they?

Anyways, when last I wrote in your pages, Dear Diary, I was about to play the great detective and uncover wot was goin’ a propos the drooly rabid dog ‘n’ his can o’worms, wot’s name apparently is Everard, which is the dumbest name for a can o’worms I’ve ever did heard in my life, and as you know I’ve been around since the fifties and perhaps even before that. The dog, wot doesn’t have a name, or at least not one he’s willin’ to admit to, is still sittin’ in front of me in a big ol’ rattan fan chair, only now he’s smokin’ a pipe and is dressed in a white linen suit and lookin’ more’n ever like a movie villain the way they was before human beings had colour added to ‘em as a afterthought by Ol’ God. Now you know ‘n’ I know ‘n’ Ol’ God knows the black ‘n’ white situation only happened on account of He was too cheap back then to buy colour crayons when there was a special promotion on black ‘n’ white ones down at the co-op. And it sure were embarrassin’ for Him when all them old masters wot he’d hired by the dozen to glorificate Hisself’d comed along the next day when colour crayons had finally gone on sale. And to make matters worser, Ol’ God, wot’d lost the rest of his money playin’ dice with the universe, had to go out ‘n’ steal some of them colour crayons wot the old masters’d bought and take ‘em go back into His own studio and fill in between the lines of his original illustrations (somethin’ he weren’t all that good at, which you’ll know if’n you paid much attention when you were starin’ at folks down at the mall). Anyways – and after this I’ll promised to drop the subject on account of it’s not wot I’m here to talk about – Ol’ God stoled so many of the old masters’ crayons before they’d finished up wot they called their final masterpieces, that they didn’t have enough colourin’ sticks left ‘n’ was forced to dilute. And this is why so many of ‘em famous paintings are pale faced and look like dirty rags ‘n’ don’t glorificate God in the highest. Nothin’ like showin’ God with a dirty face the colour of the inside of a toilet for getting’ a old master in trouble. And it’s also why some folks and especially parrots in real life are brighter’n others and you hafta wear shades to look at ‘em or you’ll scorch your eyeballs. Fuck. You wanna know somethin’? I’m beginnin’ to think this bad fuel Fergal Da Fecker made for me up at Missus Milly Da Fardle’s special field has wot they calls extenuated hallucinogenic properties. Either that or I’m as mad as Mad Misther MacMad of the Clan MacMad from up in The Mad Kingdom of Mad. And do you wanna know why I’m a’wonderin’ about this – besides my not keepin’ to the subject, I mean? Well, it has to do with wot happened the second before I could begin investigatin’ wot was goin’ on ‘n’ roundin’ up the usual suspects ‘n’ interrogatin’ witnesses. You see, I zonked out like a light bulb wot’s been hit with a sledgehammer. So instead of comin’ to grips with the situation and findin’ out everything there was to know about the rabidical droopful dog ‘n’ his can o’worms called Everard, I dreamt I was back in Owld Fingus Da Flatulator’s field behind his petrol station shack ‘n’ keepin’ company with the sheep ‘n’ the cows. They was Morris Dancin’ ‘n’ bein’ shagged by Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker, only in the dream he looked more like a rabid dog with Fergal’s face with a dick the shape of a spotted turnip wot had a bright red peony at the end. ‘Course, deep in my heart I should’a knowed this was the wrong thing for the sheeps to be doin’ on account of the dumbfucks on the island never done anything but jiggin’ around ‘n’ sometimes fallin’ down drunk when the sun plunked down behind the mountains. But I never seen ‘em Morris Dancin’. In fact, I don’t think it’s in their DNA. But fuck, dreams is dreams, and when you’re in them you never listens to your inner most feelings, which means I didn’t worry about the inconsistency. In any case, the dream were better’n anything I’d saw in a long time ‘n’ it had wot I calls mildly absorbin’ entertainment value. That is until one of the sheep – a big black-faced one wearin’ spectacockles ‘n’ a white suit ‘n’ a smuggy smirk on his face - started in a’throwin’ slices of yesterday’s breaded mackerel fish fingers at my face. And given that Misther Old Wanger Nose’d shot out my very same face with a blunderbuss not more’n a few hours previous, I was sorta sensitive when it comed to havin’ my face used for target practice. At this point in my dream, I must’a stood up on my hind legs – which in itself felt kinda peculiar on account of I’m a bus and ain’t got legs – and I started in a’growin’ very tall ‘n’ fat ‘n’ mean ‘n’ flames spouted from my ears (or my wing mirrors if’n you prefers) ‘n’ my voice growed into bellows ‘n’ I started in a’smitin’ myself upon the top of my head to prove I wasn’t no sissyfuss. After this, things started happenin’ faster’n my stomach could handle, and so to calm myself down I smote my head even harder’n before and I heard myself growl “Ahem Ahem Ahem” in a voice wot sounded like the heavenly chorus I wasn’t all that keen to hear at that particular moment.

“Ahem Ahem Ahem” I repeated. Smite smite smite, I smoted my head. “Ahem” smite smite, “Ahem Ahem” smite smite smite. And then there was a mighty light a’shinin’ in my eyes, or where my eyes’d be if’n they wasn’t closed and I weren’t fast asleep. But the longer the ahems ‘n’ smites continued, the brighter the light shone into my face. Until finally the dream broke and I opened my eyes (or my headlamps if’n you want my to be accurate). And there, sittin’ right infront of me in his big old ratten fan chair, was the rabidical drooly dog, and he was shinin’ a great big old torch in my face ‘n’ whackin’ me on the head with his silver-tipped ivory cane and sayin’ “Ahem Ahem Ahem,” in a supercilious tone of voice and lookin’ at me as if I was somethin’ he’d found on the bottom of his shoe.

After I’d opened my eyes I blinked ‘em once or twice, and that’s when he stopped whoppin’ me on the top of my head. He handed the cane to Everard, wot promptly ate it, and smiled at me in a manner I found both displeasin’ and magnetic. “Ahem,” he ahemmed one final time. “I thought I’d lost you,” he said. “I apologise for interrupting your afternoon nap, but I was in the middle of a discourse. If you recall, I was instructing you as to your position in society, as well as my expectations of you. And then you dropped off. It occurred to me I may well have died, which would account for you not paying attention to my words of wisdom. But then I realised I couldn’t be dead, not when I’m in my prime and have so much to offer the world.”

“Oh,” I replied, not sure wot he was talkin’ about. “How very nice for you.”

Wot happened next I’d prefer not to think about for a while, on account of it weren’t very agreeable. However, before it happened it occurred to me that children, wot’re smarter’n the average grown up by a mile and a half, know how to close their eyes and make the world go away. That’s wot I’m gonna try now. ‘Course I’ll tell the dog first so he don’t think I’ve gone to sleep on him again and start whackin’ me on the skullcap. If’n I’m lucky, he’ll be gone when I opens my eyes in a coupl’a hours. I’ll let you know. In the meantime all I gotta say is so endeth a whole lot of things which may or may not’ve happened, and I wish Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ the others’d get back so’s I’d have someone else to talk to other’n a dog.