Day 148

Dear Diary,

Let’s see. The world as we knowed it were blowed up to smithereens by a atom bomb ‘n’ by a neutron explodin’ bustle sent all the way over here as a present from a bunch of Texas Tourons.

All of wot survived was those wot was a mistake to begin with, e.g. Misther Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker, plus one of us, namely me – Mr. Vintage Classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 33-Seater Bus with handcrafted accoutrements – wot was a divine invention wot was no mistake. But we all adapted to wot we was ‘n’ was getting’ along just fine, and’d even finalised our plans for re-populatin’ the earth full of peoples – which I guess is wot folks thinks God has in mind as wot is in his image, even though I’m inclined to think toads and potted palms are more in keepin’ with his eternal plan. Anyfuckinways, we was all truckin’ along hunky dory when suddenly, Wham Bam Thank You Mam, just when we thunked we was safe ‘n’ secure, the Ol’ world made up its mind ONCE AGAIN to fuck us up ‘n’ throw us into the tumble dryer. And the next thing we knowed, Ol’ Howard Donald Da Fardle, wot’d been locked up in a shed after bisbehavin’ hisself and bein’ shot in the big toe by Misther Old Wanger Nose’s bazooka blunderbuss, had whelped hisself a litter of a billion plus two babbies. ‘Course, this were a shock in itself, on account of he was always braggin’ about how he was a man and a man’s man at that. Never mind we all knowed he’d swunged both ways like a palm tree in a hurricane since the day he’d fell outta Missus Milly Da Fardle’s briar patch. Yessiree Bob, around the island he were famous (or infamous if’n you was Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan’s Church of The Immaculate Septum on the bottom side of the island) for his fallin’ in love with Elmer Da Snog ‘n’ good Ol’ Arnie Pizzlepod, the exotic dancer at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic wot’d put “exlax” into “exotic,” or at least if’n you’d sat too close ‘n’ drunked too much while watchin’ the fango dango bango gyrations of his lower bits ‘n’ pieces.

Anyways, as I was tellin’ you before my dementia got in the way, the earth – and I guess is this is God’s playground ‘n’ He can do anything He wants with it – up ‘n’ ruint our plans by arrangin’ for Ol’ Howard Donald to break his water’n dialate wot nobody’d knowed he possessed. And then, like I said, he spewed out a whole entire regiment of babbies. Now if’n that wasn’t confusin’ enough to make a pig eat a plastic bucket, it turned out the babbies wasn’t by none of us but by some Ol’ rabidical drooly dog wot nobody’d ever saw before. Now, when I said none of us, I was talkin’ about Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker or even hisself, on account of everybody said he could get up to just about anything any time any where and could even do hisself - even if’n he had to pay the bill at the end of the five second mystery tour. Misther Old Wanger Nose was outta the runnin’ by then, on account of his accoutrements’d been sawed off by Missus Old Wanger Nose sometime before ‘n’ stuck on his jacket collar instead of a rose. In spite of this, he still found occasion to use his plaything on any passin’ bimbo wot was desperate enough for a extra thousand dollars ‘n’ twenty-six cents, plus VAT. Only, unfortunately for him and his happiness quotient, the pin wot’d held the boutonnière in place came undoned during the nuclear holocaust, ‘n’ it’s never drifted in to shore. And personally I’m sure a’hopin’ it don’t, not in its natural state after the salt water’s been sharin’ it for the past week with some o’them carnivorous moyelworms, wot history has chose to forget but which live on in legend as the knives wot ate the pastrami skins. As them teenage girls likes to scream, “EEEEYYYUUUUU!” Not to forget wot the teenage boys do, and I’m thinkin’ cryin’ is somethin’ of a understatement. But back to Misther Old Wanger Nose ‘n’ his missin’ magic buttonhole. What I’m thinkin’ is no fishie in its right mind (exceptin’ for them aforementioned moyelworms, and from wot I’ve heard he ain’t got nothin’ left for them to be interested in) would want to eat it, not even if’n it were starvin’ to death and didn’t mind a little bit of wot’s rotten ‘n’ stinky. However, that don’t mean I’m not on the lookout for a mean-lookin’ sonofabitch monkfish with a honker like Misther Old Wanger Nose’s wrinkly Ol’ droopy machine.

By the way, Dear Diary, I only wrote this about Misther Old Wanger Nose’s delicate condition ‘n’ why his part weren’t eligible for the role of Howard Donald Da Fardle’s husband, on account of I know you loves nothin’ more a few prurient details now ‘n’ then to keep you awake between meals. And now that I’ve wrote them, we can get down to business again.

If’n you recall, I was just tellin’ you who was on the list of papas for the next generation of human beings and who wasn’t. And, of course, I, under the present arrangement – bein’ a bus – am even more on the “wasn’t” list than is Misther Old Wanger Nose. But since the Ol’ world fucked up the plans and throwed a spanner into the works, I’m just a little miffed that God let a dog get it on with Howard Donald De Fardle ‘n’ not me. I know He fucked up last time around when He invented human beings. But now He’s chose a dog, and not only a dog but a fuckin’ mutt wot wears white linen suits ‘n’ speaks in a funny accent ‘n’ sits in a big Ol’ rattan fan chair ‘n’ has a can o’worms by name of Everard for a companion. Does Misther God really think that Ol’ rabidical drooly dog’s gonna do a better job than a human bein? And wot I ask is wot about me? Don’t I deserve a chance to give it a go? Couldn’t I, as a vintage classic Daimler CVD6 Bus with a hand-built 33-seater coach, not do a better job than wot’s been doned before. Personally I think so. And I’m gonna say so, too. Loud ‘n’ proud! If’n Howard Donald Da Fardle’s good enough to be the mother of the world, then I’m a fuckin’ a lot better’n good enough to be the father. Wot I says is fuck the rabidical drooly dog. Fuck his can o’worms. So wot he’s sired the first billion babbies plus two. That leaves four billions to go. Minus Two. It’s time to neutralise rabidical dog ‘n’ stomp him into the sand ‘n’ make him deader’n a dodo. I will conquer him. I will tear him into shreds. I will pulverise him into a jelly donut ‘n’ eat him up for breakfast. I will fry him up with grits ‘n’ serve him as fertilizer for Missus Milly Da Fardle’s magical field o’slurry.

But first, I gotta get me some petrol so’s I can carry out my plan. I gotta crawl ‘n’ claw ‘n’ creep my way across the beach ‘n’ raise the flag of victory. I gotta…

Fuckin shit am I energised! Petrol’s wot I need! Petrol’s wot separates the victor from the common bus! Holyfuckinshit Dear Diary, after all these years I’ve suddenly seen the error of my ways. I don’t need no dumbfuck driver or mechanic. After all these years of drinkin’ petrol and takin’ it for granted, the scales have fell from my headlamps ‘n’ I can see wot I never sawed before. I am the truth and the light. I am the majestic indestructible. I am invincible. I am petrol!

So endeth my time as a servant ‘n’ slave, Dear Diary. Victory is mine. Vengeance is mine. The World is mine. And I am your fearless leader. I will call up all the Ford Transits in the world to serve as my army. And no one will ever call me a fuckin’ arsehole fistfuck of a pisspot ignorant bus again. Glory Hallelujah Me! Bus sayeth the Lord!