Day 147

Dear Diary,

Well, I did wot I said I was gonna do and closed my eyes so’s the world’d go away and get the fuck outta my life. In fact, not only did I close my eyes tighter’n tight can be like a little kid wot’s been told to do his homework on a hot summer’s day when there’s a swimming pool outside ‘n’ fish fingers and chips bein’ fried up extra crisp ‘n’ Scooby’s on the television in a new adventure the kid hasn’t saw more’n three hundert times and it still makes him hide behind the sofa, but I also hid my head in the sand, which is somethin’ kids can’t do. Not unless they’re an ostrich, and they can’t do it neither, at least not outside of cartoons.

Anyfuckingways, like I said I closed my eyes and poked my head into a great huge old hole in the sand and counted to three thousand five hundert and twenty-three, which took a whole lot longer’n it should have took, on account of my head for figures ain’t wot it used to be and I kept forgetting where I was. This meant I had to go right back to be beginning and start over, which got annoying after about the three hunderth attempt. Needless to day, I gived up in the end, which ain’t somethin’ I’m proud of as quitters deserves wot they gets, which is jack shit ‘n’ pretty much nothin’ at all besides. Anyways, I gived up and felt bad about lettin’ myself down AGAIN, and I said to myself that now I’d proved myself to be the fuckin’ failure of the world wot couldn’t even count to three thousand five hundert and twenty-three, I might as well surrender to fate and let myself we shat upon by anyone wot wants to shit upon me. Which, in case you don’t know it, is my way of sayin’ “As God Wills It.” I think I must be at the end of my rope just about now, Dear Diary. Do you know if buses can be bi-polar? I wish you could talk sometimes or had some sort of education or at least a brain. All this talkin’ to myself isn’t exactly givin’ me a good time or a smooth ride.

Never mind. Forget about all this shit, and let’s get back to wot I was talkin’ about, which was I’d been wishin’ the rabidical drooly dog and his can o’worms, wot’s still called Everard as far as I know, would disappear into whatever swamp they’d comed from and leave me alone. But, hélas (as them Frenchies say), if’n they’d gone away they didn’t go far enough to disappear. In fact, they was right where they was before, with the dog, still droolin’ and slobberin’ yellow bile ‘n’ foam all over his white linen suit and sittin’ in his enormous rattan fan chair. And Everard was sittin’ on the ground beside him. Or at least I think he was sittin’, but with a can it’s sometimes hard to tell. Anyways, he was on the ground and didn’t have so much as a square of carpet or a little table or nothin’, and not even a parasol to call his own, which I thought proved once and for all that the dog didn’t pay Everard the respect he deserved.

The one thing wot was different was that a couple of the Howiepupples had joined ‘em, and they was rollin’ around on the ground like Howiepupples do ‘n’ chewin’ on Everard like he was a toy or one of them dried out pigs’ ears you can buy by the gross so’s the pupples learn wot pigs’re for. Namely eatin’ and not socialising, which is a shame on account of pigs is a whole lot more intelligent than pupples, and if anyone ought’a been eatin’ anyone else, it’s pigs wots ought’a be doin’ the eatin.

I guess the dog must’a noticed I’d saw the Howiepupples, which was pretty obvious on account of I was starin’ at them and wonderin’ about their resemblance to their mother, because he cleared his throat and stubbed his cigarette out in the can o’worms, which must not have pleased the worms a whole lot or improved their afternoon. “Ahem,” ahemmed the dog, aimin’ his words in my direction, “I see you are admiring the twins. The one on the right with his nose examining his brother’s anus, is Claude. The other one is Claude Minus One.”

“Claude Minus One?” I asked, knowin’ that to ask a stupid question was my first big mistake of the day.

“Minus One what?” barked the rabidical dog, obviously offended that I had insulted his progeny.

I draw a veil over the next hour or so, during which he criticised me under no uncertain terms for callin’ his little boy a moron wot hadn’t made it up to the top o’the stairs, while for my part I was tryin’ to convince him I hadn’t said nothin’ at all, but’d only sneezed from all the sand blowin’ up my nose. ‘Course, this argument was the second dumbfuck thing I’d said today, and he pounced on it and said I was “ONLY” a bus and, as such, did not possess a nose with a sneezer wot was sensitive to sand. Needless to say, the discussion went round and round with him. Unfortunately for me, the dog obviously’d been to a decent school where they’d taught rhetoric ‘n’ debating, so he always got the upper hand and made me feel smaller’n a tit on a sand fly. In the end I chickened out ‘n’ apologised if’n I said somethin’ bad or disrespectful, and before he could pucker up his lips and summon up a reply, I asked about his other offspring. “Where’s your other kids?” I asked, usin’ simple words of one syllable in hopes the dog’d not find a way of takin’ offence. “And how’s Ol’ Howard Donald?” I added as a afterthought, on account of I thought it best to mention the childrens’ mother.

“Melba Toast, don’t you mean?” the dog said, narrowin’ his eyes ‘n’ darkenin’ his voice ‘n’ filin’ his cuticles with a dead snakeskin with the snake attached.

And here I couldn’t resist it, no more’n I can resist a premium can of motor oil when it’s offered to me at a party. “Yes please.” I replied. “And can I have a clove o’garlic ‘n’ a anchovy to rub over its top.”

I then added insult to injury by laughin’, and I’m ashamed to say I still haven’t stopped. I’m almost afeared to look at the rabidical dog in the face, on account of I can feel him getting’ madder’n madder my the minute and if’n I makes eye contact with him God only knows wot he might do. I just might’a crossed over the line, in which case it’ll be so endeth my comfortable life here on the beach, and hello bottom of the ocean. But really, couldn’t he’ve told me he’d mistook Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle for a beautiful Russian Wolf Hound named Melba Toast? If I’d known I wouldn’t have told him the truth. Honest. Well maybe. Perhaps not. Not on your Nelly. Anyways, if he’s so blind why the fuck hasn’t he gone out ‘n’ got spectacockles like normal folks?

Oh, I forgot. He’s a dog. And he’s been sittin’ there criticisin’ me, wot’s a bus. Fuckin’ A.